I wrote this story probably in 2000 and published it in 2001 on Storysite. At the time, I don't think I had any idea where life would take me; certainly not to transition. It is true, and short. This really did happen to me.

Swan Song by: Credence Browne (Now Gwen Brown)

I stood on the seat of the couch, looking out the window, wanting to go outside. Pointing outside, I began talking in my little child's voice. "I want to go mom." I said.

Mom said, "You'll get all dirty, dear, and spoil your nice dress." I looked down at my clothing. I was wearing a yellow dress today. She'd just removed the curlers from my blonde baby hair. I was at first unhappy and fussed. She sat me on her lap and hugged me tightly. "Dear, I love you so much. You are such a pretty little girl.

I enjoyed the attention and the love. It was pleasant to listen to mom and another woman talk about things. I'd always enjoy listening to my mother and her friends or my sister and her friends talk. It made me feel as if I belonged.

The boys were not nice to me. I was too little, a girl.

I loved the feel of my pretty long hair. Its silken sheen brushed against my face in a sensual way that made me feel special.

I got to play outside with them once in a while but I hated getting dirty, and mom didn't like it either. My dress always got in the way at first, but as I grew I became more able to manage it.

One day I came into the living room. My mother was upset. She was arguing with a man, a stranger who'd come into our house a few days back.

"Lucille, he is not a girl. He needs a good whipping and a hair cut," he said. Things really seemed to break apart when I came into the room. Suddenly, he turned on me.

Mom seemed to be about to cry. "Oh Cliff, she's such a pretty little girl," She sobbed.

His countenance was frightening. Confused, I just stood there, I hadn't learned to fear him yet, hadn't felt his anger or the violence of his belt hitting me.

Suddenly he grabbed me by the arm and hoisted me into a chair atop a pile of catalogs and phone books.

Anyone remember how hard it was to sit on a pile of books?

Out came an odd looking tool; he began to pull my hair with it. I had no idea that they were hand held clippers. I'd never seen any before. I couldn't remember my older brothers having their hair pulled. Theirs was too short. I had no idea that soon mine would be much shorter.

It was frightening to listen to his angry voice, the sobs of my mother and have my hair pulled. Soon, the shorn locks began to fall in my face, on my shoulders and onto the floor. The pulling hurt awfully. I began to cry. This made him even angrier.

"God damn you little shit. Shut up or I'll give you a real reason to cry," he said. That was even more frightening. I cried even more.

I still remember the swish and snap of his belt as it came out of his pants. He held me up by one arm and began to beat me on the seat. My mother's sobs were even more upsetting and I had no idea how to calm her.

I finished that afternoon lying on the bed, bereft of my beautiful hair and very frightened of this new man in my life. I'd learn to hate and fear him. I'd never want to be like him. I'd be afraid I was like him or worse even his bastard son.

Through the years I've always remembered those lovely days when I was a girl, my mother loved me and I was happy. I still remember the lovely yellow dress and my long hair.

Several other times as I grew up, I attempted to return to those pleasant days, only to receive taunting admonitions to stop being a sissy. They had no idea that is exactly what I wanted to be. I was always too frightened to live my own life.

Over the years not a day has passed that I did not wish I were a woman. Too many responsibilities, too many cares, too many to care for. Those in my life care for me only in ways, which seem right to them, not me.

It is nearly over now, too late to change anything. Perhaps if there is a God, I shall get another life where I can be what I was born to be. If not, I hope there is no other life. I'd simply like to lie down and have silence with no more pain.

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 © 2001 by Credence Browne. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.