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Hi. My name is Denise.
I have a lot to say, but this is my first attempt at writing, and I'm not quite sure how to put my story into words. It's really odd; my ideas seem crystal clear whenever I'm out shopping or taking a walk around the Domain, but every time I try to write it down, the words get jumbled up a big, meaningless heap. Guess I'm just not a writer. Anyway, please bear with me, I'll try to keep things as simple as possible and not ramble on too much.
Maybe I should start by explaining that I'm a pre-operative transsexual. I've been on hormones for about three years now, and managed to make the transition successfully. I'm studying art & fashion at technical college because I've always wanted to design my own clothes. I'm really enjoying the course. Most of the other students are girls my age and I get on pretty well with all of them. Well, most of them, anyway. A few of the older ones give me a hard time because I wasn't born with the proper equipment, but I suppose you can't please everybody.
Actually, none of that's important right now. I don't want to talk about tech college, as it's not really part of the story. I want to talk about my Uncle James.
I've been living with James Anderson since my parents discovered I was taking estrogen. That was three years ago, one of the blackest days of my life. Mom wept for hours on end, wailing over and over that she'd lost her only child (which I suppose was true, in a way). Dad hit the roof, shouting at the top of his lungs and threatening to dig out his old Winchester. Dad was your stereotypical ex-service man, spent his tour of duty waging an endless war against homosexuality. You think I spent three years in Nam so you could come home and tell me you're gay?!!
The fact that I wasn't actually gay didn't seem to make much difference to the old man. Gays, lesbians, transvestites and transsexuals were all the same as far as he was concerned. As they used to say back in the marines, if it ain't straight, shoot it.
Once Dad stopped cleaning the Winchester and more civilized discussion began, everyone agreed that I should vacate the premises as soon as possible. James Anderson's name came up as a possible alternative to spending my evenings sleeping on the street (which was my Father's original solution).
James wasn't actually my Uncle. As I was later to discover, he was one of Mom's more peripheral relatives, the kind of globe-trotting gypsy you read about in Ian Flemming novels. Having recently returned from a tour of Eastern Europe, he'd rented a place near Queens Domain, not too far from the art school.
For my part, I had no major objections to this plan; by all accounts the location seemed perfect. Admittedly, James Anderson had a dark reputation - 'born to hang' was how most people phrased it - but he'd always treated me well on the rare occasions I'd met him.
James and I got along famously for the first month or so. We worked out a private agreement where I'd do some light domestic chores in return for food and lodgings. He'd even throw in a bit of pocket money to help me out with my studies. This arrangement suited me just fine, as I'd become rather domesticated since my transition. In many ways, I was living out a fantasy I'd treasured for many years; the one where I was a spoilt little rich girl swanning around a spacious Victorian mansion.
Then I discovered precisely how 'dark' his reputation really was.
