The Letter

It was getting dark outside, when the key slipped hesitantly into the lock. A few seconds nothing happened. Then the door opened slowly. A tired looking man walked in. No, he dragged himself in. Although maybe in his forties, he dragged himself in as if he was in his late seventies. Close to the end of his power, he scuffed his feet over to the kitchen table. There he broke down in the chair closest to the door.

After a while his shaking hand went up to his black tie. The stiff fingers hooked into the knot and loosened it painfully slow. First a tiny bit, then half way down to his chest. Then his hand fell down powerless onto his black-clad lap. It slipped further down and his arm slid over the side of his black jacket. The slight swishing sound of the clothes droned like a starting jumbo jet in the ear-numbing silence of the house.

He didn't register any of this. His almost lifeless eyes starred straight ahead without any emotion or tears left. They were red and they had been for days now. Had they focused on anything at all, it might have been miles and miles beyond his kitchen's wall.

Maybe it was a drop of water hitting the sink, which rang through the house like a boom of a kettledrum. Maybe it was the coil of a spring, expanding a fraction inside the wall-mounted clock, scratching like an earth slide? Whatsoever, suddenly the man's ears pricked up. He listened attentively into the house - a quantum of a spark of hope glistening in his eyes and dying even faster than a single photon passing through it.

His head, which had turned a bit to listen, sunk back down and towards his chest. Now his eyes met the letter in front of him as if for the first time, despite they had seen it, what must have felt the thousandth if not millionth time. Although he knew every word as if carved into his mind, he had read it again and again. He had stopped reading, just to begin to read and reread again. Stopped and started. Finished and not. Again and again and again. The paper was worn and torn. It had been crumpled and flattened, held tenderly and full of rage. It had been in danger of being torn to pieces or being burnt to ashes countless times, but was saved from that fate by being the last connection and his only hope to ever comprehend.

His eyes rushing back and forth through the text, which they already knew and which he knew by heart. A text burnt deep into his soul and each single character still burning with the might of hundred hell's fires deeper and deeper into his inner-most being:

____________

Dear Dad, My beloved Dad, My Daddy,
 
I am so sorry! I am more sorry, than I can possibly ever say or write. Please don't be mad at me! It is not your fault! It's mine and mine alone! You didn't do anything wrong! It was me or maybe it was the world, we living in. I don't know. But I know with all my heart: it wasn't you!
 
Sorry, I should probably stop with all those exclamation marks, but I wanted to make sure, you believe me. I don't blame you. So please don't blame yourself.
 
When you read all this gibberish, I am most likely dead. Hopefully, I am dead. Because I can't go on any longer with all those lies. I can't live any longer with those lies. I can't live those lies. I am a lie. I am a fabrication. I am not real and never was and I am at the end of my powers.
 
Please look at it that way. I didn't die. I didn't kill myself. I never existed in the first! There was no 'me'. At least, not in the way you saw 'me', not the way, I wanted to be 'me' for you and not the way, I hoped I could be for you. But as hard as I tried, I couldn't - not in the long way, not anymore, not any longer. I am sorry, I really tried to be your son. The son you could be proud of at all times. But deep in my heart, I always knew, I failed and could never truly be. Because, deep, deep down, and if I am true to you and myself, in every cell of my being, I am and have always been your daughter. In everything but utter appearance.
 
Yes, as long as I can think, I felt as if I should have been born a girl. That I am a girl and that I am a prisoner in my own body. Although a great body for a guy - tall, muscular, good-looking. I would have loved to see it on any guy I met - but it has never been anything other than an ugly hull, torturing prison walls, a cruel joke of nature to me.
 
When I was small, I didn't understand it, when other girls were running around in their beautiful, frilly and colourful dresses, blouses and skirts and I couldn't ... wasn't allowed. They were allowed to wear ribbons and beautiful things in their long bouncing hair. All I had was short hair, no ribbons and no clips and no combs and no scrunchies. I had only those dumb, stupid boy clothes. At that time, I thought the other girls detested me for my clothes and didn't want to play with me because I didn't own clothes as nice as theirs. I never understood, their 'ewww's were because they thought me a boy and not because of my clothes.
 
But then boys were always 'eeeeewww' to me, too. (Never you! You were the only 'boy' then, which were not! You, Daddy, you have always been my hero!!! XO XO <3 )
 
I guess ... I hope, you never noticed, you never knew, but I have always been a loner in school. Since I kept my distance to the boys and the girls kept theirs to me. They boys probably saw me as strange, as not one of them and therefore rejected me. I pretended, everything was fine. And I guess, I got really good at it and you never found out. I put up a wall, an illusion, an image of my perfect little world. To prevent you from finding out. To save myself from hurt and embarrassment, from facing my short-comings, from facing you.
 
Luckily, I was into sports. I was as strong as them and could stand my ground. I could have hurt them badly. I could take them down. At least, they most likely thought so. Therefore they left me alone and didn't bully me like those other 'losers' and 'loners' like me, the ones different to them. Fortunately, they never tested me. Only one guy ever got me so in rage, I wrestled him to ground and turned his arms across back until he cried for his mummy. He was four grades above me. Maybe this gave me a 'don't-mess-with-me' image and prevented any further thought, me being an easy target. They didn't know, I cried myself to sleep the next few nights. That I detested myself for being such a brute - such a BOY. Probably not only in body, but maybe in mind, too??? I swore to never lose control like that ever again and became even more reclusive.
 
Unluckily, I was into sports. When I was little, you spent so much time with me running, playing ball, jousting, swimming, diving, skiing ... And I loved every minute of it. You were my hero and my role model, the only male, I was really close with. I wanted to make you proud. I wanted to stay as close as I was with you then. Above all, I loved sports. So in the end, I became as strong as you and grew up to be a man like you. Tall, wide-shouldered, slim waisted, with strong, muscular arms and legs, angular chin, wide neck, with strong, wide hands. I guess, I inherited your good genes. Only, they didn't do me any good for I so longed to become ... to be a woman.
 
Sometimes we went shopping together and I was looking at some girls. You would wink at me, playfully slap me on the back or nudge my arm. You would smile and whisper, whether I was looking for 'the' special girl and ask, if I had found it already. Or if I knew one of those girls from school and if I would rather go over and ask them to go on a date with you, instead of hanging around with your old boring dad. Of course, I was never after them and you were never old or boring to me! You have always been my Daddy, my hero.
 
On the other hand, this made it even more impossible for me to tell you, I was looking at the girls not because I wanted to be with them, but because I wanted to be them or at least more like them. That I longed for being a girl and that I envied them for what they were. I was sure, confessing it, would drive a stalk through your heart or that it would drive us apart, if nothing else. But I could never take the risk to tell you, since we only had each other. I couldn’t allow myself to be so selfish and thus risk hurting you. You didn't do anything wrong. It was me and my stupid body and my stupid mind and... oh I don't know ... I ...
 
Instead, I kept smiling. Sometimes I would even point at a girl - probably the one I envied the most - and then pretend to be secretly in love with her (which somehow was true, but for so completely different reasons) and then I would sometimes add something like that she had already a boyfriend, probably one much older or richer or a real jock or something like that. Sometimes I would avoid your 'motivational' speech. But more often than not, I got them anyway. But then, I didn't really loath them either. For whatever little they helped with my real problem, they undoubtedly proved to me, we were still close and you really cared for me. You were as much my buddy as my dad.
'Hey, you don't look so bad yourself', 'Every girl should be glad to have you' or 'You will see sooner or later the girls will wake up and notice what a great guy you are.'
Sometimes accompanied by a 'You just have to come out of your shell and start talking to them. You know, they don't bite. Even I got lucky and got your mum - the best girl in the whole wide world!'
 
How could you have known, that every single one of those sentences hurt, hurt me so much more than I could ever let surface or describe. But I could never let you know. I could
never let you see my hurt. As I was sure, it would hurt you so much more. Instead, I would make a joke, punch you back laughingly or just vanish in the next store, because of some cool sneakers, a tough jacket or a must-have video game. Whatever was closest and could cover my change of topic best and fastest.
 
I so wish, I had known mum. You seem to put her on a pedestal. Glorified her like an angel. Maybe she really was that lovingly and cool and beautiful girl and I wish, she was. Maybe I think of her as such a shining light, too, and place her on a pedestal of my own. I maybe idolize them even more then you. It’s easy to paint only the positive and best characteristics on someone you never got to know, but only dreamed of. Maybe therefore I wished, I could be like her, too.
Did you describe her like this for my sake? For yours? Was it just your rose-tinted view of her after all those years? Or was she really that wonderful? I really hope so. Although in the end, it piled up my problems some more, when it comes down to me wondering what she would have said about me being a girl.
 
Would she have seen ME? I mean, the real ME. And even if not, could/would I have come out to her? I like to think, I would have dared then. Because in the worst case, even if both of you detested me for being me, you would still have had each other. I could have run off, vanished from your lives. Sad maybe, but somehow happy in knowing, you wouldn't need me. But since it were just the two of us, I didn't dare risk you detesting me. I could never have run off and left you alone. But then, I guess, I did now, right? Oh, sorry, but it all becomes too much now and I can/could not postpone it any longer.
 
Anyway, I always wondered, if I had the balls to confess to her (pun intended - sorry), would she have accepted me and then dressed me up, maybe played mummy and daughter, beauty saloon, tea party with the queen or something like that with 'ME'? Could we have gone shopping with me as her daughter? She buying me my first bra or my first make-up, a prom dress or high-heels? Would we have spent weeks you were on business trips as girls? Or would she have paved the way to introduce 'me' to you? So you may have accepted 'me'. (Okay, maybe you would even have accepted me without her, but as I said I could never risk to try you.)
Many nights I dreamed, we might have moved to another town and I would have started on hormones and school as your daughter. Eventually, I would have had the operation and you both would have been so happy and proud and I would find me a husband as great as my daddy and we would give you two grandchildren - two granddaughters to spoil...
 
There my dream always shattered. No daughters for me and no granddaughters for you! Yes, I know, you always wanted a granddaughter. I saw your looks, when girls my age passed by with a beautiful baby-girl in a stroller. Or when those girls sat at a table in the restaurant tending to such a baby-girl. I am absolutely sure, you weren't looking at the teenage girls like some perverted old man. Therefore it had to be the baby-girls, right? Often you would try to cover your watching by saying something like I should take my time or that I am not old enough for kids of my own. I would surely settle down soon enough, when the right girl comes along and we would give you the best grand-kids a man could want. But I should take my time!
 
Sometimes, you would give me tips like I should respect the girl and not force me and my wishes onto her. A marriage should be a partnership. A partnership should be of equals in rights and minds. Yeah, I heard all that and I took it to my heart. But I always wished, I was the girl in the partnership and the boy would be someone as great as my daddy.
 
But I couldn't be a girl or become one. Not with that body of mine. Sure I read about the wonders of medicine today. Skilful surgeons, complex pharma, established training and rehab. All those laws about diversity and equal rights and even the change in society... But with the way I look today? No, without a fairy godmother - no girl body for me. I could maybe get close but it would never be close enough for my longings. I would always want more and better and closer and ... just to be a real girl.
 
If there haven’t been that event, I guess one day my resistance would have weakened, my depression become too much or just my longing become bigger than my logic mind could suppress. I would have probably given in and despite better judgement and knowledge, I would have begun the journey to get as close as I could in becoming a girl - what ever little bit this would have been, but all changed for ever, when I saw that woman.
 
I was walking down our little road and a red roadster was about to park on the other side just then. I don't know why I looked, but I watched her stop and exit the car. She was tall with long blonde goldilocks hair. She had a feminine, stylish, black leather jacket with a wide belt slimming down her waist, an expensive, grey pencil skirt and black mid-heeled ankle-boots. But between the skirt and the boots I saw big, round, muscular calves like those of a rugby player or heavy-weight lifter. I stopped mid-step and observed closer. She must have noticed or felt my look and turned around. I saw well-manicured hands, but as big as a butcher's. Her face was immaculate made-up, but possessed a square jawbone, heavy-set features and the oh-so obvious shadow of a late middle-aged man, with wrinkly skin, male eyes and receding hair.
 
When she saw me looking, this big, tall man brave enough to present himself - no, I guess - herself for all the world to see as a woman ... the woman, she hoped to be or at least tried to be as best as she could. That woman got a frightened, hounded look. Although, I just stood there two lanes and two car length away.
 
I was too shocked to move or to look away politely for a few seconds. Seconds, which felt like minutes to me and maybe hours to her. Fascinated and intrigued, I soaked up every little detail - the jewellery, the clothes, the figure, the style and to my utter shame the irrational fear. The tired, aged beauty. The clear male feature, which might have once been hidden by youth, tricks and a better shape, but now fought their way back to the surface.
 
Right there, every fibre of my brain seemed to cry 'this could be me - this will be me in about 20 years if I try to become a girl / a woman!'
 
Finally, my consciousness hammered some sense of decency into me and I turned and walked away without looking back. But my mind was in tumult. My thoughts went riot. If I didn't walk the way of nature, but the way of my heart and my soul, this would be what I would look like in some years. I would most-likely become as obvious and as frightened. On top, I might be alone in the world, if I would lose my Daddy over it. Further, I am not sure, I could then find someone to love if I would look similar to her then. And if I did, would I want someone, who wanted someone, who looked like I would look then? Would I think of him as a pervert and ignore it just to be with someone, anyone? Would I love someone back, who would think of me as a pervert? Or would I love someone despite thinking of him as a pervert for he didn't see me as one? Would I stick to the first man, showing me any affection, because I was too lonely or too afraid to wait any longer? Would I rather stay alone - as alone and unhappy as I am today? Would I try to find a community and if, which one? Could I live that way? What would I live from? Would I find a job? Would I live on the streets? Would I vanish one day without anyone taking notice or care? Would I...
 
Such thoughts and many more hunted me for weeks, for months now. In the end, I came to a single conclusion. I am sure, I can't go on any longer as a boy, as your son. But with the same clarity, I am sure, I could never live, being like that woman. I can't see a fraction of a chance to become the girl I long to be - not close enough anyway. Afraid of young boys on the other side of the street? Probably shunned by society or at least persecuted by still unbelievable many small-minded, red-neckish hypocrites and stooges. Too obvious not born with the female genetic blueprint attached.
 
It would simply not be enough - not sufficient in the long run. But then, still too hard to carry on with what could be gained at max. Dangling above all, the danger of hurting you, of losing you and being all alone in the world.
 
I am absolute devastated, but for all my thoughts and thinking, I don't see any other way out and I don't know how to go any further. To tell the truth, I don't even see any way at all any more. I am surrounded by infinite high walls - coming closer and closer - ready to smash me, no matter if I go on, turn around or stay. I am suffocating like a fish in Death Valley or a candle in a vacuum.
 
I am so terribly sorry, Daddy, to hurt you like this!!! I love you so much and if I only could avoid it, postpone it any further or just have faith there would be an acceptable solution in the future, I would have done everything to prevent it. But I hope, it will hurt you just briefly, instead of both of us for years. Like you rip off band aid - fast with a quick pull. I can only hope, you will understand it sooner than later and forgive me. Please, please, forgive me, daddy!
 
Dear Daddy,
I sent you all my love, I hug you with all power left in me and thank you with all my heart for all that you have ever done for me, to make me happy, to love me, to protect me, to support me!
 
In true and deep love,
your son, Terry
Your Daughter, Terri

____________

The letter lay there as if nothing had happened. As if it was a bill or a commercial flyer or a letter from a friend. It lay there oblivious to the world. A world it had shattered and burnt down. A world it had destroyed and ripped apart like hundreds of thousands of atomic bombs. Almost shattered it as much as the act it went ahead. The act, which threw the world of the man into a black hole. Reduced the world to a space tinier than a single atom, tinier than a single electron, tinier than a photon, but its significance with a mass to pull all the light, colours, love and happiness into it to never be released again.

To the man it felt as if he had been pulled back before the Big Bang, because even the time had stopped. Nothing moved. Nothing jiggled. There was no dimension left. Just this incredible huge huge huge amount of pent-up energy. Then the dawning perception, grasping the new reality, triggered all this energy to be released and like with the Big Bang the man's world expanded - exploded in a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a millionth of a millionth of a second - expanded larger than the universe and taking every atom of the life he knew with it. After that the time went on, but for him without love, colours or happiness.

Still, the letter just lay there. It didn't shout at the man. It didn't blamed him. It didn't accuse him. But accuse him, it did. Blaming him for all he was worth. Shouting louder at him than a chorus of banshees. Still, it just lay there - unmoving and moving so much.

How could he have been so blind? How could he have known? Why didn't he know? Did he know, but chose to ignore what was obvious? Was it obvious? He should have recognized it. How should he have recognized it? Had he soothed himself or had he been soothed? Did he bow to the values of society too much? Were he broken down under their weight and had the pressure go on? Where did he turn left and should have turned right or vice versa? When did he sat down instead of standing up? Holding his way instead of opening a way for others? Did he? Did he not? Why... In the end there was only WHY?

He could stand the letter and its silent accusing shouts no more. Slowly, like a giant marble statue becoming alive, he lifted ever so slowly from the chair. Swaying like a willow while standing up, it seemed taking years until he was erect. Had someone watched, he would have thought for sure, the man’s joints making grinding noises similar to ancient millstones. Then with motions as fluid as those of a stop motion animated puppet in a seventies fantasy movie the man started his trail to the stairs. His motions became slightly more fluid, but lacked that happy spring it had for decades and the power his big frame usually promised. It was obviously the walk of a broken man.

The stairs caused another significant effort to the man. He struggled, he fought, he dragged on. Even more, once he reached its upper end. He had to pass the place, where he had seen his son the last time. Not looking there and the unseeing eyes locked on the ground in front of him, he passed the spot even slower than he had entered the house. At the end of the aisle he struggled anew. This time with the fold-away stairway to the attic. He simply didn't possess enough power to lift his arm high enough to catch the eyelet with the hook. A few days ago, his friends would have seen this as him doing slapstick or at max a case of lumbago. A man, built like an ox and pressing 200 lbs for warm-up, now fighting to lift a broom-like stick overhead.

In comparison, pulling down the stairs had almost been too easy. He more or less collapsed due to the energy-sapping broom-lifting and missed the energy to let go. Panting, he sat there for what felt like hours. Finally, he managed to pull himself up again. He was on a mission and now that he had made up his mind, nothing would stop him. Not even his own lack of power and his weakened spirit. Like a twelve month old boy using furniture to pull himself up to stand for the first time on his own, he used the rungs to haul himself higher and higher. Later using his legs, too, he crawled up further, sliding on his stomach like a huge lizard inch by inch upwards. Eventually, making it through the opening into the attic, he collapsed once more.

Minutes later slightly reposed, he was finally able to stand up. Still swaying, he walked slowly over to the darkest and most distant corner. On his way, he stopped slowly at a cloth rack. He carefully lifted the covering sheet, which had collected a significant layer of dust over the years untouched. His shaking hand tenderly brushed the two garments underneath. One was the dress of the wicked witch of the west and the other one was a little child's dress. Sweet memories lifted his spirits. At the age of four, Terry wanted to go t'ick or t'eat'n as Dorothy so much, that the father had pretty soon caved in and dressed him as that little girl.

A blue dress with a blouse like the one Judy Garland wore in that movie, similar stockings and some ruby-red shoes. Terry's hair had been pretty long at that time anyway. When he became aware, his hair should receive a cut, he would always cry all day long, making riots and clinging to furniture. So his father had scarcely insisted on a trip to the salon to save nerves. Thus, parting Terry's hair in two bunches and tie them with big lacy ribbons had been easy. Without any reluctance, he had dressed himself as the witch to accompany Terry. If people wondered, why this brick of a man hadn't gone as the tin man, lion or even the wizard of Oz to accompany his daughter, no-one dared to ask. He didn’t notice any strange looks and hadn't heard one comment in this regard. People were just smiles and nodded their heads or even gave him a thumbs-up.

On the other hand, they didn’t get very far from their house, when disaster struck. Some bigger and older boys living down the street, had teased Terry mercilessly. Although, his dad had immediately tried to protect Terry it was too late. The boys had split and surrounded the two trick'n'treaters. They retreated just a few meters and after standing at a safe distance and apart started to call Terry and the Wicked Witch names, laughing nastier then. Terry was in tears in seconds, had thrown away his plastic pumpkin, turned and run back to their house. Once inside, he almost ripped off the costume and had never wanted to dress as a girl again. At least, it appeared like it to all the world. Instead, he had thrown himself at all kind of sports. He became tough and strong.

A few years later, when most had forgotten about the Halloween accident, Terry had given those boys a good trashing. All of them at once. In consequence. he got suspended for a week, but nobody dared to bully him ever again, too. The man's spirit was numbed once more by those last thoughts, but still the touch and view of the dresses lit a little light in his soul again.

Terry had always come after his father in more ways than one. Where his father was build like a trunk, he was trunk jr. and if one thought his dad was as strong as an ox, he would surely see Terry as a young bull. So much power and energy to release. Thus his father had never thought back to that day. Rather, he had suppressed any reminiscence and feeling, kept it hidden deep inside his heart and mind. Now he felt the original pain again, the helplessness and the later relief, when Terry found a vent in his sports and didn't seem to care about that Halloween any longer.

But all that came back hunting him again and this time stronger than ever. Feeling like van Helsing, as having driven a proverbial stake through his daughter's heart, burning her soul and dreams, when he felt relieved. When he failed to investigate to find out for sure, if Terry rather wanted to be a girl, felt like a girl, was a girl. He could have been supportive. He would have been supportive, if he only had known. He should have been supportive, even if he didn't know! How couldn't he have known ... felt ... recognized this? He failed big time - BIIIIIIG time. The man sat down again. Frail. Broken. Powerless.

He sat down on the old chest which contained his late wife's possessions. Mainly clothes and little things he could not give or throw away after she died. Short after their son's birth. Some doctors said, it was her liver and other thought her kidneys had stopped working. In the end, he didn't care why. For whatever reason, his loving wife and best partner, the likely to be best of all mothers had lost her fight and left him alone with their son. He had sworn to her soul, to whatever god there might be (if there was a god, cruel enough to steal him the love of his life and now his innocent son, too) and most of all to himself, he would be the best father their son could possibly have. Up to a few days ago, he was as sure as a single dad could be, he had succeeded and done all to give Terry a happy life, all the love and support he could give and Terry would ever want. Give them roots to feed body and soul, give them wings and a home to start from and come back to...

Now the veil of ignorance before his mind's eyes was lifted and the hurtful truth beaten home with destiny's biggest sledgehammer.

For the past years, he had imagined, he would look through the chest with his son one day. Telling him about the beautiful, loving, intelligent woman Terry's mother had been. But until today, it had always been too hurtful for him and now it was too late. How could he have stood the pain, when touching that stuff again, brought back so many beautiful memories of his wife and their wonderful time. Further, it would probably have caused hurt and envy in his son's heart for never having met her. Thus, even today the chest remained closed as it has been for almost twenty years now.

Instead of opening the chest, he turned to his left and reached behind the chest. He pulled a big suitcase from its 'hiding' place behind the chest. A thick layer of dust masked it former colour with a mousy grey. The first time today, he felt powerful and showed some determination. He lifted the big suitcase one-handed above the chest and his leg, before placing it in front of him. Then he stood up and carried the suitcase back to the opening. He snatched a rope, tied it to the suitcase and lowered that to the floor below. Climbing down himself, he followed immediately. Had someone seen him just now, he would have found nothing out of the ordinary. Of course, despite the dust-covered face with the reddened eyes and the trails his tears had dug through the dust layers on his cheeks like a miniature version of the Grand Canyon.

The man pulled the suitcase trailing behind him into the master bathroom. He laid it on top the toilet seat and opened it with its lid coming to a rest on the bidet. He took a deep breath, steeled himself and unzipped the left side. When he removed the inner separator, his eyes browsed the content lovingly and ashamed at the same time. There was a mixed array of woman's clothes. No specific style - if you don't count old-fashioned a style. They were a bit more colourful than one would expect today, but apart from this there was hardly anything matching. There were panties and bras in different styles and colours. There were some pairs of pantyhose, some of them even sported tears, runs, holes and ladders. The blouses and skirts could hardly be combined as a tasteful ensemble. Only on top, there was a dress - a royal-blue dress - carefully put away and catching the observer's eye.

With shaking hands, but nevertheless as careful as if the dress was made out of a single spider's thread, the man lifted the dress from its long-time resting place. He arranged it tenderly on a hanger and hung it at the bathroom's door. Gently caressing the cloth, lingering in long-forgotten feelings and recalling times long gone by.

After some minutes, he turned back to the suitcase and dug deeper. Finally, his fingers brushed two boxes he had been looking for. One contained a - for once - matching bra and panty set. A simple white and with sparse lace, but still of classic beauty. The other smaller and transparent box proudly announced its content as the softest and most erotic stay-up stockings, just 'the' stockings for a special evening with a special man. Regardless of all the stress and grief of the day, this brought a brief giggle and a flash of a smile rippled his lips due to its ambiguous meaning. Only to be replaced immediately by a deep pain in his heart.

Hastily, he focussed his attention to the other side of the suitcase. There he found a small overnight bag, a card box and a linen bag. He placed the overnight bag next to the mirror, before he opened the linen bag. From it he pulled out two royal-blue pumps with 4 inch heels. After caressing the soft leather, he set them down underneath the hung-up dress. If one looked closer, they weren’t really the same colour as the dress, but close enough to match beautifully, nevertheless. The soles were a bit worn, although they had never seen anything but wooden floors and carpets. And despite them obviously being a few years old already, they were still in pretty good shape.

With a heavy sigh, he went back to the mirror again. He observed the face it contained closely. It was nothing he identified himself with. Hollow, bloodshot, tear-strained eyes. After washing off the layers of dust, he found pale skin, smooth and clean shaven with a hint of a 5 o'clock shadow. On a closer look the cheeks seemed as hollow and the skin overall as wrinkled as the skin around his eyes - haggard was the word. The nose red from cleaning away tears too often today. Although not that old yet, his sparse hair was slowly turning grey or white - accelerated by the lost in the last weeks. Cumulating all of this, the face was merely a shadow of the man he had seen in this very mirror for the last odd twenty years and now even less the face he hoped to find reflected back there.

With still shaking hands, but renewed termination, he took his shaving kit and started slowly, but carefully, to get rid of the hairs in his face. When satisfied, he took a neutral moisturising cream instead of the after-shave, he usually applied. While he waited for the cream to be aspirated fully, he looked again in the mirror. A bit of colour had found its way back into his face. But more from skin-irritation and cool water than from feeling better.

Once the skin had dried enough, he opened the over-night bag and picked up a tube of foundation. Not really his colour before, it matched his skin-tone even less now. Still it helped to cover the grey tone and all blemishes and imperfections quite a bit. Next, he rummaged through the bag again until he found a half-used palette of eye-makeup. Since he had found it at a bus stop years ago, it was not his recommended colour, too, but at least the bluish tones would match the dress. Hesitatingly, he applied the eye-shadow with unskilled hands. Short before having to clean everything off and start all over again, he finally managed to gain the look he wanted.

A bit more relaxed now, he took on the next challenge. Mascara and eye-liner. Relatively sure, he would manage the mascara, but not so sure about the eye-line, he started with the later one first. Stabilizing his shaking right hand with the left placed against his cheek, he soon finished a perfect line. At least for his longing mind. Collecting all his courage and mental power, he took on the other eye. Not as good as his first one, but sufficient symmetrical and still well enough. He released the breath he had hold in unconsciously and breathing a few times in and out to regain his confidence and power. As expected, the mascara proved easier than all the other eye-makeup before. Years ago, mascara was the only makeup he had dared to use, thus he had the most experience there and it slowly came back to him.

Watching his head turn slowly side to side in the mirror, he began to see a tiny bit of the image he had longed for all his life. Analysing his features, he looked for imperfections and spots he was already satisfied with. Especially his lips emerged as his biggest shortcomings compared to his self-image. Missing a pencil to outline his lips professionally, he used a dark red felt-tip pen instead. It was risky, since every error would be almost incorrectable, but his new-gained confidence gave him wings. Much to his own astonishment, he succeeded to his best capabilities and as he imagined it should look like. Filling in the contours with a ruby-red lipstick proved almost too easy in comparison.

The next part was even more easy, but still not without risk. For the first time ever, he would apply rouge. Too much and he would look like a clown. Too high or too low and the effect would be disastrous or at least not as prettifying as hoped. Worst would be, if he had to clean everything off and start from scratch again. He wasn’t sure he could stand it or reproduce all he had done so far. But when he rummaged through his meagre deposit of makeup, first he came across a powder puff. His heart skipped a beat and his hopes sank like a lead ball. He had forgotten to use powder after applying foundation to his skin.

Scraping together the suddenly little energy left in him, took out the almost empty powder compact. As tenderly as exhausted he slowly swiped the puff over the powder and then as careful as possible without touching any of the already finished spots applied as much or as little powder as he dared. After what felt like hours of heavy work and Sisyphean labour, he let his arms sink and observed his reflection with awe and sceptically. Fortunately, he couldn't see anything too out of line and was as happy as could be.

This seemed to bring back most of his sapped-away energy. Almost joyfully he stood and picked up all of his makeup. Placed it back in its bag and cleaned the area around the sink. Everything packed away, he closed the suitcase and hid it behind the door. Now he took his clothes to the bedroom.

After undressing completely, he stood in front of the bedroom's mirror. A muscular man with short hair, but a woman's face starred back at him. Beside his pubic hair, his body was hairless from neck down. He started to shave and later wax his body when he was 16. First the legs only, then the chest and not much later everything else. He was on the swim team and liked to ride his bicycle and used both of it as an excuse to do so. In reality, it was the other way around. He joined the swim team to be able to use this excuse. Later, he would say he was so used to being shaved all over, that he felt dirty and impure with hair. Or that the hair growing back was simply itching too much to not shave before the itch started.

He stepped in the panties and donned his bra. He hooked it behind his back as he had seen his wife do, done before her and the way he felt was the only correct way. Then he checked his nails and fingers before bunching the stockings and rolling them up his legs. Carefully and thus avoiding any nicks or runs, he pulled them in the correct position. He had to repeat the pulling a few times, since the size was not right and his muscular legs deviated quite a bit from the female optimum. But after moving around the room the stockings relented a bit more and he was able to ease them further up.

The look into the mirror now presented an effeminate version of the man with the woman's face. Somehow the stocking alone made his appearance a lot more feminine. But the empty cups of his bra destroyed his illusion. His started back to the bathroom, only to stop himself after a few steps. Worried, the wooden door steps or the tiles could nick his stockings, he stepped into his blue high-heels. Swaying shortly back and forth, he took a few uncertain steps, before the muscle memory came back and he was on his way without any problems.

Opening the suitcase again, proved to be a bit more problematic this time. In high-heels the weight was harder to handle. Still he managed well. He found the ziplock bag and this time didn't forget to take out another cardboard box, too. The box he set next to the sink, before hid the suitcase anew, picked-up the ziplock bag and headed back to the bedroom. The bag contained two flesh-coloured blobs of silicone "flesh" - livelike replicas of female bumps. He inserted them into the cups of his bra and immediately his appearance was feminized further.

Next came the blue dress. Lovingly caressing it, he took it off its hanger, pressed it against his enhanced chest and swayed holding it to himself in front of his mirror. His eyes became a dreamingly glance. Pulling himself out of his trance, he stepped into the dress and pulled it up. Twitching it here and there in place before zipping himself into the dress. It was stretched a bit since he had gained quite a few pounds over the years, but for one it helped his feminine look some and on the other hand it still looked good enough.

Back in the bathroom, he opened the cardboard box and took out a dark-blonde wig. It was made of Japanese silk, whatever that should be. It was artificial hair, but as close and as silky as possible to real hair, if not even softer. He had bought it via ebay when ebay was still young and user probably too inexperienced. He found the offer in China with hundreds of similar offers starting at 1 dollar. Just dreaming how it would be to have long hair and in such a style like that, he bid the dollar to keep his dream alive a little while longer. But when the offer timed out, he was shocked to find to be the only bidder and thus received the quality wig of his dreams for one dollar including the postage from China! Then he had to pick up the package before his wife got home and hid it.

He only dared to don the wig a few times since, because he was always too afraid his wife would find a long, blonde, telltale hair and accuse him of two-timing. So he would wear the wig only a few minutes and then spend hours checking every corner of the house for stray hairs from it. Thus the wig was still almost in mint-condition. Using his wife's brush he gently brushed the wig in shape and restore its waves and curls. Then he carefully lifted I onto his head. His short hair did not disturb it much. When he had donned it in the past, he avoided the clips and the rubber band fasteners, because they soon gave him headaches. This time he used everything to fix the wig in place and adjust it as it was intended.

When his eyes met the image in the mirror, all he could see was a woman. Long, wavy dark-blonde hair framed her immaculate made-up face, highlighting her feminine shapes and accentuate her medium sized breasts by following their contour. It nicely contrasted her blue dress. Now only a bit of jewellery was missing. She clipped a pair of her wife's pearl earrings to her ears and fastened a pearl chain around her neck. Then she brushed her hair back in place a last time, checked her look and then left the bathroom.

On her way out the bedroom's door, she picked-up a picture placed on top of the armoire. She glanced lovingly at the portrait before heading down the hall. Her heels making a hard, firm click-clack sound, announcing her returned determination. When she reached the end of the aisle and thereby the begin of the railing, she stopped this time and looked long and sad at the spot where her life had imploded. Where she had lost her son - where she had lost her daughter.

With power, minutes ago she would doubt she still had in her, she grabbed the rail, stepped closer, then tried to lift her leg high enough to step across it. Not able due to the restriction of her dress, she changed tactics. She slid her bum aslant the railing, grabbed it even tighter and then flipped both her legs onto the other side. Carefully lowering herself on the small sill and finding the space to place her high-heeled feet there, she stepped further along the railing. Reaching the spot, where the man had fastened a rope with a strong knot this morning before leaving the house. Only the feeling of guilt, honour and duty to escort his son - no, her daughter on her last way had prevented him from using the rope right then right there.

But she had no such restrictions any more. She had nothing to lose, but memories, sorrow and a meaningless life ahead. All what had a meaning, all what could become valuable to her in the future all there could ever be was damned to become insignificant as insignificant can get. All was gone. Joy, love, hope, peace, luck, happiness, even health - all gone to never come back.

She lifted the rope and fitted the slip knot around her neck. She took the picture in her hands again and looked long and longingly at it. She held the last and only picture she ever had got of her daughter - sleeping peacefully on the white silk pillow, dressed in a beautiful, colourful, flowery summer dress, the long, wavy hair done in a feminine style suitable for a young woman, the face professionally and beautifully made up, a small bouquet of pink roses held in her manicured fingers with the pale pink nails and a peaceful smile around the pale pink painted lips, her eyes closed as if dreaming of true love. The picture, that had been taken short before they closed the lid of the coffin.

The woman kissed the print one last time, smiled at it and then placed it close to her heart between bra and dress. She took a liberating and calming breath, looked upwards and said:
"Terri, your mummy will be with you soon and then I will be there for you for always and ever!"
With that, she released her grip on the rail and took a last step forward.

************

As the rope tightened, the weight rocked the railing, shook the whole house and caused the kitchen wall to resonate a few times. The bell in the kitchen clock chimed twice.

At the same time quite some towns away, two beautiful little baby girls were delivered by the newly-minted mum. As the twins were placed on the chest of their exhausted but oh-so happy mummy one little girl moved her arm and wrapped her tiny fist around her sister's thumb.

Despite her 48 hours shift and knowing it was all but possible, the nurse tending to the little family would swear on all there was for as long as she lived, it looked for sure as if the twin baby girls smiled at each others happy and content...