My throat goes ragged. My voice breaks.

But I don't kick the altar because I'm just flesh and blood, and it's stone. Doing things like that is how a useless loser witch who can't make money off her cliché, angsty emo take on magic because it's just depressing and obnoxious, and can't get a good job because she sucks, and can't summon demons because they don't exist and wouldn't answer her if they did because she's nothing and no one… that's how a stupid girl who just threw away an opportunity to move up in the world so she could advocate for the integrity of made-up bullshit breaks her foot and wastes a lot of her savings on medical expenses.

I don't have the energy to sob, so I just fold up my arms on the altar again and rest my head. Besides, crying is for things we're getting closure on. Catharsis. What's my catharsis for being the one person on this stupid planet who needs magic and spirits and fey and demons to be real, not just metaphors and symbolism for all the stupid, obnoxious things humans already get to do?

"It's not fair," I mutter into my right elbow. "They already get everything they want from daily life. The world is built for them. Why do they get to make the stories all about themselves too? Why can't it just be about how magic is real, sometimes? Why isn't that good enough?"

There's no answer, of course. Made-up things don't talk.

There's no actual kind of living being who can shapeshift, trading one form for another while still being the same person inside, who can cross the boundary between the world of ordinary people and some strange realm of other being where everything is proven fluid, and changeable, and--

"Are you okay?" Hannah asks, scaring me so badly I immediately catch my foot on the altar as I stand up and try to spin around.

I don't scream. Unfortunately, that just means there's no echoing to cover up the scuffling sounds or my stunned "oof" as I feel something crick painfully in my ankle. Thankfully it doesn't break, but I'm sure the gritted teeth I bare don't make me look any better as I fall backward onto the altar, now facing the other woman.

"Hannah, fuck, you scared the absolute piss out of me," I say.

"Sorry," she says. An anxious grin. "I was standing around outside. I wanted to come in, but I didn't know if you wanted company, and… and then I heard you yell, so… you know."

"Well, it's okay, you don't have to apologize," I say. "And, yeah… I'm okay. I'm just really upset. I tried to do some magic and nothing happened. You'd think it would get easier, but it doesn't. It feels like the opposite. Every time it feels like I'm carrying the momentum from all the previous times. So each time, it's like living the weight of all the other failures all over again, plus the new one feels twice as bad as all of them combined. It's like depression cubed." I lift my veil. We exchange sad, tired looks. "It just hurts so much to wish so badly for the world to change so I can be me and it just… doesn't."

"Yeah," Hannah says, "I think I can understand. I mean," she puts her hands in her pockets, arms straight out against her sides as she shrugs, "I've done some stuff that's kind of the same."

Oh. Yeah, I guess she probably would have. If I didn't look like me, and I knew it, I'd try anything to become like the me I saw in my head.

What the fuck is wrong with the world? Trans people just go out and try to be themselves and they get hate for it. What's the problem, anyway? Oh, fuck me, I bet it's just because they won't let the world take who they are away from them, and that makes all the people who gave up their dreams pissed off or some bullshit.

If I could summon lightning, those fuckers would be in for it.

I'm not going to say that to Hannah, though. Old gods know I've been hit hard in the self-esteem, made to feel weak and complicit, every time a girl like Moonsilver goes on an impassioned rant about our duty to fight the oppressor. I feel like, whatever I say out loud, I need to make sure my focus is on loving Hannah, not hating her enemies.

"Hannah, are you a manic pixie trans girl?" I blurt.

An instant later I hear my own words echoing inside my big stupid head and I bury my face in my hands. Carrie. Sweetheart. What the fuck.

"Uh…" she looks at herself. "I don't know. I mean, I know what that is, 'cuz we studied it in film class, but can a tomboy be a manic pixie trans girl?"

"Hm…" I shift. Push myself upright. "I… I think she probably can if she wants to be, right?"

"Yeah!" Hannah says. I can hear the smile in her voice without looking at her.

"Hannah, I'm sorry," I blurt, emerging from hiding. "There are so many things I wanted to say, there was so much I hate, hate, hated about all that crap Moonsilver spouted, but… I was afraid if I spoke up, I'd…" This is such a shitty excuse. This is such a miserable, cowardly reason to be quiet. "I was afraid I'd just be using you as a chance to grandstand, to look like the heroine," I confess. "And that the group would find ways to get back at you if you let me. And since you were a trans woman, you'd be afraid enough to just let me."

Hannah's eyes glitter. Great. As if I haven't hurt her enough. She opens her mouth to start sobbing, and says, "Thank you, Carrie."

… huh?

"I'm so tired," she says, starting to shake. "I'm so tired of everyone talking around me like I'm not there, pretending to talk about what I need when, really, they're just using me to talk about what they want." Tears flow, and her makeup with them. "You're the first cis girl I've met at college who knows when to shut the fuck up… I mean… when talking would hurt someone else… god, Carrie…"

She rubs her head. "I saw how you deflated when Moonsilver started going on and on and on about succubi. Anyone with eyes should've been able to see that, to understand you were watching someone you wanted to see as a hero tear your heart out, and you were just letting her because, well, if a hero does that to you then you probably deserve it, right?"

"Oh, god, Hannah," I cover my mouth. "Not you too. I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault." She sniffles. "It's just kind of the trans girl experience, and… and a lot of the time, it's other trans girls doing it to us… am I bad? Am I bad for liking them? Succubi? I know they're not real. I know there's so much about being a woman I don't know--"

I open my mouth to jump in, then close it.

Hannah sees. Gives me a little smile."Go ahead," she says.

"No, please, you first," I say. "I can hold my thought."

She waits. Brightens. Nods. "Like… I know I'm new to exploring my womanhood. Yeah, sure, I've always been a girl, but sometimes I feel like a princess who's been living in a faraway land. All the things I think are okay to do, that just feel right, it seems like so, so many of those things end up hurting other women. So," she tries to smile. Fails. Shrugs again. "I'm sorry for making you do emotional labor for me. But, am I bad?"

"Hannah," I say quietly, "women don't know women, just like witches don't know witches. We know the women we know and the witches we know, and that's it. There's no hive mind. No bloc. You're a woman. If anyone on this fucking planet dares tell you what you want to do with your body or your womanhood, you…" I push down a militant thought. "You do whatever you have to so as to hold on to who you are, okay? Whether it's punching, kicking, and screaming or just nodding quietly and waiting for them to go away."

"But I…" Hannah hunches and looks away. "I really like being a slut. Is that really just… okay? Can I just do that?"

More clicking. More snaps. More fury. All of us horny and afraid and alone, not speaking up because everyone else is a good girl, right, and only good girls deserve to talk, to be seen, to live as themselves and get some of the things they want--as long as they aren't too picky or loud or entitled about wanting any of it, right?

As long as they give back enough to earn it.

"Hannah, sweetheart, please listen to me." I fight to keep my voice calm. "You are a woman. Whatever you want to do with that is your right. It is not your responsibility, okay?" I hold my hand out to her, and she takes it. "It is not your responsibility if someone else decides to take the things you do, and say they reflect on all women. That's an impossible burden. They do that to us because it's impossible. All women are different people with different needs. If you try to make any one person speak for, stand for, act for the needs of all women, then a lot of us get left behind."

And thanks a lot for that, I think, Moonsilver, you good liberal angel. Maybe I should've been a vampire instead of a witch, 'cuz I sure want to tear her throat out with my teeth.

"That's what I thought," she murmurs. "That's what I thought, but… I thought I was just being selfish. Not doing my part for my sisters. You know. A bad person."

"Oh my fucking God," I say. "Nothing's changed."

I stand up, pace. "Nothing's actually changed. Hannah," I turn around so quickly this time she's startled. "We aren't the ones assimilating! They are!" I gesture back in the general direction of the campfire. "Five hundred, a thousand, two thousand years ago--Nuremburg, the Dark Ages, Rome. Go as far back as you like. What's the message?" I drive the fingers of one hand into the palm of the other, over and over for emphasis.

"A woman has to give the world something. She has to contribute to the community as penance for the sin of living as a woman. If a man lives quietly and does nothing to make matters worse, they assume he's humble and moral. A woman does exactly the same thing, and they say she's lazy, or scheming, selfish, a parasite, definitely moonlighting as a whore or an adulterer or a murderess or. A. Witch!"

I throw the club bag at the ground and stomp on it, each time more viciously.

"FUCKING! TRAITOR! BITCH!" I scream.

Hannah watches me really, really calmly. Like a girl who's seen this moment before. Like a girl who's been this moment before.

Breathing hard, I turn to the only real sister I've got on this hell-forsaken rock.

 Except… except she's not. The last of my anger burns itself out. I can't keep pushing the hurt away by inventing enemies, or circling back to the real ones I've already got. I mean, isn't that half of my conflict with Moonsilver? That she's pushing everyone to fight and fight and fight until we all have strokes at 36? Sooner or later, we have to learn how to stop sucking it up, break down in tears, and admit that we weren't strong enough to protect ourselves.

"Nobody won anything here tonight," I say, sagging. "No matter what happens, a bunch of women hurt each other and some of us lost faith in the others. Moonsilver's trying really hard to pretend she likes having to work just to justify being herself, but I don't believe it. We're all trying to say, oh, my way is right, my way is best. And it's probably true for us, because we are ourselves. And other women aren't, and that's why what makes us feel good makes them miserable. But underneath it all… the real reason we cling to our ways so hard is that it's easier to do that than admit that this world just hurts women, and there is no one right way that lets us escape that. No matter what kind of power we seize or give up, we get hurt for the sin of being women. We just don't have the power to stop that from happening."

A beat.

"Morrigu needs to stop wearing fucking dreadlocks and appropriating North African culture, though, and Moonsilver needs to stop helping her just because they're girlfriends or fuckbuddies or… well, really for any reason." I say flatly. "Like, I don't think there's any level of marginalization where that's okay."

"If trans girls don't get to be racist, then cis girls definitely don't," Hannah agrees. She clears her throat. "Uh… that sounded fucky, but it's good enough between two white girls, maybe?"

"Let's just leave ourselves room to be fucky but earnest instead of always saying the right thing but never acting on it," I agree. "Also, like… 'North African'? North Africa isn't just one country. That's a whole bunch of countries, and all of those countries have different ethnic groups with their own histories and cultures and traditions. What kind of horseshit sources has Morrigu been reading from that she's not saying, like…" I trail off. "Uh… what's a country in the general region of North Africa?"

"Libya?" Hannah asks. "I mean, it gets worse, since a lot of the countries in North Africa aren't necessarily all that black, ethnically. Egypt and Libya are both majority Arab, I think? Like, I'm pretty sure she was just completely talking out her ass."

"Oh, wow, yeah…" I shake my head. "I know it's not great to be this bad at geography. I swear I try to memorize the world map every time I've seen it, but then I wake up the next morning and it's all blurry shapes and inky squiggles. Anyway, uh…" I grin sheepishly. "It's super cool that you know this stuff good."

"Thanks!" she says, and giggles. "I know lots of countries because I've read creepy amounts of war stories and spent a lot of time staring at campaign maps."

I consider that. "Okay, Hannah? That's really cute, actually."

"I-it is?" she peeps, blushing.

"It is!" I agree. I turn away to just let her savor that moment while I fish my spellbook out of the club bag. It's an old leatherbound hardcover with an aged brass buckle, and thick enough with hundreds of pages yet unfilled to beat a man to death. "Sorry for stamping on you, Xavier," I whisper.

"You named your spellbook Xavier?" Hannah says, an adorable squeak in her voice. "That's so cute!"

"Yeah, I like it a lot too," I giggle. "His full name's Xavier Maledict. I used to pretend that was the name of the spirit possessing the book--the ghost of an English archer who felt cursed by God for witnessing the burning of Joan d'Arc and doing nothing to stop it. But these days, I'm a grown woman, so I can admit I just like having a people-name for my spellbook."

"That's so good," Hannah says. "I should have a named spellbook."

"Do it!" I say. "But anyway… those things girls like Moonsilver fight for are good, don't get me wrong. But I think we tend to overlook that capital loves those things. Baiting women into fighting for the things that play right back into the system from another direction, that's an old, old trick. Less women raising kids is more women in the work force without paid maternal leave. Produce children or produce capital, what's the fucking difference?"

Sorry, future babies, for my internalized guilt over wanting to be a housewife. Mommy is ranting now so she doesn't do it to you in person later.

"Meanwhile," I press on, "the system gets the pleasure of making them bargain, trade away gains in other areas, and blow off revolutionary steam refighting the same battles over and over while they alienate loads of other women. They haven't transgressed anything. 'Hex the Patriarchy,' my sweet ass…"

I grind my teeth. "Patriarchy says a good woman is ashamed of her sexuality, always preaches virtue, doesn't draw attention to herself, doesn't have an ego, and makes herself useful, of service, of value. You're not going to try and tell me you didn't get some icky vibes from how much importance Moonsilver placed on making her witchcraft profitable."

Cleansing breaths. "Which is not, y'know, really Moonsilver's fault. We hear these ideas so, so often. It's impossible to make ourselves immune. But she's terrified all her friends will desert her if she admits she's still susceptible to propaganda, so she has to teach herself not to see the ideas the system has snuck into her head. How else can she keep up her performance of moral purity? It hurts her to pretend she can meet it, it hurts other women who aren't in a place where they can pretend to meet that impossible standard, but she genuinely believes she has nothing to offer if she's not perfect."

"Meanwhile, since she can't allow herself to see her bad parts, girls like Morrigu can get her to do basically anything," Hannah says. "This sucks, Carrie. This all just sucks so hard."

"Yeah, it sure fucking does," I say. "'cuz, like, nobody can live with that level of denial if they're self-aware about it. It's intolerable. And Moonsilver's getting social power now, so she's going to have to use it to deny other women the things she's denied herself. Meanwhile, the more power she has, the more the sunk-cost fallacy sinks in, so her performance is just going to eclipse more and more of who she really wants to be until, one day, there's nothing left of that girl I still saw fighting for breath, once or twice tonight."

I put my head in my hands. "God, it's just a bunch of abuse victims scrabbling to be safe, clawing each other out of paranoia while the bastards who actually hurt us are laughing and secure behind layers and layers of manipulative, nested, entrenched bullshit."