Dreamer

By Tanya Allan
Original Version Copyright © 1972
Revised version Copyright © 2012

The author asserts her moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

All Rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Any adaptation of the whole or part of the material for broadcast by radio, TV, or for stage plays or film, is the right of the author unless negotiated through legal contract. Any commercial use by anyone other than the author is strictly prohibited.

This work is fictitious, and any similarities to any persons, alive or dead, are purely coincidental. Mention is made of persons in public life only for the purposes of realism and for that reason alone. Certain licence is taken in respect of medical procedures, terms and conditions, and the author does not claim to be the fount of all knowledge.

The author accepts the right of the individual to hold his/her (or whatever) own political, religious and social views, and there is no intention to deliberately offend anyone.

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Philip Coates is seventeen and convinced that he is not only trapped in a boarding school for boys, but also trapped in the wrong body. He spends most of his time lost in a world of his imagination. In this world he is the girl he always wanted to be. The girl who screams at him to set her free in every minute of every waking hour, and most of the sleeping ones as well.

Trapped in a social square hole, he becomes simply what everyone - parents, friends, teachers - want and expect him to be. He knows that he wants to be a round peg, but will, in reality, never make it.

Well, he wakes up one morning convinced that his dream might just be coming true.. or is it?

The signs are there, but then again, are there other explanations for what he is going through?

After a rough few days, the girl is set free.

The future is now gloriously uncertain and fresh, as she sets out on a journey, turning her back on her school, her friends and her old home.....

My thanks to PEGLEG for help with proofing

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Introduction.

Hi everyone.

I was clearing out some old boxes of clutter the other day and found an old school exercise book. As soon as I opened it, the memories came flooding back. It was handwritten in pencil, and I first wrote this aged fifteen or so whilst at boarding school. It was as real to me then as it is today. It still hurts!

Even back then I found the joy of writing is that for a short while she who is within may be allowed free.
My father would have been devastated had this actually happened, and if it happened today, it still would crush him, as well as several other special people.

We all make choices and, for better or worse, we live with the decisions we make. So, I refuse to complain.
My mother caught me in her clothes when I was fifteen, and she has always known what I am. (note that I say ‘am’ and not ‘was’) She also found and read this story, and I think it affected her deeply. We talked about it a little at the time, but she did not really understand. I tried to tell her that it wasn't because of anything she had or hadn't done. Bless her, she has kept my secret, and we shall both die with it. My consolation is that she believes I grew out of it, as I just went on and lived my life, in spite of my inner feelings, rather than because of them.

I have not altered the actual story at all, other than a few minor improvements with the flow and general feel, as I am now better able to express my feelings. The funny thing is that I can remember the feelings I had when I wrote it, and they have hardly changed at all.

It was the first TG story I ever wrote, and was never meant for general release. I wrote it for me, in order to make sense of what was going on inside my head. It is not so much biographical, rather, it is more like one of those fairy tales where a wish comes true, and one tries to imagine what it would really be like — not unlike all my stories, really……

---

“Dreamer”

By Tanya Allan

Part 1.

My dream was very real and vivid. It was always the same, and I was almost able to consciously influence how it progressed…almost.

In the dream I was awaking from a long sleep. I opened my eyes to a warm white light. I was on a bed, not my modern plain and rather hard bed in my room at boarding school, but a soft bed, with a mattress full of down. Over my head was an ornate canopy, with pale silken drapes flowing elegantly down at the head, to each side.

It was a girl’s bed.

No, not just a girl’s bed, it was more like a princess’s bed; with more than a passing resemblance to a certain Disney cartoon feature film.

I was neither warm, nor cold, and yet there was a slight breeze, in which red rose-petals gently drifted across the bed. The faint scent of roses filled my nostrils and I smiled. Someone had told me that one doesn’t dream in colour and there is never any sense of smell in them. I knew better!

I raised my head and looked around me.

I couldn’t see if I was in a room, as everything was such a brilliant soft white so that I couldn't discern walls or ceiling.

A door opened in the white to my left, through which a tall, handsome boy walked in. I caught a glimpse of what was outside the room. It was dark and foreboding, but somehow very enticing.

He was dressed in flared blue jeans, trainers and a tee shirt with a logo printed thereon. The word was Superstar, with a picture of Christ’s head encircled with a thorny crown. It was a familiar tee shirt, as I retained a vague memory of the stage show from which it originated. He had fair hair that was fashionably long for the early 1970s, curling over the ears and collar.

He was someone I knew very well, but for some reason I couldn’t remember his name.

“Whoa. Cool room!” he said, looking around. He then saw me on the bed.

“Hey, who are you?” he asked.

It was then that I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed nearest to him. I was wearing a long, pale diaphanous dress and, as I looked down, I saw that I had full ripe breasts, pert and tight against the thin material. My large nipples were prominent and very obvious. I didn’t have to see what lay between my legs, as I knew beyond all doubt that I was completely female.

I smiled, raising my right hand to my head and sweeping back the long fair hair away from my eyes. My fingernails were crimson and delicately shaped.

I smiled at the boy. I was so happy.

The boy was staring at me.

“You’re beautiful!” he said.

I smiled some more. I already knew that, but it was so nice when someone else told me.

“How did you get here?” he asked.

“I’ve always been here, it’s just that no one has ever managed to show me the way out,” I replied.

“The way out?” he asked, confused.

“Yes. I’ve been trapped in here all my life. I need to be set free!”

The boy frowned, so I held one hand out to him.

He looked at my hand.

“Help me, please?” I said.

He took my hand, but then dropped it again, as if burnt.

“I can’t. I don’t know how to,” he said.

“You managed to get in, so you must be able to get me out.”

He shook his head.

I knew him so well, but who was he?

“I’m not the one. I can’t, I’m so sorry,” he said.

“Can’t, or won’t?” I asked.

“Can’t! If I could help, I would. You know why!”

“Why?”

“Don’t make me tell you. You already know.”

“No, I don’t.”

He looked crestfallen.

“I promise, I don’t know,” I said to reassure him.

“If you get out, I’ll be forgotten. It will be as if I never existed.”

I looked at him, and then I remembered who he was.

He was me!

“Wake up you lazy bugger!” said a different voice; harsh and insistent.

I woke up properly, very reluctantly.

“Come on Phil. You’re going to be late,” said the voice.

I opened my eyes. The autumn sunlight streamed through the chink in the tatty curtain of my room.

I blinked, as a feeling of extreme sadness and loss hit me, so it took all my strength not to cry out in frustration, as every other morning.

I looked round my small room. It was my study/bedroom at my school, and it was drab and depressing. I had posters of Bridget Bardot and Raquel Welch (dates me, huh?) on one wall, from where they smiled impishly at me. Mocking me, as if to say, ‘I know that I’m what you want to be, but you can’t!’

The owner of the voice was a friend; in fact he was my best friend. His name was Andy Cairn, and we had come up the school together.

I placed one hand on my chest and the other to my crotch, without much hope. I was unsurprised to feel that I was still male. Disappointed, yes, but completely unsurprised.

Sighing, I dragged my depressed body out of bed to another dreary day in purgatory.

I was seventeen, and in my last year of school. I would be eighteen in April next year, so would leave school the following July after A levels. It was October now, so into the rugby season. Not that I minded, I was quite good at rugby, it was just I so wanted to be someone else, somewhere else. It didn’t really matter where.

I didn’t care where, as long as I was a girl!

I can’t give an exact age or date when I knew someone had fucked up. I just remember a gradual feeling of wrongness, from about four or five. The feelings progressed, gradually clarifying in my mind the fact that I was trapped in the wrong gender.

By the time my body started to change into a more masculine version, and hormones started making things happen, the feeling became a sense of deep anguish and desolation.

If I had been a girly boy, then perhaps it would have been easier, but I wasn’t.

I was an inch under six foot and quite broad. Much to my father’s delight, I had never had a problem attracting girls. I was in the First XV rugby team, a Cadet NCO in the Army Cadets, and a House Prefect. I was intelligent and academically above average. Expectations of parents, friends, teachers and society made me strive to be something I didn’t want to be.

I didn’t have much choice, did I?

Yet, threaded through my entire existence was a voice of the girl within screaming to be set free. Not one minute in every hour of every day passed without her screaming in my soul, and although I learned to live with her screams, they still deeply affected me.

I often imagined what it would be like to suffer from tinnitus. Only instead of a ringing or buzzing, I suffered screaming; not in my ears, but in my very soul.

I dressed and went down for breakfast. As a sixth former, I was not forced to eat in the hall with the rest, but it was easier than preparing anything myself.

After breakfast was chapel, and then off into double History, followed by study periods.

It was a relief to collapse onto my bed after taking copious notes about Henry VIII and his desire to control everything in the land, when he wasn’t shagging, that is.

I dug out my second favourite book, I Will Fear No Evil by Robert Heinlein. My favourite book was The Masqueraders by Georgette Heyer. Both involved males living as females, and reading them was my only real escape from this unhappy world.

My daydreams all involved my own sudden and miraculous transformation into a beautiful and complete girl. My imagination grew as a result of these dreams. It was not restricted by the laws of physics or any other reality, so I was free to release her into my imaginary worlds.

Oh, and did she! There was such a variance of places and people in those dreams that it almost became reality. The poor boy sitting on the hard chair through the murmurings of some teacher became so secondary that made no difference. But she could never be quite free enough.

I knew it was impossible, and yet my heart and soul ached for it to be possible.

She screamed to be free!

So many times I had tried to make her go away. I had recognised that no one in their right mind could wish this torture on themselves. I mean; to be in constant conflict to such a level that one’s whole waking day is simply taken over with the ever-present desire to change into something one isn’t, and could never be!

That was the crunch. For many, their dreams can become reality through hard work, perseverance and a little bit of fortune. For me, the reality was never going to happen. I was a coward, as I was not prepared to inflict the hurt on those who loved me by attempting to go for something that was rare and still relatively innovative in the field of medicine.

I was just too big and too male to ever become the feminine flower of my mind.

I was still me, still male, and still burning up to be female.

I wasn’t fussy.

Such was my desperation that I’d almost settle for being ugly or deformed, such was my desire to be female. However, I have to confess that I’d much rather be stunningly attractive! That is the beauty of dreams.

Some hope! My dreams were just destined to always remain as dreams.

The day droned on.

Lunch was followed by rugby training. I was selected to play for the firsts again on Saturday. Whoop-de-fucking-doo!
In the showers after the training, I noticed my chest was tender.

I couldn’t see anything, so assumed that when tackling someone, their boot studs had just bruised the tissue slightly.
I was a physically normal (?) male, reasonably good-looking, well-built and well-liked. I shampooed my hair, and then scrubbed the mud off my legs. As the dirt swirled away towards the plug, I noticed some hair floating in the water.
I frowned.

Alex Russell had suddenly lost all his hair just before O Levels a few years ago. They called it alopecia, or something. He resembled a billiard ball now, and I was suddenly terrified that it was happening to me!
It was 1973, so long hair was in for us fellas. I was actually quite pleased, as it allowed me to keep my hair long, so when I dressed in my small cache of girl’s clothes, and put on makeup, at least the hair looked feminine.

The rest of me didn’t!

I looked like a large bloke dressed as a girl. With broad shoulders, square chin and a large nose, I looked stupid. As a result, I had given up cross-dressing as a bad job some time ago. Also the risks of being caught by my mother were too great. I never even thought about doing it at school. The ramifications just didn’t bear thinking about. Besides, I didn’t think I was a cross-dresser. It wasn’t the clothes. Oh, they helped create an illusion for a few heady moments, but in reality, I just wasn’t prepared to be a pretend female. It was totally or nothing!

'Nothing' was odds-on favourite at present.

Besides, the disgrace and shame that would fall on me and my family if ever I should get caught — it just didn’t bear thinking about!

Permissive society?

Yeah, right!

NOT!

The hair was not from my head, but I think it came from my legs. They weren’t too hairy before, now they weren’t at all.
That evening, I turned my light out at about midnight, and settled down. It was always my favourite time. That bit between turning off the light and going to sleep. It was the only time when the girl inside was almost able to be free. My imagination might have no limits and no rules, but she was still stuck inside my head.

I didn’t dream that night. It was unusual, and even more so, I awoke early. Normally I slept right up to my alarm, or had to be woken up by Andy.

I glanced at my clock. 06:40.

I still felt tender on my chest and I placed my hand inside my pyjamas.

I thought I could feel a slight swelling, and there was still tenderness. I tweaked a nipple.

“Ow!”

That hurt.

I frowned.

The nipple felt swollen too.

This pissed me off, as I couldn’t remember who had hurt me, or even how it happened.

I scratched my balls, and went to the loo.

After I had been piddling for a few moments, I realised that my willy seemed to be a little smaller.

I stared at it.

Was I imagining it?

Was it smaller?

I shook my head and went back to bed.

I lay there, gently feeling my genitals.

They were smaller, I was sure.
Or were they?

I was suddenly afraid, and yet a little excited.

I was changing!

I couldn’t be, as I knew that it was impossible.

Then explain the small dick?

I couldn’t.

I remembered the hair in the shower.

I took off my pyjamas, and looked at my legs.

They were smooth and completely hairless, and they looked good!

On a girl they would have done.

I wasn't changing into a girl, was I?

No, I wasn’t. I couldn’t be!

Could I?

I was certainly confused.

Much to his surprise, I was up and dressed when Andy came in to wake me.

“Bloody hell, piss the bed?” he asked, grinning.

The day progressed much the same as any other. It was raining, so at games time, I became very aware that my nipples were rubbing against my damp coarse rugby-shirt whenever I ran. In addition, I just didn't seem to have the stamina I usually had.
So much so, that Mr Carter, the coach swore at me.

"Come on Coates, you’re playing like a girl!"

I stopped and looked at him, as the truth stated to creep up on me like sticky molasses.

"Sir?"

"Just get stuck in lad, you're flaffing away like my six year-old daughter!"

With a bright red face, I managed to survive the remainder of the session without further incident, and then had to face the showers.

Fortunately, my shirt was large, so the protruding nipples were not apparent. However, I knew that as soon as I took my top off, someone was bound to see them.

I hung about and waited until I was the last, and quickly washed and changed when no one was about. My dick and balls had shrunk by at least half, which it terrified the shit out of me. I had that cold sweaty panic, which made me feel faintly nauseous. I was late for tea, but it was worth it not to draw attention to myself.

I considered going to the school quack, but kicked that idea into touch. If I did that, then the shit would fly. He’d call the headmaster, who’d call my parents, who’d engage specialists and all manner of shit. I’d end up having corrective treatment to ensure I stayed the way they wanted me.

It dawned on me then what I did want. If I was changing, then I wanted that to continue. I wanted it so much that I needed it to be complete before I told anyone or did anything about it. I wanted to get past the point of no return. I did not want to be what everyone else expected me to be.

I went to the afternoon lessons as if in a daze. My English teacher kept reminding me to join the rest several times, and I kept my hand in my shirt, feeling a definite tenderness around my nipples. The tissue felt inflamed and slightly swollen.

I know that I had desperately wanted to be a girl, but I never actually believed nor expected for it to come true, not like this at any rate!

I was in bed quite early, with my hands inside my pyjamas. There was absolutely no doubt now. I was much smaller in the crotch department.

My heart rate was quite rapid, and I still had that flushed feeling where one feels panicked and no longer in control. I was terrified about what could happen, so I couldn't really focus my mind on anything very long.

I knew that sleep was not going to come easily, and even if it did, I was frightened of what I would find when I awoke. I was tired, frightened and feeling very alone.

I even found myself going against everything I had wished for over the last ten years or so. Part of me actually wished to stay a boy, just because it was familiar and relatively safe. However, another part, a particularly vociferous part, screamed at me to let it come!

I fell asleep. I dreamed the dream again, in which, once more, the girl was still imprisoned in that room.

Andy woke me up as usual.

I was still a boy.

I felt strange today. I couldn’t put my finger on what made me feel strange. It was just that my belly felt weird, as if I had eaten too much, or something like that. I ached too, my back ached and every step I took made my hips or pelvis ache. I wandered to the loo, and this time I was certain I had shrunk.

My willy was hardly peeping out of my belly, and my scrotum was tight up against my crotch. I could just about feel my balls and they were ever so small.

I went to my room and dressed. I noted that my beard, not wildly enthusiastic at the best of times, was nowhere to be seen. I hadn’t shaved for over a week.

As I pulled my shirt on, I noted that the tissue behind each nipple had definitely swollen, and the nipples and surrounding brown aureoles had grown too. My waist was slightly smaller, and I had to tighten my belt up to the final hole. Yet, my trousers seemed much tighter across the bum. Weird!

My heart raced. I was in a confused state of conflicting emotions.

Although I really wanted to be a girl, I was terrified of losing what was familiar to me. I wondered if anyone else experienced these feelings. I thought about those few people who were brave enough to go through sex change procedures. Did they ever have nagging doubts?

I didn’t doubt that I wanted to be a girl with every inch of my being. I just doubted that with the raw materials with which I had, the product would be appropriate.

I stared at my face in the mirror, trying to see any changes.

I couldn’t see any, and I casually brushed some stray hair out of my eyes. I had been watching the movement, and it looked alien to me. The whole wrist and hand movement appeared to be very camp.

I looked at my hands.

They looked to be slightly smaller, and certainly more slender. The fine hair on my arms had all but vanished, and I scrunched up my hands into fists in denial.

It couldn’t happen!

At least, that is what I told myself.

I missed breakfast, and managed to get into chapel in time. In fact, I was early for a change. I sat at the back of my house pews, watching the others come in and find their places.

There were six houses, and so there were eight blocks of pews, four aside all tiered facing the aisle. The extra two blocks were the choir, and were up near the altar.

I caught myself looking at some of the other sixth form boys in a strange way. I would look at their faces, and then their bums, for some reason. People I had come up through the school with, I was now seeing in a different way and it frightened me.
I was not gay. At least I didn’t think I was. I suppose when you have to work hard at being the person everyone expects you to be, you have to encompass all the expected attributes. Other qualities are therefore suppressed to such an extent that they cease to be. I couldn’t be sure that the real me was or wasn’t gay.

A transsexual, yes, but I had never had leanings towards having a sexual relationship, or liaison with another male as a male in my life. I had enjoyed many fantasies of having sex with a boy, but on the strict condition that I was one hundred percent female. The thought of me, as a male, doing anything physical with another male was repugnant to me.

I had had several girlfriends and, although not yet had sex, it was surely just a matter of time. I got on with girls very well. Better really than boys, as I was relaxed in their company. I didn’t feel I had to keep up a façade with girls. Maybe that was why it seemed so easy for me to have girlfriends. Apart from Andy, I had few close male friends.

It was at that moment that I had a clear picture of who and what I really was. I was a girl, but possessed some anatomical anomalies that prevented me from taking my rightful place in society. I was a round peg in a square hole and had been trying to be square for everyone else for so long that even I thought I was square.

I watched Charlie Wright walk in, and I smiled. I caught myself smiling, went red, and had to look away. Charlie was a good-looking guy, who had a steady girlfriend. I could see why, he had a super smile and a lovely bum!

I felt more confused than ever now.

What was happening to me?

That morning was a real struggle. I sat through the lessons, and couldn’t concentrate at all. I pretended to, and doodled when supposed to taking notes.

I found that I had signed names all over a rough piece of paper.

The names were:
Pippa Philippa Coates, Miss Philippa Coates, Mrs Philippa Wright,

I stared at them. Even the handwriting was different, more rounded, and neater somehow.

Shit!

I scrunched up the paper and stuffed it in my pocket to throw away later.

After an eternity, it was lunchtime, and we all started to leave the classroom. As I was about to leave, Mr Hislop called me over.

“Are you all right, young man?”

“Yes sir.”

He looked at me.

“I detected that you were absent for most of that session. Are you sure?”

“I feel a little queasy, it’s nothing. I’m sorry sir.”

He nodded, but I could tell he was unconvinced.

“Have you lost weight?”

I was surprised.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“You look different, slimmer or something. Make sure you eat properly, you need your weight for the rugger.”

“Yes sir.”

I left, feeling embarrassed and very self-conscious.

Everywhere I went, I thought I could see people looking at me and talking about me.

Don’t be paranoid! I told myself. It didn’t help, as I was still worried. I remembered to throw away the paper from my pocket.

Rugby practice was absolute hell!

I dropped the ball more often than ever before in my life. I missed most of the tackles I attempted, and those I managed to hold, just seemed to get free with no trouble. The worst thing was the feeling of frustration, so when the coach swore at me, I almost burst into tears!

Needless to say, I came in for masses of abuse from the coach and my teammates.

I made the excuse that I felt unwell, and was told, “Piss off and have an early shower. You are playing like a bloody pansy. If you don’t get a grip, I’ll drop you from the firsts. If you’re ill, go see matron and the quack in the sickbay. Don’t come back until you’re better!”

I walked off and had a shower by myself.

As I stood naked, I looked down at myself. I tucked my, by now, tiny penis between my legs and gasped.

My body shape was more female than ever before. I quickly washed and dried myself off, rushing to my study to find solace in solitude.

There were no afternoon lessons, but I appeared for the evening meal.

Andy came and sat next to me.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

*No, I’m turning into a girl.* Is what I wanted to say.

I couldn’t.

“Yeah, I suppose. I just feel a bit odd,” I said.

He looked at me with a strange expression.

“You look okay.”

I smiled. That was a relief.

“Just the one essay tonight,” he said.

Essay?

“What essay?”

“Duh! In History, the essay on the reasons Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries. Remember?”

I didn’t.

“No.”

He stared at me again, this time looking at me closely.

“I should go and see matron, if I were you. Something is really strange with you at the moment.”

“Strange?”

“Yeah. You are behaving really oddly. Did you get a bang on the head?”

“Not that I remember.”

“Well, if you are still odd tomorrow, I’ll take you to matron myself.”

“Okay,” I said, and he seemed to accept that.

I went up to my study and within moments Andy was in and sitting in my armchair.

Studies were small. A single bed, a desk and chair, with room for one armchair and a small item of furniture. I had a Pye record player in the corner and a small Bush cassette recorder/player on top of it. Posters of current film stars were permitted on the wall, but no nudity. I had a couple of Bridget Bardot, with very little on, and one of Raquel Welch in her fur bikini from A Million Years BC.

I also had Steve McQueen on his motorbike from The Great Escape, and Lee Marvin from The Dirty Dozen. My favourite was the two choppers from Easy Rider, being ridden by Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper.

“Done the essay yet?” he teased.

“Yes,” I teased back.

“Yeah, right!” he said, grinning.

He put on my Yes LP, - Fragile.

We sat and listened to it for a while.

“Phil?”

“Hmm?”

“You’d tell me if you were in trouble, wouldn’t you?”

“In trouble?”

“You know?”

“No.”

“Fucked up, mate. Stressed out, you know?”

“No, I don’t know.”

He sighed.

“We’ve been mates for what, four years?”

“So?”

“Something’s bugging you, and I just want to help.”

I looked at him and I almost told him. Almost!

“I can’t tell you,” I said.

His eyebrows shot up.

“Can’t?”

“Can’t! I don’t know myself. If or when I find out, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Honest?”

“Honest!”

He smiled.

“Sorry, but I don’t like seeing you like this.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know — different, I suppose.”

“In what way?” I asked.

“A weird way. It’s like you’re hiding something and are almost a different person somehow.”

I was quiet. The urge to share what I was going through was so strong. Yet, tomorrow, it all might be better again. I still kept quiet.

He stayed and I relaxed. I even wrote my essay plan. He finally went to write his, so I said good night. I was relieved when he had gone.

I went to the loo, and had such a hard job to get my penis to point at the urinal that I ended up sitting down to pee. I returned to my room and changed for bed. I lay there, unable to read, so I turned my light out. Sleep was a long time coming. I never thought I would actually drop off.

I must have fallen asleep, because I dreamed. This time the dream was different.

It started the same way, with me as a girl on the bed, but then it changed. I got up and stood for the first time. There was a pair of girl's shoes, simple sandals with high heels, by the bed. They had never been in the dream before, so feeling a little knot of excitement in my stomach, I put them on. I walked across the floor to where I knew the door was. I was very conscious of the long diaphanous dress I wore, so to feel my bare legs touching as I walked was a lovely feeling. So much so, I almost felt a sexual thrill. The door opened as I approached.

I looked back towards the bed that I hadn’t left in all the other dreams. There, lying on the bed was the male me, still wearing the same tee shirt and the jeans.

"Enjoy it. Try not to forget me," the boy-me said.

"Oh, I'll never forget you. You will always be in here," I said, tapping the side of my head with my finger. I gazed in surprise at my crimson fingernails, smiling with pure joy. My heart sang.

He smiled sadly.

"Bye then."

"Bye."

I walked through the door. I had never seen outside the door before, and I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t expect a brilliant white light and then nothing!

............to be continued.