Inner Demons, AKA Journals of an Angry Trans Gurl - Chapter 2.1

Inner Demons, AKA "Journals of an Angry Trans Gurl"
© 2017 Haylee V

* This is a true account of my life experiences. All persons portrayed in this story are based on actual people I've met throughout my life, and the events portrayed actually happened. No malice is intended to those individuals involved, and names have been altered to protect the identities of the people portrayed. *

* This is a copyrighted property owned exclusively by Ronald Heyward Bailey, Jr., written under the pseudonym Haylee V. Exclusive rights are hereby given to host it on Big Closet Top Shelf or any of its affiliated companies. If you are reading it anywhere else, please be aware that you are reading a pirated copy, and should inform one of the web mistresses of Big Closet (Piper, Erin, or Sephrena) the web address where you found it. *

* Thank you for taking the time to read this story. I hope you find it as enjoyable to read as it was for me to write -- Haylee V *

* And now, on to the story. *


Chapter Two (Continued)

The EMTs had placed me in a very uncomfortable neck brace upon loading me into the back of the ambulance. They did all the routine things an EMT should - take vitals, get medical history, start an IV, etc. -- and before long we arrived at the hospital.

The nurse came in and said they had ordered a CAT scan of my head -- just as a precaution -- to make sure nothing serious had happened when I lost my fight with the door. They had also had me strip bare and change into "the gown from Hell" -- you all know the one ...

About an hour after the scan completed, the doctor shared the results -- normal. I started to get dressed, only to be stopped in my tracks by the charge nurse.

"The doctor said everything's fine, so I can go home now."

The scowl on the nurse's face told me immediately that I thought wrong.

"Sorry, Mr. Daniels. We're not QUITE done here -- yet," came a rich baritone voice from the hall. I looked to see a rather imposing figure standing there - all 6' 3", 250 pounds of him. His name tag read Dr. Peter Saulk, Staff Psychiatrist.

"It seems that we may be detaining you just a while longer. At least that was Dr. Hood's recommendation. I just need to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind ..."

And the screw job I had been expecting began ...

"Dr. Hood impressed upon me that she was quite worried about your mood as of late -- and your overall safety. We'd LIKE to have you stay here and let us do a complete psychiatric workup on you."

"And if I refuse?"

Dr. Saulk just pointed to the hall, where two rather beefy looking police officers stood guard. "Refusal -- at this point -- is no longer an option. You can do this voluntarily -- which will afford you certain 'amenities' -- or we can petition the judge to commit you. Judge Bennet's on call this morning, and he's usually in a VERY FOUL mood until he's had at least two cups of coffee ..."

With no other options, I slowly nodded.

"Good," Dr. Saulk said, not even trying to hide his patronizing tone. "You'd actually be surprised at how many people WILLINGLY choose Option Two. Glad to see YOU, at least, have a modicum of common sense." Damn, I HATE this prick. Wonder how long I'd get for killing the bastard? After all, they DO think I need "psychiatric evaluation", so I COULD, in theory, cop an insanity plea...

I grinned maniacally. Perhaps a bit TOO maniacally...

Dr. Saulk was taken aback -- momentarily -- but quickly noted something on my chart, before regaining his composure -- and condescending ways again.

"Ahem...," he choked out, fumbling with his collar. "Ah, yes. The questions. Do you know exactly WHY I'm here, Mr. Daniels?"

"Humor me," I sneered, all the while struggling to get out of my restraints. I REALLY want to strangle this self-righteous bastard...

"It seems that you made some rather ... disturbing ... remarks earlier to Dr. Hood. Remarks that lead us to believe you pose an imminent threat of harm to yourself. We simply can't allow that. Fortunately, you've chosen the wiser of your two options, to self-commit, so we don't need to get others involved. Nurse Francine will draw up the necessary paperwork for you to sign. Until then, just relax a bit. Here, you can watch some television while you wait."

He turned on the set to some mindless drivel -- Jerry Springer, I think. I scowled, sickened by his choice of "entertainment".

"I'm sorry. The set's broken, and that's the only channel that comes in clearly."

I made a motion as if I was gagging, and he quickly shut the damn thing off. Not too quickly for my tastes, unfortunately. If I wasn't already f*cking insane, ten minutes of that crap would have surely done the trick...

"I'll leave you be, then," he said, mechanically, as he left. In his place, though, came in a somewhat beautiful Haitian (Jamaican, perhaps?) nurse.

"I be Mafala, mon. I be watchin' you now. Sees you no harm nothin'. You be good, and I tell you 'bout the islands."

I simply ADORED her accent. Besides, she was MUCH BETTER to look at than the prick -- I mean "doctor".

"Why you be here, mon? You no looks crazy. Mafala done seen some crazy, I tell you."

"I don't know anymore," I admitted. "Really. Things just kinda went shitty..."

I saw her wince at my choice of words. "Sorry. Things went bad?" I corrected, as I saw her smile and nod quickly.

"It be OK. I be used it now. Some, though, they's dunna how talk proper to lady like mon. All foul up da moufs. You, tho. You be OK my book."

"Thanks," I whispered, giving her a weak smile. "Anyway, my wife left, taking my daughter with her. I guess things went downhill from there. This morning, I ..."

As the memories of my morning came flooding back, I found myself shaking violently. The sobs that wracked my body were unending.

"It be good, no? Sometime ... Sometime man ... He need cry. Problem get too big," she comforted.

As my crying jag subsided, I looked into her smiling, understanding eyes and whispered a "Thank You".

"No, mon. Is OK. You be better soon. Doc -- he really good man -- he make you better."

THAT overbearing, pompous, egocentric (and a few other things I dare not mention) PRICK? I doubt it..., I grinned.

"There. You smile now. Cry make better. Mafala knew. Cry always make things better."

This mild-mannered woman -- dare I say LADY? -- was beginning to grow on me.

"About the 'islands'?" I questioned.

"Aah. Mafala, she be from Trin-E-Dod. Times good there. Good food (here she patted her ample belly), good friends, good life. Until ..."

I could see the tears welling in her eyes. What could POSSIBLY make this energetic, bubbly young woman cry? I wondered.

"Mafala sorry. The bad times she remembers -- too good. Yasin Bahr. He no good, though. He try overthrow gov'ment. Six bloody days. Mafala lose whole family. February 27, 1990. Da and Brer be in da Red House, ma be at 'Trip T'. They no survive. Mafala come here March 5. Start new life." (1)

"I'm so sorry," I said, the comfortEE now becoming the comfortER.

"You good man. You no change, 'K?"

I handed her the tissue box. She dried her eyes and blew her nose.

"Life...," she stated, "She be bad us both. But Mafala -- she no give up. Fight on. Make world better place. You -- why you no do same?"

Her words stung me to the core. Accent, broken English, and all, her message of wisdom to me was clear: "Why can't you do the same? Make the world BETTER. Don't be happy simply existing, aimlessly plodding through. Do something to IMPROVE the world around you. Become a PARTICIPANT, not a SPECTATOR. A CATALYST, not a VICTIM."

She had, unknowingly, given me quite a bit to think about, and done it quite succinctly, too.

As she finished, the nurse walked in with my paperwork.

"You can go now, Mafala. He's almost ready to transfer to Bull Street, so he no longer needs a guardian. I'll wait here until he's properly transferred. It shouldn't take too much longer."

With that, Mafala gave me a quick, warm smile and left. I guess it actually IS possible for a woman -- no a LADY -- I quickly corrected myself -- to like me without having an 'AGENDA'.


The nurse quickly revived me from my thoughts. I looked over the paperwork -- standard boilerplate -- then hesitated. With the stroke of this pen, I'm sealing my fate, forever exposing myself to stigmatization, ostracization, and stereotyping.

What the hell? I thought. Nobody's ever treated me like a "REAL" person anyway. I'm just removing all doubt now...



(1) On Friday, February 27, 1990, members of the Muslim militant group Jamaat al Muslimeen attempted a coup of the government of Trinidad, supposedly as retaliation for a police raid of their compound in 1988. Forty-two insurgents stormed the Red House, the seat of Parliment, taking hostages, while seventy-two more raided Trinidad and Tobago Television (TTT). Twenty-four civilians died in the coup attempt, which lasted from February 27 until March 4, 1990 . -- Wikipedia. "Jamaat al Muslimeen coup attempt." Retrieved May 8, 2017.

Da and Brer are, as you might have guessed by context, Dad and Brother. (I had a dear friend from Trinidad in college. I hope I did her accent justice, without mocking or being insulting. It was just so beautiful, like her...)

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