Paralyzed
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

She turns off the television. Bitch.

“Your daughter and her fiance are here to see you, Mr Rixon.”

God, no. And why does she have to talk to me like this, that Nurse Kelly. She even says the words “Mr Rixon” as if I am a small child, not a full grown man lying inert and useless on this bed.

And now I must go through it all again. My nightmare. The loss of my son.

“Hello Daddy, how are we feeling today?”

There “she” is. Big green eyes surrounded by darkened lashes, bouncy long blond curls, painted lips, the short dress showing off the buxom body … there is the creature that used to be my son. Kissing me on the forehead. I can smell the perfume and see right down the cleavage between my son’s large breasts.

I want to scream. But only a gurgle appears.

“I’m sorry that we haven’t come to see you for a few weeks, but I have only just recovered from that little procedure I told you about.” She wiped the dribble of my attempted scream from the corner of my mouth. “It was more substantial than I thought, but everything is good now. Mark and I can now be married.”

There he is. Coming into view to take her hand. The author of my pain. Mark Jermyn. Dr Mark Jermyn. Neuro-chemical engineer was how he described himself. Monster is a better description.

“If only you could get well and take me down the aisle.” The woman who was my son had a tear in her eye. I felt a sudden sadness and I detected a tear in my eye as well. Perhaps because I could not doubt “her” feelings towards me. My son had never respected me, but now this person both respected me and loved me, even though I was hard to love. It was the one improvement in my life – being loved.

But against that I had lost all hope for the future of my family and my company. My only child, the son who would carry my name and could have taken over my company was now no more. I knew that already because in her excitement “she” could not spare me the details. He had already surrendered his testicles months ago, and “that little procedure” was the final operation. The operation that had been planned by Jermyn. It was he who had engineered the brainwashing of my son, the end of my line and my current fate, paralyzed and unable to move or communicate.

“She” spotted the tear and shed a few more: “Oh Daddy, I know you can hear and understand. I know you want to be there for me.” Then she turned to him and said: “Mark. Do you think that the hospital could release him for the ceremony? Maybe we could put him in a chair or something? Do you think we could? It would mean so much to me, Darling.”

“Why don’t you find Doctor Phelps and ask him?” The monster speaks. “I can have a chat to your father while you do.”

This is what I hate the most. Being alone with him. If only he would just kill me, but he has the opposite intention. Death will have no pain compared to living like this.

“Heeello Daddy.” His whispered greeting is a threat. A threat of more torture to follows: “Surgery all done. Because your son had such a large schlong there was plenty of material to work with. They were able to make the prettiest little vagina. Made just for me.”

Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. I can move nothing. I just need a little strength. Just enough to loop the plastic feeding line around his neck and throttle him. But I can’t even move a finger.

“We got the all clear for sex on Tuesday afternoon. Guess how much sex we had had since then. Go on. Guess. I will count the blinks. No? Not blinking? Well I will tell you: 14. I have fucked your son 14 times in about 4 days. She can’t get enough of me. She is full of my seed and just wants more.”

Another tear now. Frustration. Anger. No – rage. Rage without expression. Shit, shit, shit.

“We have not done anal since then. Just as well. It was getting a little messy with her needing a butt plug to keep her little back pussy closed. The front pussy is so much cleaner. Pink and moist. To be honest I like the missionary position. She is just so pretty, especially when she is orgasming. Those blonde curls shaking about. Pretty little squeaks now. No male grunts escaping since the voice box work.”

He is checking my chart. You know what my situation is, you prick. Paralysed. By you. Somehow.

“No blow jobs since the op” he continues. “I am sure I can still count on those. She has an idea that my cum tastes like strawberries. Now I wonder where that idea came from?”

From you, fuck you. You and your damned drug XRS455. Experimental Receptiveness to Suggestion version 455. The drug that I tried to steal from you, just like I stole the other ones. If this is your justice then it is way out of proportion. My wrong of you could never deserve the wrong that you have done me.

“No, I like fucking my wife to be. She is so pretty, I just love looking at her face when I bring her to climax. Oh yes, Daddy. She orgasms at least twice every time. She is a sex machine. She squeals like a piglet.”

I can gurgle. I can gurgle and dribble. Make him clean up the mess.

“Oh. Look at the monitor. Blood pressure going up a little. But you’ll never be able to set the alarm off. You are just so relaxed. But I’ll tell you something to cheer you up. Something that might surprise you. So just relax a little.”

Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.

“Well, as you know, that this started by being between you and me. You son was just collateral damage in the war between us, as it were. But I have a confession to make. I am going to stop teasing you, because the unthinkable has happened. I have fallen in love. I did not think it would happen, but I have fallen in love with your daughter.”

I do not want to hear this. It makes it worse that he appears to be speaking the truth.

“Dad,” he says, but this time it does not sound facetious. “I need to explain.” He sits where he can look at my eyes, the only means of communication that I have. I can move them right and left, or roll them up to disapprove. But I need to be careful not to blink too much. If I do that my eyes freeze open until somebody closes them. I worked out he has done this to prevent communication. The man is devilishly clever.

He begins: “I had always timed the end of her dosage for after the surgery. I thought that after a week or so there would be a realisation and an emotional showdown. She would look at her body and say: ‘What happened to me’, but by then it would be too late. But as the day of snapping her out of this grew closer I found that I dreaded it. I didn’t want to lose her.”

He is looking at me intently. He is speaking the truth. He is not deliberately tormenting me. It is only the fact that he is alive, and I am like this, that is my torment at this moment.

“So, when the drugs wore off and she was back from the hospital she was still the same. I was caring for her and she was loving me. She told me that she was truly happy for the first time in her life. I removed the suggestion. I really did. I used the release words and she just looked at me oddly. But she did not care about what she had become. In fact, the opposite. She told me that she loved me. Honestly, that thought is not my doing. Not anymore. She really loves me. Dad, I want to call you that, and I want to tell you that she is happy.”

Release me. If you can release her, then you can release me. Remove whatever is chaining me to this bed. You can have it all. Just set me free. But you cannot hear me make this offer. You have denied me the power to speak so you cannot hear me if I apologize for my wrongdoing and promise you everything that you want. I might even consider keeping such a promise, if you free me.

“And I’m happy too. I love her. You know, she asked me to help her with dilation. I am not sure if you know what that is. The artificial vagina needs to be stretched with a dildo-type thing. She winced at first, and I did to. It was as if I was feeling her pain. I think that is what love is. I feel what she feels.”

If you could feel a knife in my hand deep in your guts, then I would feel happy. The thought of you reaming out the place where my son’s genitals once lay, is disgusting.

“I said to her: ‘if I have persuaded you to go down this path and you hate me for it, I need to know’. And she didn’t say a word. She just kissed me. It was the sweetest kiss I have ever had. Better than the first kiss from the first girl. And when it broke, that kiss, I looked into her pretty face and I knew that she loved me, and that I loved her. This may all sound stupidly romantic, but it is real.”

His hand is on my limp and useless arm.

“Please give her a chance. She loves you too. More than your son ever did. She will be a better daughter to you that he ever could be a son. And I will be your son in law. I will love her and provide for her, and we are planning children with a surrogate. With eggs from your family. You can be a grandfather.”

It is true that, except for her recent period of convalescence, she came to see me weekly, even more often than that, this new ‘daughter’ of mine. My son might have come once. He would have seen that I was useless to him and he never would have come back. That much is true.

“Honestly, she is the nicest person that I have ever known. And I now know it is not my doing. Maybe it was always there, but this is who she is. She is kind and gentle, and so feminine. I like that. But she is also clever and spirited, and I like that too. Give her a chance. Can you do that?”

So, he is saying to me that my son is now free of suggestion effected by this drug, and she still wants to be a woman and his wife. Could it be true? Now here she is. Back in the room, smiling at me that pretty girlish smile.

He speaks to her: “Sweetheart, I was just saying to Dad about how we have talked things through about the sex change, and I think he needs to hear it from you.”

“Oh Daddy,” she is about to gush. “You have to believe that I am so happy to be a woman. I am not sure where it came from, but I know that I have made the right choice. The right choices, in fact. I am a woman and I am marrying the right man.”

My son’s female arms are around him. They are now standing and kissing passionately. Her hand in his hair, with the engagement ring glistening.

She breaks away tenderly, lingering close to him for a moment, and then she says to me: “Daddy, we can take you to the wedding in a wheelchair. You can be there to share the day with us. It will be great. Mark’s mother has agreed to escort you.”

I can see her excitement. She really is very pretty. This is no longer my son, so I need to accept the pronoun. She. As she bends over to kiss me on the forehead again before leaving, a perfumed curl of her blonde hair brushes my face. He loving eyes look at me.

I just wish that I could smile at her. But I am paralyzed.

The End

© Maryanne Peters 2018