Summer's End Part 2 By S.L.Hawke It was shaping up to be a very memorable Halloween... or Samhain, "Summer's End" festival, as some would call it. It had all started a few "interesting" months back... of the, "may you live in interesting times", Chinese curse variety. Interesting times, that kept getting progressively more "interesting" -- both the good parts, and the bad -- up until this disturbing weekend. Sometimes, you must pass through a little darkness, before you can come into the light... Copyright © 2011 S.L.Hawke. All Rights Reserved.

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This is an (almost) true Halloween horror story -- loosely based on reality, it is semi-autobiographical in places... although the 'Autobiographical' tag has not been used, as poetic license has _definitely_ been taken. Which parts are true, and which are pure fantasy? "Truth is stranger than fiction...". Names have been changed to "protect the innocent"... and many events have also been deliberately scrambled a bit, to further obfuscate things -- so that if someone *does* recognize an actual person despite the name changes, they won't know who really did, or said, what. [And of course, some parts are purely imagination -- things *no one* actually did.]

There are many tales out there, about dressing for the first time... or early transition. This is something just a little different. Life, long after the dust has settled... but in unusual circumstances, where nearly forgotten gender issues once again come back to the surface...

CAUTION: This is an entry in the "TG Terror" contest: don't expect it to be entirely 'sweetness and light'. (Although, hopefully, the good times outweigh the bad). Contains mature adult content and themes -- reader discretion is advised. Occasional (rare) use of strong language, when it is appropriate. Occasional (rare) use of what some may consider 'explicit sexual' references or content, when necessary to the plot development.

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PART II: Complications

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It was a long time, before I got out of that tub. Over and over again, I found myself draining the tub, to get rid of the dirty water... then filling it again, to try once again to cleanse myself. But somehow, no matter how much I washed, I just could not feel clean...

 «Did I do that? What was I _thinking_, to do something like that? Goddess, girl, what the _frak_ were you thinking, to do something like that? With _three_ guys, that you just met? That is TOTALLY not like you...! »

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Chapter 4:

Late July, Saturday, 20:17.

The phone just rang, then cut out rather than going to voicemail. The same way it had been doing all day...

 «I hope Barb is okay. She isn't answering her cell... and that is the only number I have for her. I know what high-rise building she lives in, but... not what unit number, nor is she listed on the building directory -- and that is a very large building. I guess I will just send her an email, asking her if she is okay... then hope she gets back to me... »

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Sunday, 10:35.

"Hi Sara. Thanks for meeting with me."

"No problem, Crystal. From the way you sounded on the phone, I figured you really needed to talk this morning. Was there something in particular you wanted to ask?"

Sigh. That was Sara for you. Direct, and to the point... but she was also the head nurse of a local hospital Emergency centre, and right now I really needed to talk to her.

Or at least, I thought I did. Only now... at the moment of truth... I found myself strangely reluctant to start talking.

"Go ahead, Crys." Her voice was surprisingly gentile, as was the hand she placed on top of mine, on the coffee shop's table.

"Something happened Friday night... but I still am not sure what. I mean... no one forced me to do what I did... I think... but I just do NOT get how I could possibly have done that. I mean... some of it, maybe... although even those parts are kind of weird. But other things? No way would I have done those... except, that is what I seem to remember doing. Sort of... at least, what little I can remember, anyway."

"Whoa, girl. You're not making much sense. Can you just start at the beginning, and tell me everything you can remember?"

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Sunday, 10:58.

I was shaking, rocking back and forth in my chair, as I got to the last part... about scrubbing myself, over and over again. At least the tears in my eyes were not alone... for Sara -- hard, practical, Sara -- was also crying, with me.

She bit her lip, staring off into space. "There is probably no way to prove this, now... as by now, the chemicals will have worked their way out of your system, mostly... and if it is what I think it is, they are too close a match for things your own body produces in small quantities, normally... but that sounds an awful lot like an overdose of GHB -- Gamma Hydroxybutyrate. It's one of a class of what are commonly known as 'date rape' drugs... drugs that lower your inhibitions, and make you highly susceptible to following suggestions. That particular drug has detailed instructions for making it somewhere out on the web, from what I have heard... but actually making it is a bit tricky, and mistakes are often made. From the sounds of it, whoever made the dose you received screwed up, badly -- you are lucky you are not dead, right now. You probably would be, if you had swallowed more than a single mouthful out of that water bottle... or if you had drunk even a little more alcohol that night."

She sighed, still staring off into the distance. "We see all too much of this in the E.R., lately. Sometimes just victims coming in... sometimes, people idiotic enough to have used this crap on themselves, as a way of getting high, believe it or not. Usually the effects of pure GHB wear off after just four to six hours... but if it is used to spike an alcoholic drink, or if you have had an alcoholic drink previously, as in your case... or if they screwed up, and it was not 'pure' GHB, but a mix of GHB and other chemicals... as several things suggest in your case... the effects can last for half a day, or sometimes even more. The nausea, dizziness, amnesia, and other things you have mentioned, all point to a major overdose -- bordering on lethal."

She paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts. "Despite your recent shoulder problems, you are basically a very healthy person -- a former athlete, with an athlete's very robust cardiovascular system. A detail I mention, as it is quite possibly the only reason you are alive right now. With the sort of symptoms you mentioned, there is another symptom that might very easily have happened -- often, with that kind of overdose, the victim simply stops breathing. Whoever did that to you should be locked up, and the key thrown away... even if you ignore the rape part."

She took a deep breath, then slowly let it out... finally turning her gaze, to look straight into my eyes. "And it was rape, Crystal. Chemically induced rape, where your ability to say 'no' was taken from you, with a drug. It's not your fault..."

It was my turn to stare off into space, before looking at her with tormented eyes. "Are you sure? I mean... you want to know something that is _really_ messed up? I remember thinking at one point, that I was actually *proud* to be doing some of those things... _pleased_ that, once again, I was having sex with guys who did not know -- and not being clocked..."

"Oh, Crystal... don't do this. You are human, like anyone else. Yes, you might have enjoyed some parts of this... that is normal, and doesn't mean anything. Keep in mind that besides being a powerful sedative and hypnotic agent, one of the *other* side effects of GHB is that it induces 'euphoria' -- making you enjoy whatever people talk you into doing. Humans are rationalizing animals, not rational ones... your mind only knows that it 'feels happy'... and so it comes up with reasons for *why* you feel happy. Reasons that might seem superficially real, or seem totally irrational... but regardless, they are just the drugs talking. Don't buy into the crap that 'she wanted it' -- rape is rape, whatever thoughts may have been going through your mind at the time. If you said no... or were too drugged to have a *choice* about saying no... then it is rape. Period. Nothing more, and nothing less. It's not your fault..."

I don't really remember a whole lot of the rest of that day, other than going home... and crying, for endless hours. Cursing myself, for my stupidity... and slowly, oh so slowly, starting to hate Jeff and his buddies, as my internal shame turned to external anger. Or at least, in part... for try as I might otherwise, part of me resisted shifting the blame to anyone other than myself.

 «Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea má¡xima culpa... through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault. »

Odd, really. I am not even a Christian, let alone a Roman Catholic. And yet, that particular Latin phase just seemed so right, as I sat rocking back and forth, crying in a corner of my bedroom. Hiding in the dark, with my back safely to the walls...

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Monday, 10:00.

"Good morning, Crystal. What can I do for you today?"

"Good morning, doctor. When I made this appointment, it was supposed to be just for a routine follow-up check-up, about that other problem I had... but... something else has come up this weekend, and..."

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Monday, 10:09.

"Do you want me to run a rape kit on you?"

"I... I'm sorry... but... no. I mean... I have already washed up repeatedly, and even douched -- there won't be any physical evidence to collect. And... I'm sorry... I just can't deal with the police. Not now...". I paused for a moment, staring down at my hands, which lay clenched together in my lap, before I felt the need to explain further.

"I mean, it's not like I have any proof or anything. I don't really know who they are, other than their first names... or where they really live... and even if they could be found, it would just be my word against theirs. Even if the police believed me, there isn't anything they could do to those guys -- it would never stand up in court."

"Okay", the doctor said softly. "I wish I could argue... but you are probably right about that. If you ever change your mind, though... you can go to see them later. And don't feel ashamed about not wanting to, right now... actually, less than ten percent of rapes are ever reported to the police. Most women never tell anyone...". She did not say anything more about that... but the haunted look in her own eyes spoke volumes.

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Monday, 10:18.

I had to laugh, softly and painfully, at the way the nurse's expression changed... as she suddenly turned her gaze to stare at my exposed genitals. Although the OB/GYN "knew" about me, 'off the record'... there was nothing in my actual medical records about my somewhat unusual past -- and obviously the nurse had noticed nothing while helping me disrobe, or into the stirrups on the exam table. Nor had she noticed while staying with me, holding my hand, as we waited for the doctor to finish her preparations. It was not until the doctor had made several references, in fact, to necessary repairs to my "neovagina"... that I saw comprehension of the unusual phrase suddenly hit the nurse. Even then, I could see that she was not sure if she had heard right... and I was not in the mood to educate her. Perhaps the doctor would, later... but I doubted it. That was part of why I had selected this particular gynaecologist -- I had heard that she took patient confidentiality very seriously...

Unfortunately... there was a reason I was on my back, with my feet up in stirrups... and that reason interrupted my brief, fragile moment of amusement.

"Crystal, I think you already know that there is a great deal of damage inside you. Do you want me to schedule emergency surgery to fix this?"

"Can you just... I don't know... stitch together the pieces, today? If you can position them even close to the right spots, they should heal themselves in time, with the help of dilation exercises..."

"Well, maybe... but there would likely be significant internal scarring, that way. Are you sure you would not rather have it done properly, under full anaesthetic in a surgery?"

"But then... you would have to sedate me, right?" I think she saw the raw fear in my eyes, at the thought of that. An old nemesis of mine, reborn by recent experiences... right then, mere days after betrayal and abuse while under the influence of drugs, there was simply _no_ way I could bring myself to submit to that -- and she seemed to realize it.

"You do realize that the only way I can do this here, will be to use a speculum to stretch your vagina open as far as possible, then insert laparoscopic tools to make the actual stitches? I have the equipment to do that here, right now... but without anaesthetic, and with your vaginal tissue already torn, this will be incredibly painful..."

"I have been told by many doctors, on many different occasions, that I have an extremely high pain threshold, doctor. Please..."

You really do not want to know the details of the rest of that day. Trust me on that.

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Tuesday, 09:45.

"Crystal, are you down here?" Her voice did not seem friendly, as my landlord's wife stalked into my basement suite.

"Oh, hi, Coral. I forgot you would be back this week. How was your trip?"

"Our trip was fine... until we drove into the driveway, and saw the yard. Your rental agreement with us stipulates that you are to keep the grass cut and the plants watered, in exchange for a lower rent -- or have you forgotten?" She seemed to be struggling to contain her obvious anger.

"I'm sorry, Coral. I had planned to cut the lawn on Sunday, as well as water the plants... but... well, something happened this weekend, that I guess you need to know about..."

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Tuesday, 10:35.

Uneasily, I watched Coral climb back up the stairs from my suite. She had accepted, reluctantly, that maybe I had a good reason for forgetting -- this one time. But then I had made the mistake of mentioning my appointment tomorrow, with a Welfare case worker... and that had lead to another lecture. How Coral and her husband prided themselves on their fiscal responsibility -- and how dim a view of Welfare they both had. You would think I had mentioned some sort of deadly sin, in admitting that I might have to draw Welfare for a couple months. I had never missed a rent payment, nor even been late a single time... never caused any problems... kept both my, and their part, of the house clean and well cared for -- other than this one time... but that did not seem to matter.

 «Just a hint that I might be struggling right now, and I can see how much it bothers her. Feel her drawing back... regretting ever suggesting to her husband that they ask me to move in... »

At the time, back when she was retiring from working for the same company where I had worked, it had probably seemed a great idea to them to ask me to rent their basement. Their retirement plans had included a great deal of travelling... and having someone that they trusted living in their basement, available to care for their house when they were away, had been entirely their idea. She had worked in human resources, at a time when I was not living completely stealth at work... and so, she had 'known' about me... but even so, years of working together had convinced her that I could be trusted. Or so I had thought. Although the speed at which she seemed to be turning on me, at the first small hint of trouble, definitely seemed ominous...

"Well, that could have gone better, I suppose," I muttered.

The last thing I needed right now was trouble with my landlord -- I had a very carefully budgeted recovery plan worked out, that would have me back on my feet financially in just a few months... but it all was predicated on my staying where I was right now, at my current rent. If I had to move, the extra expenses... damage deposits, renting a moving van, all the usual things... would probably wipe out my fragile cash reserve, and finish me off financially. If this had happened a few months ago... or in a month or two... it would not have mattered. But at the moment, I was financially vulnerable -- there was just *no* way I could risk moving, _right now_, even if it was obvious that she wanted me to...

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Tuesday, 13:25.

I sat back, not sure whether to be hurt... or happy. Barb had finally replied to one of my emails and text messages... but the reply was not a good one. It seems she was *seriously* pissed with me, and never wanted to talk to me again. From what little she wrote, it seemed that she had made it home, more or less unharmed, "no thanks to you"... other than the side-effects of what she thought was being "massively drunk". A security guard had apparently recognized that there was a problem, and sent her home in a cab... but she was "majorly unhappy" that I had not been there for her, when she needed help.

For a few minutes, I thought about writing a reply (since she still wasn't accepting my phone calls)... trying to explain, yet again... but then I just gave up. Too many things had happened this week already... and I had already had to tell too many people. I just could not deal with doing it again -- being forced to re-live it once again. Not right now. Not when she had already said she didn't even want to *ever* see me again...

 «Just let her go... you did not know her that well, anyway... »

And then there was the really horrible thought, that had occurred to me. That it was distinctly possible... perhaps even probable... that it was *my* drink that had been spiked. *My* drink, that I had let her drink. That she was simply an innocent bystander, cut down in the crossfire, from an earlier attempt to drug me. That, indirectly, it actually _was_ *my* fault that she had been drugged. True, Jeff and her *had* been at the table when that drink was most likely spiked... and she *was* supposed to be watching it... but...

 «No. 'Take responsibility for your own actions'. That was *your* drink... and *you* let her drink from it..."

 «Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea má¡xima culpa... through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault... »

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Wednesday, 10:15.

"Please have a seat. Do you have your forms with you?" The Social Services agent seemed to be all business, although she was at least attempting to smile. For a few minutes, we exchanged meaningless pleasantries, as she glanced over my paperwork, and pulled up my file on her computer... but then, I noticed her expression change to puzzlement. She wrote down some sort of code number on her pad, then more typing... making it seem as if she was looking something up. Then a rather startled look on her face, followed by a frank stare at me.

 «Oh, crap. » It suddenly dawned on me that, while I had never been on Welfare before... I *had* collected employment insurance once, w-a-y back before I transitioned. Which just might be somewhere in her computer system, linked to my social insurance number -- and listed under my birth name. A name that had been completely androgynous... so it might not be a problem by itself... but there was almost certainly a 'gender' field in there, too. If she was *just* looking at my current SIN profile, the gender would not be a problem... but the hand written code number suggested that she had stumbled across some sort of link, to archived, unchanged information. I sighed.

 «Not the first time this has happened to me... although, fortunately, it has been many years since the last time. But it _never_ is much fun, even if I *do* know how to fix it. I just hope she's not one of the few non-lawyers who actually _know_ what the federal Privacy Act *really* says. Lots of business types vaguely know _of_ that law... may even have read summaries of it... but very few people -- even government supervisors, in my experience -- have ever bothered to actually _read_ the whole thing... and even fewer can understand all the legalese well enough to be confident of their interpretation of it... »

She bit her lip for a moment, then hesitantly said, "Umm... I... uh... seem to found something _unusual_ about your case...?" Her raised eyebrows asked me for clarification.

"If it is what I think it is... I suggest you contact a supervisor, then look up the section of the Canadian Privacy Act, about government records that may potentially 'endanger' the person they are about. Am I correct in believing you have found some old data, containing 'dangerous' information that was _supposed_ to be sealed?"

She sat up straight, as the way I had worded that caused her eyes to get a lot bigger. "Yes..." She hesitated, then continued. "Should I assume from what you just said, that I am not supposed to have access to this information?"

"Pretty much. I am *not* saying it is illegal, or anything... or at least, it isn't so long as you do not violate the Privacy Act by disclosing what you have seen, to absolutely anyone... but while that old data may very well be _supposed_ to be in your computer -- since it is legally required that the government *keep* that sort of data -- as I understand it, there is *not* supposed to be any sort of link between that old data, and current data."

She nodded... seeming relieved that there might be a simple solution to her 'mistake'. "That makes sense, and seems straight forward enough. I don't think we actually need a supervisor -- I can't completely delete any transaction records without one, but as the reference is just in a comment field, I can edit it to delete the reference easy enough... and I *think* without exceeding my authority. There will still be a record of the original comment, and my edit transaction, *somewhere* in the system... but it won't be anywhere visible to a normal system user. Sort of 'effectively erased', even though technically not *really* erased..."

For a moment, she was busy typing, but after finishing that business, I noticed her eyes sparkle with interest as she glanced coyly up at me. "This is none of business, officially... but... were you *really* once a man? I mean... you just don't even remotely look like one... or act like one...?"

I hesitated a moment, searching her eyes... trying to discern her intent. As it just seemed to be genuine curiosity... with no malice, or discomfort from her discovery... and as it seemed highly unlikely that what I said would ever come back to haunt me... I decided to just go with it, letting a small secretive smile dance around my lips. "I prefer to think of it as having been a woman who had a birth defect, that was fixed years ago... but technically, yes."

"How... I mean, if you don't mind my asking... even your voice gives absolutely no clue. How...?"

With a careful glance around over both shoulders, confirming that no one else had a clear line of sight into her cubicle, I deliberately altered my body language, my posture... and forced my voice as deep as it would go, while consciously striving to change the inflections. "Practice. Lots and lots of prac...". At that point, I lost it... breaking up into a coughing fit. I let my body language and speech revert to its feminine normal. "Ouch. That actually hurts my throat, these days. Too many years of speaking only the other way..."

An excited grin spread on her face, as she too glanced around for anyone... obviously immensely pleased to be 'in on the secret', and regarding the whole thing as a hilarious joke. "Wow. You should be in Hollywood or something. That was amazing to watch... one moment, you were a woman... then a guy was talking to me... and then an obvious woman, once again. How on Earth did you ever learn to do that...?"

Rolling my eyes at the bizarre thought of doing a guy imitation in some movie...  «Hollywood? What, like I would ever want to do that, again... other than as a joke with someone who already knows...? ». I continued aloud. "As I said... just many years of practice." I shrugged, then glanced meaningfully at my file... after which, she became all business again. But you could tell from her body language that the little conversation had truly awakened her -- changed this from me being just another client, to where she genuinely cared about my case...

Which was pretty much exactly what I had expected to happen. After what I am starting to count in 'decades' of experience, very little surprises me anymore... although even now, there are still occasional moments when something happens, to remind me that 'once, things were different...'

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Wednesday, 12:51.

As I closed the door to the garage, turning to start down the stairs to my suite, I heard Coral's call out. "Hi Crystal. Do you have a moment?"

"Umm, sure. What can I do for you?"

"Oh, it's nothing, really. I just thought I should tell you that my husband said that, from the way that the plants bounced right back again after being watered, that it was obvious that you had actually been taking care of them all along... and that it really was just an _isolated_ incident, about their being in poor condition when we got home." She gave a tight, almost painful looking smile. "I guess I owe you an apology, for what I said the other day."

I could only hope my own smile looked less forced. "Not a problem, Coral. I am just sorry there was an issue at all..."

When I had first moved in here, she had taken me under her wing, so to speak. Tried to treat me in much the same way that she treated her daughter... who was about my own age, I gathered. Or at least, she claimed to be treating me that way -- although on the rare occasions when we had met, I had noticed that her real daughter dressed rather differently than the 'old lady' clothes Coral was constantly encouraging me to wear, and acted far more like I did, than the way that Coral seemed to want me to behave. Sometimes, I wished I had never taken her up on her 'house-sitting' rental arrangement... even if it *was* a really nice place, with a fully furnished suite in an upper class neighbourhood. But that was all water under the bridge... and as the arrangement was due to expire in another four months, soon enough I would be able to pull my own furniture out of storage, and move back into a place of my own. Assuming, that is, that my financial plans worked out...

I would just have to hope that she meant her apology, and things between us would get back to normal...

~ ~ 0 ~ ~

Friday, 22:14.

I glanced up from my computer, as a cell phone rang. The different ring tone puzzled me for a moment, before I realized what it was. A couple years previously, I had bought a disposable phone -- an 'unregistered', pay-cash-as-you-go, cheap cell phone... that mostly just sat totally idle in the bottom of my purse, only being dug out to be re-charged once a week. A precaution I had invested in for 'questionable social contacts', back when I had still been dealing with my stalker... and maintained for no particular reason, mostly just because it cost me almost nothing to keep it, so long as I did not use it.... and you never know when something like that will come in handy again. I had even made up some 'social cards'... business cards printed using my home computer that had one of my many online aliases on it, along with a matching untraceable email account, and this cell phone number.

 «I wonder who would be calling *that* number, at this time of night? »

"Hello?" I cautiously answered it.

"Uh, hi. I'm not sure if you will remember me. My name is Michelle, and we met last spring. I'm sorry to bother you... but... I just didn't know who I could call, and then I noticed your card sitting on my dresser..."

"Michelle... oh! Now I remember... it was at that 'Gender Awareness Week' conference thingie's movie night, that I went to just to see the movie 'Boys Don't Cry'... which I was curious about for some reason, back then. Umm... anyway... it's nice to hear from you again, Michelle. What can I do for you?"

"I... need some help, but... I just don't know who I can trust, and... I remembered you, and how much you seemed to care about everyone. Even someone like me..."

Her voice sounded scared... and like she was choking back tears. Whatever was wrong, I sensed it was major... and for a moment, I forgot about my own issues as I focused on what she was saying -- and what she was _not_ saying.

Digging back in my memory, I remembered being introduced to her by her case worker... who had quietly asked me, before introducing us, if I was willing to talk with a prostitute who was trying to get 'clean', and off the streets. I had been told that the case worker had really had to work to even convince this woman to attend the conference... as she was convinced that no one would want to meet someone like her. That she was worthless... and not worth saving. I had, of course, immediately agreed to talking with her... and done my best to make her feel welcome. Make her feel a _valued_ part of one of the small group discussions that had been going on, during an intermission of the movie...

"Michelle, of course I care. I have met several prostitutes socially, at one time or another... and they were all interesting people, with unique stories about how they ended up doing that. It's mostly just a job, albeit an unusual one... why _wouldn't_ I care about you? Now, can you tell me what's wrong?"

I won't attempt to repeat that strange, fragmented conversation... as it took a long time to worm out of her what had happened. But slowly, painfully, it emerged that she had been on her way home from the library about ten in the evening last week... as she often did these days... and as usual, she had gotten off a bus that stopped a block over from her place. Rather than taking the long way around the block, she had taken her usual shortcut through an apartment building parking lot. Not something she would do after dark... but in July in northern Canada, the sun is still technically "up" at that time of evening -- although it is getting fairly low on the horizon. 'Dusk', rather than either 'daylight', or 'night'. Following the same route home, at the same time every day, can be a potentially risky mistake for a woman, sometimes... and this had turned out to be the case for her.

Basically, three men had been waiting for her, hiding behind a dumpster. Men that knew she was a former prostitute... and knew she was a pre-op transsexual... but just did not care. Rape is about power, not sex... and if she did not have a vagina, well, there are other ways to rape someone. As I recalled, she was a big girl... big, as in, 'tall and strong', not fat. Heavily muscled, broad shouldered... half thinking of herself as a 'male', even if she would _rather_ be 'female'... she had been convinced that she could take care of herself. Careless... in the sort of way those used to the protections of 'male privilege' can sometimes be, without thinking about it. At three on one odds, though, her attempt to fight had only resulted in her being severely beaten, before she was repeatedly sodomised. When it was finally over, they had let her go... but told her, "We know where you live, and if you tell *anyone* about this, we will kill you."

It is a classic terror gambit, used by many rapists to try to avoid prosecution... but she had believed them, totally, and had been hiding in her apartment since then. Afraid to go out... afraid to call anyone. She had run out of food three days earlier, and had been quietly starving ever since. Finally, she had seen my card... and decided to risk calling me. A chance-met person with virtually no connection to her usual life... and hence, hopefully not someone her assailants would realize was there to see her.

The coincidence of her being raped, almost the same day as I had been, was rather chilling for me... but there was absolutely no way I could refrain from helping her. As much as I was hurting myself... as reluctant as I was to leave my own little 'retreat from the world', where I had spent much of the last week brooding... I could not leave someone else alone, to face that terror unaided. And so it was that less than an hour later, I found myself buzzing her apartment -- while looking around extremely nervously, at the poorly lit, isolated building courtyard.

 «What am I doing out here? With that wooded ravine behind me... in this part of town... this is a seriously BAD place to be, at this time of night... »

~ ~ 0 ~ ~

Friday, 23:35.

"Come on, Michelle. We have been over this already... and while I _do_ understand why you don't want to risk it, even if they weren't just messing with your mind with that threat, the odds that they would be watching at this time of night are pretty remote. There isn't a whole lot open right now, but I know a nice nightclub not far from here -- and the gay guy who works in the kitchen there makes a great burger. It's a really safe place -- lots of bouncers, cameras watching a well-lit parking lot, and all that. Come on... I know you're hungry. What do you say I take you there, my treat, and get you some food? We can talk some more, and hopefully you will feel a lot better, with some food in you..."

"But... look at me. I know I don't pass... people say I look like a man in a dress. Won't someone say something, in a nightclub?"

I sighed, giving a slight tilt of my head to acknowledge the possible validity of her argument. "That might be true at some clubs... but as I said, the guy in the kitchen for this particular place is flamingly gay -- and no one cares in the slightest. It's a pretty laid-back crowd... mostly straight, but with a high percentage of GLBT customers. On a Friday night like this, I would be willing to bet that there will be many lesbian and gay couples dancing together... possibly even an obvious Drag Queen or CD roaming around. No one will care, I promise."

~ ~ 0 ~ ~

Saturday, 03:45.

I parked in the garage tiredly, more than ready to go to bed. It had been a long night, talking with Michelle... but I was pretty sure she was going to be okay, and would be able to go shopping for food tomorrow. Maybe she would call -- although I certainly hoped not before noon -- and if she did, I would go with her. But one way or another, I thought she would make it. One day at a time, as I was doing myself, right now.

~ ~ 0 ~ ~

Saturday, 12:12.

Yawning, I fired up my computer, noting in passing that I had an email from Coral. Opening it, I felt my sleepiness drain instantly away.

"Sleep was difficult for me last night. Going out after 10 spelled danger to me, and whatever else, we don't want you to get hurt [again] by the sort of people you are hanging with. So I tossed around until I heard you come home and realized how stupid it is for a 66 year old woman to be casting herself into the Mother-of-a-young-daughter role again. Been there, done that."

There was more... a lot more. But the gist of it was, be gone by Monday night. Less than three days, in which to find a new home... at a time when I knew full well that most places wanted at least a week to check out your references, before they would rent anything to you. Even assuming I had the money to move right now -- which I did not. My case worker had said that it would likely take a few weeks before I would see the first payment... possibly, a month. In time, I would probably have a little money to work with... but that was then, and this was now.

As I read the email over and over again, I felt black despair crashing over me.

"I can't do this anymore. I just can't."

~ ~ 0 ~ ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 5:

Early August, Sunday, 19:37.

"Michelle? Hi... it's... umm, 'Sherry'."

I snorted softly, at using the alias she knew me by. I would probably have to come clean about that, soon... but not right now. Sometimes, my life is just plain strange...

I was dreadfully tired... and my shoulder ached fiercely, after an all night and day packing session. Boxing up everything of mine in the suite... deciding what little would fit in the left over space of the storage unit I had rented for my furniture. Painfully moving the few boxes I could keep over there, a few at a time in my car (fortunately, it was an 'Open 24/7' facility). Almost more painfully, saying good-bye to many old friends of mine... my extensive collection of old science fiction and fantasy novels. I just did not have enough room in my existing storage unit, nor enough money to rent a bigger one... so I had reluctantly taken them to a used book store, near where I used to work. Actually, I had bought and sold a few books there before... so I knew how much they paid per book, normally.

Bitterly, this was not "normally". Bulk purchases were different, the guy claimed... although I was utterly certain that what was really going on, was that he could sense I was in a hard spot -- and was taking full advantage of my diminished negotiating position. Instead of paying up to several dollars per book, depending on the condition and age of it... all he would offer was a flat ten cents a book, take it or leave it. Reluctantly, I took it... liquidating many thousands of dollars of books, for a pitiful couple hundred dollars cash. Enough to pay the rental fees on my furniture storage locker for a few months... and maybe buy a few tanks of gas for my car... but that was about it.

And so here I was, calling Michelle. Not this time to offer help to her... but rather, seeking it from her. I had never lived on the streets, before... (although I had once come very close to doing so, early in my transition)... but I knew that Michelle had. I just hoped she would be willing to share some of her hard-earned wisdom with me... for I knew that I was going to need it, badly, all too soon.

Then there was my other possible reason for calling her... but I wasn't, quite, ready to admit that. Not even to myself.

~ ~ 0 ~ ~

Sunday, 20:05.

"Sherry, do you remember meeting Amber, my case worker, back at that conference? She's also the manager for the women's shelter that I live in... do you want me to talk to her, about arranging a place for you to stay?"

I blinked.  «That building is a _woman's_ shelter? » I hated to admit it... even just to myself... but Michelle is definitely *not* a very passable TS. The cold hard fact is, she was probably right when she said that most people who see her, think of her as a 'man in a dress'.  «Odd. I am sure I have read online about trans-women having trouble getting into women's shelters... I wonder how she managed that? »

She continued, "The shelter I'm in is only open to people who have already been entered into the system... transferring from another shelter... so I can't get you in here, at least not directly. But there's the Woman's Emergency Accommodation Residence, or 'WEAR' building, that I think might have beds available." She hesitated. "Umm... they only have one room that they'll let trans people stay in, though... and usually that's full. Unless... well, you said you're post op, right? I mean, legally female in every way, with all your documents?"

I smiled, slightly. "Yes, Michelle. And to answer the question you haven't asked... yes, I can bunk with, or even shower with, other women... without anyone noticing anything unusual. I take it that is important?"

She sighed. "Yeah, it is. I mean, you could risk telling the administrators the truth, if you want... they are pretty open-minded about stuff like that... but the only way they'll let you stay in the 'normal' part of the shelter, is if you pass completely. Even with the TG room... where they'll let not *just* TS, but even 'male' self-identifying CD's stay... they sort-of have that rule. A guy can stay there... but only if he stays in drag one hundred percent of the time, and only if he does his absolute best to act female. Even if he doesn't actually think of himself that way. They get a lot of women in that shelter who're on the run from sexual or physical abuse... and many of those would simply freak out completely, if they were around a regular guy, who was *acting* like a guy."

Suddenly, her voice cut off for a moment, then started again urgently. "I mean, please don't think that I'm saying you're a guy or anything. You definitely aren't -- when I first met you, I hadn't the slightest clue that you weren't genetic... and usually I'm pretty good at spotting trans-people. I just meant that, they hafta... you know... be really careful about anyone trans, in those shelters. They'll let you in, even if they know... but there are _definitely_ strings attached. If you tell them, you'll be watched... and at the slightest hint of a problem, whether it's your fault or not, you are *gone*..."

She hesitated again, then added, "I really hate to see you in that place, though. I stayed there for a couple months, before I was lucky enough to get in over here... and I know a lot of people there. Most of the women there are users, and quite a few turn tricks on the side. Many have criminal records for violent crimes. Actually, that's true here, too... but here, people are at least *trying* to get off the streets. There... well... it's sort of the last stop, on the slide down to oblivion. A lot of people that you meet there, will be dead by this time next year... and for someone like you to go there, well, I honestly don't think you will last a week."

I felt a cold chill prickling its way up my spine, at her ominous words. Words delivered in an even more chilling, matter-of-fact, tone of voice... as if she were utterly certain of what she was saying.

She sighed, again. "But you hafta go there, first. Places like this one, only allow you to apply for them *after* you're staying there..."

~ ~ 0 ~ ~

Monday, 18:10.

Michelle had said to be here early, before the beds were all gone for the evening. There was no food kitchen in this shelter -- a church a couple blocks away took care of that need, so the program had not seen a need to duplicate services -- and Michelle had said that it might be best if I showed up while most of the regulars were still gone for supper. Not having any real ideas of my own, I was more than willing to follow her lead. Other than some vaguely remembered scenes from a movie, seen years previously, I had no real idea what to expect... and the characters in that movie had been male, staying in a men's shelter.

From what Michelle said, the different shelters varied a lot, anyway. Each one had it's own, distinct, personality... and it's own, equally distinct, cliental. This particular shelter had a bad rep... but it was the only game in town. Or at least, it was for a single woman, new to the system. There were other shelters, available to youths... or women with children... or even single women, already accepted into one of many different programs intended to get people off the streets... and some of those actually sounded pretty good. But not this particular one...

I was cold, from the walk to the shelter. Early August should still be a warm time of year... even in northern Canada... but the weather had tuned nasty this morning, with a storm front moving in. Blustery winds, with occasional spats of rain... and a damp chill that cut right through my light jacket. On Michelle's recommendation, I had ditched most of my possessions into my car... those that I had not consigned to long term storage... then locked my car up tight, in a neighbourhood far away from the shelter. Too many people around here could easily star in a re-make of "Gone in 60 seconds" -- a locked car nearby with things in it would be open as soon as my back was turned.

Even my purse was gone, deliberately left behind... as Michelle had lost hers, the first time she stayed here. She went to sleep using it for a pillow... then woke to find it simply gone, never to be seen again. It felt really strange, having a wallet stuffed into one my tiny pockets. Most women's clothing is really not designed for that... especially skirts... and while the particular A-line cut denim skirt I was wearing could sort of manage it -- having being sewn to mimic a pair of jeans around the waist, complete with pockets -- I had not used a wallet for many years, regardless. Having one in my back pocket again felt *really*... strange.

 «At least I doubt anyone could pick my pocket, » I smarted off to myself.  «I haven't worn this skirt in years. The hips already fit a bit too snug, now, even with the pockets empty -- getting *anything* out of that pocket won't be easy for anyone, me included. Especially since it's in my left pocket due to my bad right arm, and I usually sleep on my left side... ».

 «Sometimes I really wish I had injured my *left* shoulder, though. I wouldn't be half as crippled as I am, doing things, except I am right handed... and not terribly co-ordinated with my left. Even if I *am* slowly learning to use it for more things... »

I sighed, catching a glimpse of myself reflected off some glass.  «Not a particularly stylish skirt, or all that flattering to my figure, though. It's not completely bad... but... I doubt I would ever dress like this again, normally. Just something from deep in the back of my closet, that I don't care if it gets ruined. Of course, this is not even _close_ to 'normally', is it? I guess you are learning the hard way why street people sometimes look like 'fashion disasters' -- it's not that they don't *know* better... or, often at least, care... it's just *practical* considerations... »

The building itself was nothing much. From external appearances it was a very old, low-rise office building... maybe three or four floors high -- it was a bit hard to tell which, from where I was standing. The only indication of what was inside were the heavy curtains on all of the many small windows... and a tiny, neatly lettered, discreet sign beside the door. At first, I was puzzled by just how small that sign was... before it dawned on me that an emergency women's shelter probably was intended to be hard to find.

My mouth twitched.  «After all.. the women will ask someone for directions -- and any guys driving around looking for 'their' abused women will just drive on by, clueless. »

I grinned to myself at that silly thought -- I do know that stereotypes like that are not absolute... but it *is* surprising just how many of them actually have some basis in reality...

Flexing the fingers of my right hand, I tried to relieve some of the pain from my shoulder before heading inside. I had left my sling in my car -- not daring to be so visibly 'weak', when walking into shark infested waters -- and the long walk without support had left my shoulder and arm aching, badly. Fortunately, my injury is not something you can really see without fancy medical scanners... so as long as I did not make the mistake of visibly favouring that arm, no matter how much it hurt, no one *should* notice my vulnerability...

Signing in to the shelter was rather anti-climactic, actually. Show ID, print name there, sign here -- "Your bunk is on the third floor, second room on the left from the stairs. Take whatever bunk is open -- check the sign inside. Doors are locked at ten PM, and open at six AM. If you have a job that requires you to leave before that, check out with the night clerk...", yada, yada, yada. No real surprises... and no questions asked about my background -- nor did I volunteer anything. The rules were posted on the wall behind the intake clerk... and she rattled them off practically word for word. About the only surprise (for me, at least) was the mandatory health screening part... which a white-board sign said would be Tuesday, this week.

 «Oh, joy. More poking and prodding... »

Making my way up the worn stairs, I found my room easy enough. Four bunks to a room, with a bank of small lockers (no locks provided, although a small decal on each one said you could buy or rent a lock at the desk). A small whiteboard on the inside of the door had a chained on erasable marker... and spots for four names, no doubt matching the numbers painted on the wooden bed-frames. At first, the placement of the whiteboard puzzled me... until I reasoned that only people inside the room -- who had a genuine need to know -- would be able to casually read the names, there.

 «Confidentiality, of sorts... for women on the run. »

Printed neatly on the board were two names, already -- first names only, I noticed. I added my own name, then went to what was to be my new 'home', for who knew how long. Michelle had said she thought a bed at her transitional shelter was likely to be available next week... maybe... and that she would ask Amber about getting me in there... but no promises. Sigh.

Making up my bed, with the bedding the intake clerk had given me, took only a little time... after which I eased into it, exhausted. The last few days had worn me out, completely... and probably undone months of healing to my shoulder. Not that there had been any choice about that -- it was either grit my teeth and use my arm to pack things up, or else abandon them entirely. This way... I was homeless for the moment, but at least I had a faint hope that this was temporary. Not much of a hope... especially considering Michelle's pessimism about my survival odds... but even a *tiny* hope was better than none at all...

Glancing at my watch... which I also could only hope I would still have in the morning, even if it was only a cheap dollar store model... I figured that _if_ I was lucky (and Michelle was right about the timing), I might have a half an hour or so before people started getting back from their combination sermon and meal, over at the church. On Michelle's advice, I was wearing a skirt today... not because I am particularly fond of skirts, nor because they were all that practical for general life in the shelter... but rather, because we had talked about my 'medical situation'. The still healing tears in my vagina, which would require me to dilate again... not something I was particularly looking forward to, since I had not bothered with it in years. Not that I was a nymphomaniac or anything... but... I *had* usually managed to find a partner at least a couple times a year... and as far beyond surgery as I was, just having sex that often was more than enough to compensate for lack of regular dilation...

Usually, that is. My current 'injury' changed that equation, though... which is why I was trying to figure out how to do it 'discreetly', while in a shelter. A task that was further complicated by the fact I had not actually used my stents in years -- and had not a *clue* where they were packed, or if I still had them at all. If money had been no object, it would have been easy enough to substitute buying a vibrator or dildo or something -- anything with a smoothly rounded, hard surface, that could be cleaned easily. But then, if money had been no object, I would not be living in a homeless shelter, would I? Which is why I was actually about to do something even I considered a bit bizarre... but it had seemed the best idea, of the limited, inexpensive choices I could come up with.

A hard boiled egg, still in it's shell. Sterilized in boiling water, then put away inside a clean plastic bag. An egg I had absolutely no intention of ever eating... so I did not really care that it had been sitting -- un-refrigerated -- in my jacket pocket since I had cooked it the day before. And what was I going to do with it, you might ask? If you have to ask... it is probably better that you don't know...

But that was why I was wearing skirts. Amazing, some of the things you can do, while wearing a skirt -- even if someone else is in the room. Grin. At least, so long as you have a few minutes alone first, to get 'ready'. If that had failed, I suppose I could always have inserted it in a bathroom stall. One advantage it had over a real stent, was that you could walk around with it inside you... although that felt _truly_ strange. Not painful, but... weird.

~ ~ 0 ~ ~

Monday, 21:23.

"You want some coffee, Crystal?"

Anna seemed nice enough, despite the needle tracks on her arms... legs... pretty much anywhere she had a vein, actually. Of course, she had only been discharged from detox the day before... so I would probably have to "wait and see", to find out if she *stayed* that way. But for tonight, at least, she was friendly enough...

"No, thank you. I never drink that stuff..."

"What, are you serious? Never? Jeez, I practically live on it... and you *really* don't wanna talk to me, before I get my first cup in the morning."

I just smiled. "To each their own. I tried it a couple times in my teens... found it tasted worse than muddy water... also found out that it was an *expensive* 'acquired' taste... and just never saw the point in acquiring that particular taste." I shrugged, then continued. "I prefer hot chocolate, myself. But feel free to drink that 'poison' yourself... just do me a favour, and DON'T have your morning cuppa here in the room, 'kay? The smell of coffee in the morning literally turns my stomach... and I don't think anyone would appreciate starting their day by my throwing up on the floor..."

Sally grunted from her upper bunk. "Won't be the first time. The girl who had your bunk last week was in her first trimester... puking every morning at five AM, like clockwork."

"Err... thanks, I think. TMI... too much information..."

After Anna went off in search of her 'golden elixir of life', I decided to use the facilities one last time, before getting ready to sleep. Rumour had it that a local temp agency was hiring a female crew for an easy job at a plastic bottle factory, but I would have to be there at six AM sharp for that... which probably meant getting up at five. Assuming that I went there at all... I was still undecided about that. Medically, it would probably be smarter to just take a few days off, at least... but then, I would be hanging around the shelter during the day, which was frowned upon. I suppose that is why Michelle said that she was at the library most days...

Hanging on the hook outside of the floor's single washroom, I noticed a small "rainbow" sign... which I vaguely remembered from the shelter rules, as meaning one of the TG's was in the washroom. Pausing for just a moment, I shrugged, then continued inside. I had not met them yet, but I knew the building's one TG room was on this floor, at the other end of the hallway. Not even a full room, actually... I gathered it had originally been a broom closet, literally, and now had two bunks crammed into it along one wall.  «Glad I'm not in there... our room isn't much, but at least there is a little room to move around, and a window overlooking the valley... »

I grinned, as the... umm... 'person'... at the sinks virtually spazzed out, noticing the door open behind her. I gathered from 'her' reaction, that she was not used to people ignoring the little sign.  «Oh, well. Her problem, not mine... ». The rules had stated we *could* use the facilities when the sign was up -- it was only to let us know, for those who preferred not to...

 «Well, to give her credit, I can tell she *is* at least trying to comply with the rules... although she _seriously_ needs to shave that major five o'clock shadow, if she wants to not freak other women out... and don't even get me started on her makeup choices. I wonder if she is blind? NO ONE could be *that* bad at makeup, without some sort of cause... »

Giving her a casual finger wave to acknowledge her presence, I went on about my business... noting in passing that urinating burned a little.  «Yuck. I am not sure if I should hope I 'just' tore something again that was only half-healed, while moving... *and* hope it heals itself, if that is the case... or hope it is another UTI starting. » I sighed at that later thought, as I already had far too much experience with urinary tract infections...

With a shrug, I put the matter out of my mind, and turned my attention to the other matter I wanted to take care of... which was changing my pad. Not that I usually use pads... and never tampons... but as I had expected, the earlier 'dilation' had caused me to bleed a little. Nothing serious though, and the blood on the used pad was mostly dry... meaning a single fresh "light day" pantiliner should do me the night, no problem. Casually disposing of the old one in the receptacle, I smiled for a moment... amusedly wondering what the TG's thought about those little, paper bag lined, lidded metal containers bolted to the stall walls. It had been many years since I last gave them even a moment's thought... but seeing the 'woman' struggling to fix her makeup, had stirred up some old memories...

"Hi. Would you like some help with that?" I casually asked, while washing my hands.

From the grateful puppy dog look on her face, I gathered that was something else she did not get a lot of, from other women in the shelter.  «Oh, well. So much for 'blending in'... ». Not that I minded. There are some things I am willing to do, to assimilate into the woodwork... and others I simply won't. I wish I could say that ignoring a 'sister' was one of the things I wouldn't do... but while I don't mind helping people occasionally, as now... truthfully, I had done precisely that -- ignored people -- on many occasions. Particularly if I had 'read' someone, who was obviously attempting stealth.

Just courtesy, really. The *last* thing any stealth woman wants, is to have someone draw attention to them by approaching them in public about *any* sort of 'trans-issue'... and figuring out how to discreetly let them know, that *you* know, was often way more trouble than it was worth. Especially since they were usually 'hurt' to find out that someone had read them, in the first place. A no-win situation... which is why I usually tried not to get entangled in that sort of thing, mostly avoiding any trans people I spotted... but this particular encounter wasn't like that. This woman HAD to know that she stuck out like a sore thumb... and if her expression so far was any indication, she was a newbie enough to appreciate the help. Although if she didn't clock me, I probably wouldn't 'out' myself to her... what with being in the shelter "stealth", myself, at the moment. Way too much to potentially lose, and nothing really to gain... but that didn't mean I could not talk her, now, as a 'natal female'.

"Yes, please. I'm colour blind, and while I tried asking my mom to teach me how to do this, she's so against my transition that she just threw me outta the house..."

 «Ouch. Been there, done that... at least, the being disowned part. Seriously not fun. It's one of the few things I regret about my current life... and the day it happened, possibly the closest I ever came to suicide. » For a moment, I found myself lost in old thoughts...

 «Another fifteen minutes, and I would have been gone... just random luck it worked out that way, really. My plan should have worked. I wonder if it was good luck, or bad, the way things have turned out? » Giving my head a tiny shake to throw off that truly morbid thought, I forced myself to focus back on the present.

"I'm sorry, luv. No one deserves that." I sighed. "People talk about how they will always love their children, no matter what... but the reality is, it happens to people all too often, from what I have heard and seen..."

She just nodded, with a sad look on her face... almost, as if she were fighting back tears.  «Hasn't really accepted that tears are okay now, yet. Or maybe I am being unfair -- this *is* a shelter, where I have been warned to watch my back. Maybe she is just being smart, keeping her guard up. I don't intend to hurt her... but *she* doesn't know that... »

Changing the subject, she asked, "What should I do first?"

I sighed, again. "Wash your face, luv. I hate to say it... but that mess you have on now is pretty much unsalvageable. Then shave... and moisturize -- makeup goes on better, if your skin is not completely dried out from having just washed it....". Glancing at the products she had out on the countertop, I went on, "Is that all the makeup you have, or do you have anything else with you? And do you have pen and paper in that huge purse, by any chance?"

"Umm, yeah... just a minute, I have one here someplace... and yeah, I have some other stuff here too. Oh! My name is Andrea," she used the 'an DREY ah' variation for pronouncing it, I noticed. "But you can call me Andy".

Saying that, she virtually up-ended her purse... pouring out a whole lot of things. I suspected she had been virtually living out of that purse, for who knows how long...

 «I wonder if 'Andy' is her birth name... or if she actually chose an androgynous name like that, for herself? If the later... I hope she doesn't come to regret it. That sort of thing might appeal to someone, early in transition... when they are sort of in the 'gender twilight zone' -- halfway between genders. But... later on? My own birth name was very androgynous, bordering on feminine... but, in time, I was unhappy enough with continuing to use it that I changed it... »

Casually sorting through Andy's makeup collection, I found myself pushing much of it aside.  «Totally wrong colours for her. And these? How old are these, anyway? Is that *mould* growing on this eye shadow? Yikes! »

Finally, I had a small selection of what I considered 'usable' makeup... and an even smaller selection of tools, unfortunately.  «Dollar store sponges and brushes... yuck. Not the best way to do makeup, but I suppose it *is* possible, even if it _will_ probably take several times as long with this junk, as it would take to do it with the right brushes... »

Picking up her pen and small notepad, I turned to a blank page, then quickly sketched out a basic outline of her face. Nothing fancy... just a simple diagram, that I could use for a "paint by numbers" approach to makeup, for her. Then I demonstrated on her a fairly simple, easy to do makeup combination... carefully updating the diagram as I went, and being very careful to both brush some of the actual makeup onto the paper (as I would for a 'normal vision' woman), and to write down exactly what was on the label of the makeup, with the position in the tray noted for some of the 'quad' or 'triple' colour combination eye shadow compacts that she had.

I had no idea what those colours looked like to her, with her colour blind vision... so just in case some of them looked identical, I wanted her to know which one I was using, and where... which I also reinforced by doing only half of her face, while coaching her in doing the other half to match. Her first try wasn't all that successful... but by the third repeat, she seemed to have it figured out.

"So what do you think? I am afraid I am not really an aesthetician, but I like to think I am pretty good with makeup... and while it's not a sophisticated look, it *is* something that looks good, which you should be able to do yourself..."

"Thank you. You don't know how much this means to me..."

Then we had to scramble to find her a tissue... as her eyes started to tear up, and threatened to ruin her makeup.

~ ~ 0 ~ ~