There are many different ways to die.

By Karen J. Taylor

This story deals with what has been a controversial topic, if you can’t read it with an open mind, don’t read it at all. You’ve been warned.

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This time it was a display of Halloween costumes that triggered it. She was walking through the mall with her best friend when they saw a window of adult costumes. The cat woman outfit drew her eyes like a magnet. As she stared at it, her hand rose of its own accord to finger her upper lip. One memory triggered another and soon they were cascading into her mind like the flood from a broken dam.

She spent the next three days in the hospital before they’d let her come home. The first day she was sedated, and after that they kept her on a high dosage of tranquilizers and under continuous observation. Even now that she was home, she knew there was at least one camera in her bedroom so her parents could keep an eye on her.

She looked at herself in the mirror; she was a beautiful 18-year-old girl, with a body that looked as if it had been sculpted by a skilled artist - which in a way it had. No trace was left of the 14-year-old boy she’d been when she was abducted by the slavers engaged in the sex and porn trade.

Her ears were perfectly rounded now; there was no sign of the pointed tips they’d given her; or of the whiskers that had been implanted in her upper lip. Further down, she had the small, firm breasts appropriate to a girl her age, not the huge double D ones their implants had given her.

All the way down, slim and firm tummy and wide, but not too wide, hips; and the smooth area where her penis had been, now a womanly triangle of pubic hair surrounding her vagina and hyper-sensitive clitoris.

That had been very important to her owners. As Caitlin the Cat Girl, she’d been expected to have sex with anyone and anything — human, animal, and not a few objects. Dosed daily with an exotic cocktail of drugs, she’d been in a constant state of mindless arousal, unable to resist or refuse. When the agents of the state and federal taskforce had rescued her two years later, she’d had to be forcibly restrained from trying to have sex with her rescuers.

Rescued, now that was a laugh. She hadn’t been rescued; she was still a prisoner mentally. Therapy, hypnosis, drugs, nothing could keep her from remembering what had been done to her, and what she was.

She looked around her bathroom, there was nothing pointed anywhere. No razor, after she’d disassembled one and slit her wrists they’d permanently removed her body hair. No tweezers, she’d tried to gouge open the veins in her neck with them. That same smooth neck showed no signs of the marks where she’d attempted to hang herself in the shower with her pantyhose. And only a slight huskiness in her voice betrayed the damage done when she drank the drain cleaner.

But there were ways; there were always ways, she thought to herself as she fingered the metal teeth of the zipper on her jeans. Later that night, after the lights had been out for hours, she reached down to the floor and slipped them under the covers.

* * * * * * *

"This is the sixth time she’s tried to kill herself! The sixth time, doctor! When’s it going to stop?"

"We don’t know, ma’am. It may not be possible to undo the damage done to her mentally."

"You mean she’ll keep trying until she succeeds?"

"Yes sir. At this point I’d say that’s a virtual certainty."

"Will she have to be committed? I lost my son; I don’t want to lose my daughter."

"There is one possibility . . . ."

"What?"

"We can go into her brain, there’s a tiny area . . . . If we burn away that area with a laser, she’d completely lose who she is."

"You mean she’d be like a baby?"

"No, but it would be permanent amnesia. She’d be able to walk, talk, dress herself, that sort of thing; but she would have no memories prior to the surgery. She would have to relearn everything about herself, she’d be a blank slate. Likely, she’d lose a few years and drop a bit in IQ, but she’d be trainable and able to function on her own after she grew up again."

"Oh, God!"

"We can’t make that decision by ourselves; we’ve got to ask her."

* * * * * * *

"Do it! I can’t live like this! I can’t stand what I am, what I’ve become!"

"You understand you won’t have any memories of yourself? Nothing prior to the surgery will remain."

"DO IT! You think I want to remember what I was and what happened to me? I promise you, if you don’t I’ll be dead in a year. Do it!"

* * * * * * *

Written in a childish scrawl in a notebook: "Hello, they say my name is Connie and I am fifteen. The doctor said I shoud write everything done as my head dont work so good as it did. Mommy and daddy said I was in a bad axident an thas why I have these bandages on my head. I guess they cut all my hair off so I look real funny I dont remember anything about it but mommy and daddy say everything will be ok and they love me very much."

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Thanks to Janet — Mistress of the Guild, John in Wauwatosa, Jillian, PB and Angharad, all of who looked this over and made constructive comments and corrections. As always, I use what I want to, so any mistakes in this are there by my choice. The last paragraph is supposed to be that way.

And a big thanks to John and Jillian for their assistance in getting this posted. If you are reading this, their advice worked!