By Samantha Jay

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Authors Note:
Maddy Bell submitted a story for the Christmas contest called “So This is Christmas” and it reminded me that I had written this story with that title and I got to thinking that I should write a follow up. Real life has meant that I don’t have a lot of time to write now, but I found the time to get that story finished. It's titled "...And a Happy New Year."

Thanks Maddy for your story. It gave me the push to get that short story done. ~Samantha
 
 
Christmas was approaching and I was at a loss what to do. For the first time since I can remember, I was spending Christmas alone. For the first time since I can remember, I had nowhere to go. It was going to be a long and lonely Christmas. So, how did I get into this situation? It’s because I am a freak, a pervert; at least that what people keep telling me.

“You pervert, you’re no son of mine.”

“To think I married you, you disgust me.”

“Sorry, but you’re not welcome here.”

You’d think I was a rapist or a paedophile instead of a transvestite. Overnight I’d gone from a happily married thirty-year-old architect with a great future to an unwanted nobody with no future; a down and definitely out. The guys on the building site where they were putting together what I had helped to design told me, in no uncertain terms, what they thought of me and what they would do if I came back.

My parents disowned me; my wife threw me out with only the clothes I was wearing, which were male, by the way. The company told me that they would, reluctantly, have to let me go. Reluctantly! Who for? Every door was slammed shut in my face and so here I am. In a back street B and B paid for by Social Security.

From a five bedroom, detached house in a very nice part of town to a one-room hovel in a seedy part of a different town. To call it a room is being generous; it’s really a broom cupboard. I have two external walls, both running with water. The dampness stifles the room and leaves everything wet, including the bed. The owner of the B and B crams as many ‘guests’ in as he can. I have to vacate the room during the day, as if I’d stay there any longer than I have to.

As it’s Monday, I visit the jobcentre. A pointless exercise, but if I don’t go there every week my support cheque gets stopped and I would have to leave the ‘comfort’ of my room. Comfort, ha! As usual, I am told that they have nothing for me. I am told in such a way as to leave me in no doubt that there would never be anything for me.

So I wander the streets and dream. I no longer hope, that has long gone; along with respect, dignity, self esteem and pride. I search the litterbins for scraps, I raid dustbins for anything I can eat and I do mean anything.

It’s bad enough normally, but it’s hell at this time of year. You are constantly reminded of what you are missing out on. Christmas, it is said, is a time for giving; it is actually a time of realisation - a realisation of what you are missing, what you have lost and where you are heading. And I missed everyone, had lost everything and was heading nowhere.

Do you know what it is like to talk to no one day in, day out? It’s a nightmare, after a few days you start talking to yourself. Eventually you start going quietly mad, if you let it. To make matters worse, as soon as you become homeless, you become invisible. So no one talks to you and no one looks at you. You cease to exist. Christmas just makes it worse.

But there is one good thing about Christmas. There are usually shelters set up for a few days where you can stay and get a good meal. I usually stick to soup; it’s all I can manage these days. I sought one such shelter out and attempted to ‘book’ a place.

“We’re not open until Christmas day, but I’ll put your name on the list,” a volunteer said.

“Thanks,” I said.

“See you Christmas Day then,” he replied as I left.

Well, at least I would be warm for a couple of days. I might even get a bath and a change of clothes.
 

*          *          *
 
Christmas Eve was one of the worst I can remember. The room seemed smaller than usual as well as damper. I was certainly more depressed. It is at this time of year that I missed my family most. I don’t usually let it get to me, but… Even in this shithole I can hear people enjoying themselves. It just reinforces my sense of loss. I cry myself to sleep.

At daybreak my mind is made up. Without pausing for breakfast (breakfast, who’s kidding who?) I leave my room and head for the nearby railway line. There is a footpath across the tracks here. I wait for a train to approach and calmly walk out in the middle of the line. I stop and turn my back on the oncoming train. All I can hear is the sound of its horn and the squeal of its brakes. The horn gets louder and louder as the train gets nearer. I know that I haven’t given the driver time to stop, so I wait for the bump; the bump that will release me from this hell of an existence.

“Peter, are you alright? I heard you scream and found you shivering,” a beautiful voice asks.

I was alive, worse luck. It must have been a dream. I look at the face peering down at me and I start to remember. I’m in the shelter, so this must be a volunteer. She looks concerned.

“I’m okay, really. Thanks for asking,” I reply with no real enthusiasm.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

“About what?” I reply.

“About the dream?” she replied.

“You’re not really interested,” I said.

“Have it your way, but I’m not being nice. I want to know why you cried out.”

“I didn’t cry out, did I?”

“Let’s go to the kitchen and get a drink. We won’t disturb the others either,” she said, so I followed her.

“Where do you want me to begin?” I asked after she had poured me a drink.

“The beginning is as good a place as any,” she replied.

“About a year ago, I was, what you could call, a successful man. I’m an architect, was I mean; do you know the Highmeads building in Sheffield?” she shook her head, “That was one of mine. Anyway, life was good, I had a good job, a wife and parents.”

“So what happened?” she asked.

“I lost it all,” I replied.

“Why? How?”

“You don’t want to know,” I said, dejectedly.

“I do, I wouldn’t have asked otherwise,” she countered.

“But you will hate me, everyone who knows does, even my parents,” I sobbed.

She waited until I had calmed down and said, “Peter, I am here for the rest of the night and tomorrow night. If it’s as bad as you think then I only have to put up with it for that long. Anyway, you’ll be asleep for most of it, so why not tell me and let me be the judge of whether to hate you or not?”

I took another sip of my drink and thought about what she had said. She must have seen the effects of the battle taking place in my brain on my face as she continued, “Look, I won’t breathe a word to another soul.”

I decided to take a chance and said, “I’m a transvestite.”

“Is that all,” she said to my astonishment, “I thought it was something terrible.”

“I used to have friends who thought armed robbers were better than me and you just shrug it off as if it was nothing,” I said incredulously.

“It is nothing,” she said.

“That nothing cost me my family, my job and my life.”

“Not your life, at least not yet,” she said.

“Because of that nothing, I have spent the last year living in hovels so bad even the cockroaches left, the bed in my current hellhole is constantly damp, I have mould growing on mould. I have no pride and no hope.”

“So what made you cry out tonight?” she asked.

“I dreamt I was committing suicide.”

“And do you?” she asked.

“Do what?”

“Want to commit suicide?”

“I am beginning to believe that it is the only way out of this mess,” I answered.

“Even when life gets as bad as you believe it to be, it is much, much better than death,” she said quietly.

“And you would know,” I said sarcastically.

“Yes I do,” she answered, tears welling up in her eyes.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s okay. You were candid with me, so I suppose I should be candid with you.”

She refilled her cup and began, “My name is Angel, yes I know, but it really is Angel. This time last year I was a drug addict, I also lived in hovels and I used to steal to fund my habit. Life was really bad, so bad that I had decided to end it all. I was in a shelter, just like this one, and was looking for a corner where I could kill myself when I was stopped by one of the volunteers there. He took me to a hospital and made sure that I came off drugs. He found me somewhere to live and got me a job, in short, he put me back on my feet.”

“Why did he do that?” I asked.

“I asked him just that and he told me that he had been helped and that he had pledged to help at least one person. In return for his help, he made me promise do the same,” she answered.

“And have you?”

“No, not yet, but I am hoping that it will be you,” Angel answered.

“But why me?”

“Because you deserve to be helped and because I like you.”

“But you don’t know me, we’ve never met before tonight,” I said.

“I still like you, now will you allow me to repay my debt?”

I sighed, looked her in the eyes and said, “Yes.”

“And will you promise to help at least one person who is in great need?”

“I promise,” I answered.

“Then let’s go home,” she said and added with a twinkle in her eye, “and besides, I want to see you dressed.”

I just broke down and cried.
 

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