Summer's End Part 3 By S.L.Hawke It was shaping up to be a very memorable Halloween... or Samhain, "Summer's End" festival, as some would call it. It had all started a few "interesting" months back... of the, "may you live in interesting times", Chinese curse variety. Interesting times, that kept getting progressively more "interesting" -- both the good parts, and the bad -- up until this disturbing weekend. Sometimes, you must pass through a little darkness, before you can come into the light... Copyright © 2011 S.L.Hawke. All Rights Reserved.
Have you ever wondered what a "Halloween horror" story would be like, from the witch's perspective? Meet Crystal, a transgendered witch who has big reasons to not be happy with some particular guys. A woman with her own difficulties... whose life turns many conventional story elements completely upside down...

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This is an (almost) true Halloween horror story -- loosely based on reality, it is semi-autobiographical in places... although the 'Autobiographical' tag has not been used, as poetic license has _definitely_ been taken. Which parts are true, and which are pure fantasy? "Truth is stranger than fiction...". Names have been changed to "protect the innocent"... and many events have also been deliberately scrambled a bit, to further obfuscate things -- so that if someone *does* recognize an actual person despite the name changes, they won't know who really did, or said, what. [And of course, some parts are purely imagination -- things *no one* actually did.]

There are many tales out there, about dressing for the first time... or early transition. This is something just a little different. Life, long after the dust has settled... but in unusual circumstances, where nearly forgotten gender issues once again come back to the surface...

CAUTION: This is an entry in the "TG Terror" contest: don't expect it to be entirely 'sweetness and light'. (Although, hopefully, the good times outweigh the bad). Contains mature adult content and themes -- reader discretion is advised. Occasional (rare) use of strong language, when it is appropriate. Occasional (rare) use of what some may consider 'explicit sexual' references or content, when necessary to the plot development.

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PART III: The Shelter

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"So what do you think? I am afraid I am not really an aesthetician, but I like to think I am pretty good with makeup... and while it's not a sophisticated look, it *is* something that looks good, which you should be able to do yourself..."

"Thank you. You don't know how much this means to me..."

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Chapter 6:

Early August, Tuesday, 02:12.

I have always been a light sleeper... something I suppose I can thank my father for, what with his terrifying night-time 'visits' to my bedroom as a young child. Whatever. But regardless of the reason, I wake very easily... which is not really a good thing, when you are sleeping with three strangers in a small room. Or maybe it is... for I woke even before the first faintest touch on my hip, just from the dim 'awareness' of someone being close by -- before whoever it was could even begin to extract my wallet. As I let my breathing patterns shift, and pretended to 'startle' awake, whoever they were, they fled the room... leaving me with little more than a vague impression of two female bodies clad in dark clothing. Or at least, clothing that _looked_ dark, in the limited light of the room. I have quite good night vision... but there were heavy curtains on the window, to block out the nearby street lamps. It was almost pitch black in here.

 «Crap. I guess Michelle was right about the thieves in this place. I'm just glad that they seem to be from another room... and *not* one of my current roommates. I wonder how they managed to get past the door's deadbolt... I thought only staff had a key for that? »

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Tuesday, 05:45.

I was about to join the line outside the washroom, when I noticed Andy sitting in the hallway down by her room... holding her head in her hands, with her elbows braced against her raised knees. She wasn't crying... I thought... but... _something_ definitely felt 'wrong' about her body language. Not having any particularly urgent need for the facilities, I decided to check on her... casually wandering down the hall, then sliding down the wall to sit beside her.

"Hey girl. What's up?" I enquired softly.

She raised her head, staring straight ahead of her... eyes focused somewhere far beyond the walls. In a dead, emotionless voice, she quietly said, "Someone stole my purse last night. It was all I had left, other than the clothes on my back. Everything is gone, now. My home... my family... my job... everything. There's nothing left. Nothing at all."

Her voice finally had a touch of emotion in it, as she said that last bit... a tiny catch in her voice, as if she were suppressing sobs through sheer willpower. She turned her head towards me, with eyes brimming from unshed tears. "Thank you for what you tried to do last night. I just wanted you to know how much I appreciated that... how much it meant to me, that you even tried to help me."

Tentatively, I extended my hand to place on hers... but she flinched away from even that gentle touch. Trust is a fragile thing in the shelters... and her's had obviously suffered a major blow this morning. Right now, she was just too hurt... a broken shell of shattered glass. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

She turned away again, letting her head sag back against the wall. "Nothing. I am nobody, less than nothing... and there is nothing that anyone can do for me."

I started to protest, but a sharp turn of her head back towards me, with a hard glance into my eyes, silenced me before I had really even begun to speak. Her unshed tears glittering in her eyes, but with no further words, she rose and walked away from me towards the stairs... without looking back. My temptation to go after her died stillborn, as I regretfully concluded that you can not help someone unless they *want* your help... at least, not with a person who was basically a total stranger to you. It was not the first time I had faced that particular bitter pill of realization, over the years... and no doubt it would not be the last, although it never seems to get easier.

I never saw her again, and have no idea what happened to her. But sadly, I have read published statistics indicating, at least for the particular clinic reporting, that almost five times as many people walk into that gender clinic, to start transition, as eventually get surgery. No doubt many of those extra people simply decide surgery is not right for them... either de-transitioning, or living as a non-op... but the rest? No one knows what happens to them. They just disappear from the system... and what with the habit of the press to 'dis-respect' trans-people -- referring to them by their birth names and genders, using the wrong pronouns -- often, you can't even look for an obituary.

They are just gone...

Perhaps at another time, I might have gone after her anyway... tried, despite her attempts to refuse help. Told the shelter staff about her. Done any of a number of things, that quickly seemed obvious to me in retrospect... just a few minutes too late. I would like to think so, at least. But right then, when she walked away... like all too many in that shelter, I was in too much pain, myself... too lost in my own problems. I am only human. Far too close to the edge, myself, to have much left inside me for others.

 «Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea má¡xima culpa... »

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Tuesday, 17:55.

The line for the soup kitchen was moving, again, as a group of early diners exited. I had been a little concerned about going to a facility run by Catholic Social Services... since I am by no stretch of the imagination even remotely Christian... but Michelle had re-assured me that it was no big deal. People of all faiths... or no faith at all... were welcome. I would have to sit through a sermon, but then, that wasn't really a big deal. I shrugged to myself.

 «Strange, how Christians tend to make members of the Old Religion out to be villains... when in fact, the core values of many of us are actually so close together, that many are members of both faiths. The Craft is not exclusionary, and while Christianity technically *is*... most of the sort of people who follow the Path of Wisdom are not the sort to care about little details like that. »

Actually, I have been mistaken for a "devout Christian" many times in my life, what with rarely drinking, not smoking, et cetera. Something that never ceased to amuse me. I suppose it was going to be useful, now, though... as the shelter Michelle was in was also run by Catholic Social Services, and while my not being Christian was not, technically, a problem to acceptance there... Michelle *had* hinted that my "moral" lifestyle was a big plus in their overlooking that potential issue...

As the line finally reached the threshold of the church, a stray thought caused my mouth to quirk momentarily.  «Funny, how many stories seem to assume that people like me can't just enter a place like this anytime we want to. A church is just bricks and boards, steel and concrete. Just another building, despite what goes on inside. Maybe once upon a time, priests actually knew how to set up 'wards' around places like this... but these days, I rather doubt most of them would have the faintest idea how to do that. A harmless building... that affects me no more than crosses or 'holy water' does... which is to say, not at all. »

Truthfully, I *did* hesitate to step across that threshold. Not because of any supernatural, creepy-crawly reasons, though... merely, respect. If the Burning Times have taught followers of the Path anything, it is the importance of the right to religious freedom, as well as respect for others' beliefs. I may not be a Christian... but I *do* know that many Christians are uncomfortable with people like me -- and therefore I hesitate to dis-respect them in any way. Even in such a small thing as stepping into one of their places of worship, and even when invited...

I slight grin briefly twitched my lips.  «Well, normally. It's not my usual style... but, sometimes, it's just plain _fun_ to be evil... »

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Tuesday, 19:25.

"Next!" The public health nurse called, standing in the doorway of the basement office she was using.

I rose from my spot sitting on the floor against the hallway wall, to follow her inside. Glancing around, I was almost surprised to find a real -- albeit old looking -- exam table inside, against the wall... until I remembered that they did health checks on every woman here, at least once a week. Obviously, it was a problem they had long since found a solution to...

Still, it wasn't really like any exam I had ever had, in a regular clinic. Little in the way of paperwork... which I suppose is also not surprising, given how many homeless people do not have ID of any sort, let alone a health insurance card to show. She asked my name, my age... if I knew my healthcare number, although she didn't really even wait for a reply to that... and then got straight down to business, gesturing me up onto the table.

"Do you have any known medical conditions I should be aware of, before we start?"

I hesitated, taking a somewhat shaky, deep breath. "Umm... yes, I suppose there is. Are you planning a pelvic exam as part of this?" At her nod, I continued, "I was raped about ten days ago, and still have considerable vaginal damage. A doctor has already seen me... and treated the... the... 'problem'... but... please... no speculum exam, at this time. It would just be way too painful..."

To give her credit, her business-like attitude softened, at that. "Okay, dear. I am required to do tests for Sexually Transmitted Infections, though. Most of that can be done from a blood sample... but would it be okay if I attempt a vaginal swab -- at least from the outer part, without a speculum? Although they are part of the usual routine the first time I see someone, I will skip the cervical exam and Pap smear, under the circumstances... you *did* say you had seen a doctor recently, yes?"

I gave a tiny, sharp nod... then slipped off my panties, pivoting to raise my feet up into the stirrups... as the other women waiting with me in the hall had told me to do. No fancy paper gowns, surgical drapes, or discreetly leaving me alone to change, here. She had a long line of clients waiting outside, and little time to process them. At least she was as gentle as she had implied she would be...

"You do know that HIV takes roughly two to six weeks to be fully detectable, yes? I will still include that test in this lab requisition... ten days is enough that we might get a usable result, although it won't be even close to a hundred percent accurate -- and I imagine you probably would like to have even limited assurance about this, right now. But you will need a follow-up test about three months after the... 'incident'... though, just to be sure. If you are still at the shelter then, I will take care of it for you... but otherwise, here is a card for the Rape Clinic downtown -- they can do the second test for you for free, anytime in late October..."

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Wednesday, 11:05.

I spotted what looked like a good spot, and parked my car again. After wearing the same clothes for two days, I had wanted to get fresh items from the suitcases in my car... and wanted to move it, anyway. The last thing I needed right now, was to have someone call it in as an abandoned vehicle -- I could not afford to buy it back out of the impound yard, nor could I afford to replace the things inside. Not to mention the slight possibility that someone would follow me from the shelter, to see where I was getting clothes from. That wasn't likely to be a problem, at least this first time... but I had better get used to thinking like that. Which is why I had driven around for a few minutes, to thoroughly lose anyone following me on foot, before looking for a new parking spot.

This seemed like a good location, though. A quiet residential street, with houses that had driveways... and hence, neighbours that were less likely to need to park where I was. Near a low-rise apartment complex, though... so hopefully, the 'strange vehicle' would be dismissed as belonging to a renter in one of those buildings. It would have been nice to park somewhere closer to the shelter... but most of the streets around there were metered, or had "Permit Parking Only" signs.

Scrunching down in the seat, I painfully pulled my arms into my top, without taking it off. I smiled, as a stray thought reminded me of the first time I had seen someone pull this trick of changing in public, without completely undressing. She had been a classmate, back in grade six... on a school bus trip to the local swimming pool.  «Thank you, Betty, wherever you are... ». After swapping out my undergarments, I slipped a new skirt up under the one I was still wearing, then pulled a new top over my head, through the neck opening of my old top. A few minutes more of squirming around, and I was able to strip off the dirty outer layer... before stopping to use slow breathing exercises to control my pain.

 «The last time I did that, I did *not* have a nearly useless right shoulder. I may have to re-think this plan, if it keeps hurting _that_ bad... »

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Friday, 13:42.

I looked around for my purse, as I heard my cell phone ring... the 'unregistered' one, I noted from its distinctive ring tone. Then, with a wry smile, I looked instead in the zippered pocket of my light jacket.  «Still not used to carrying things around in my pockets... it's been a *long* time since I did that, regularly... »

Noting the number... the same one as Michelle had called me from, previously... I was not really surprised to hear her voice.

"Hi Sherry. Have you got a minute?"

"Hi Michelle. That I do... in fact, I have nothing *but* time, these days...". I made yet another mental note that sooner or later, I really needed to let Michelle know that my name wasn't actually 'Sherry'...

"I've some good news! Remember the woman I mentioned, who might be moving out from my shelter? I just heard confirmation that she is moving in with her boyfriend this weekend... and that her former roommate definitely needs to find a new roommate, to help her with the rent. Umm, you did say that you'd be getting Income Assistance soon, didn't you?"

"Yes. I spoke with my case worker yesterday, and she said that as I was now homeless, they were expediting my claim... and as soon as I had a permanent address, they would be sending my first cheque. Err... how much *is* the rent, at that shelter, anyway?"

I could practically hear her shrug, even if I couldn't see it. "That varies. It never is all that much, but if you can't afford it, they waive part or all of it. But it you can... and most us *can*, since you gotta be in some sort of program, or have a job, before they'll let you in here... they ask that you pay rent, so that they can afford to help more people. Sorta like a real apartment, 'cept on training wheels..."

She hesitated for a moment, before continuing. "Actually, that particular suite is a one bedroom, that the two women shared. I know they had applied for a two bedroom unit, the next time one becomes available... but right now, it's just a single. Are you okay with that?"

I winced, but knew that I didn't really have a choice. "Sure, why not? I have three other women in a single small room with me over here... and no private bathroom, or kitchen. Anything is a step up from there..."

"At least the good news about it being a single, is that the rent is a lot lower... your share would probably only be around three hundred..."

I bit my lip, softly. No wonder the other woman needed a roommate... unless you had children, benefits were currently only a bit over five hundred a month. Which left only a couple hundred dollars, for food, clothes, laundry... in short, everything else. Rent on a single was probably more than her entire cheque -- without getting a new roommate immediately, she would probably have to move out back out of the Madison Avenue Residence, onto the streets... or possibly worse, back to the WEAR building...

"Umm, Sherry? There's another catch, maybe. I know you seem to be okay with the fact I used to be a hooker... but... how would you feel about having one for a roommate? Angela is *mostly* a recovering crystal meth addict... but I know she turned tricks to pay for her habit, before. She's been clean for a couple months now, and even has a part-time job... but, well, I know how it is, for some people..."

"No problem, Michelle. I mostly take people as they are, at face value. If she goes back to that life... well, I'll have to think about it, then. But if she is seriously trying to go clean, I am not about to hold her past against her..."

"Kewl. Umm, can you come over here around five, to meet her? I know that'll probably mean you'll miss out on the main meal of the day at the soup kitchen, but... she works this evening... and she *really* wants to get this settled as soon as possible. If you can't make it... well, she'll likely talk to the manager, Amber, to have them pick her a new roommate out of your shelter. I mean, that _is_ the normal procedure, anyway -- it's just 'cause I've already put you on the waiting list as a resident there, that she even has the option of asking you directly..."

I forced a pained smile, thinking I could already practically count my ribs by sight, these days. "Oh, well. What woman can't stand to lose another kilo or two?"

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Chapter 7:

Early August, Monday, 02:12.

I woke in a cold sweat, barely suppressing a scream. Slipping from the bed, which we had decided to share -- the dilapidated "donated" couch in the living room was something that should be outlawed as "cruel and unusual punishment", so far as sleeping on it was concerned -- I tip-toed out of the room... not wanting to wake Angela. Ignoring the couch in the living room, I drifted over to the window before sliding down against the wall. Only then, did I let the tears silently stream down my face...

 «I can't do this any more... »

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Tuesday, 13:06.

Having gotten tired of the near total lack of furniture in the tiny suite, I had finally decided to invest some of my few remaining dollars in fuel for my car... which at least, this shelter had a parking lot for. Without a moving van... which neither of us could afford... most of my larger items had to be left in storage, but Angela and I had managed to retrieve a few smaller boxes of things, that were stored at the front of my storage unit. A unit that was only paid up until the end of October... which was another potential problem. Unless something changed drastically, I would not have any money left to renew that rental... and would probably lose everything still stored there.

But even if we couldn't retrieve any of the larger items, even the boxes of kitchen stuff were a windfall for Angela -- she had been making do with a single plate, carefully washed plastic cutlery, and a dollar store woefully small cheap pot. Not much to cook with... but then, she did not have much to cook, either. She was actually better off than most, what with having a part-time job... but she could only earn a couple hundred extra a month, before they started deducting her earnings from her benefit payments -- and at minimum wage, she did not even come close to earning enough there to do without those benefits.

On the other hand, there were several residents like myself... people with small "stashes" of items that they could draw on, kept at friends' houses or garages, in storage lockers, or wherever. Angela was not part of that group. She had lost absolutely everything but the clothes on her back, before going clean... and so each precious extra dollar had many demands on it. Many different "basic" items that she was currently doing without, that she needed to replace. It is really hard to hold down a job, when you look "poverty stricken"... leading to harsh decisions -- such as buying shampoo, or buying food. Usually, food lost. I don't think there was a single person in that shelter, who was not seriously underweight... even with the help of food banks. Donations of things like clothing or old household items helped... but there were never enough to go around.

Still, life was not all tears and grim starvation. People survive... and find ways to even have fun. Which was why we were currently digging through some old clothes of mine, looking for a spare bikini that I had not used in years. Angela was a petite woman, probably a decimetre shorter than I was... but with a string bikini, that would not matter. She could just tie bigger bows in the strings, to make it fit.

For those in more southern climates, the current "heat wave" (of temperatures climbing above thirty Celsius) would probably be nothing unusual -- but around here, it was *very* hot weather. Which is why the shelter had organized a chartered school bus for tomorrow, to take anyone who wanted to go out to a nearby lake. Carrie from down the hall said she might have something for Angela's children... but she was the wrong size to loan anything to Angela herself, and Angela certainly could not afford to run out and buy something in a retail store.

Angela's children? I had not met them yet, but their pictures looked adorable. A four year old girl, and a three year old boy. Currently in child protective services, but whom Angela was permitted occasional day visits with -- so long as she passed her weekly drug screenings. Normally, those visits were supervised by the children's case worker... but the MAR building manager was also a case worker, and had agreed to supervise the trip to the lake -- meaning, Angela could take them with her tomorrow. Which really had her excited, and hence our digging through my old junk.

 «I really should have just trashed some of this, when I was putting things in storage. There is simply NO way I am ever going to fit in that size 32A bra again, for instance. But it was already packed away in a box of clothing, and I simply had not had time -- so I just tossed it in. Just as well, though, or this old swimsuit would probably have been thrown away as well. »

"That blue looks really good on you, Angela, what with your blue eyes and platinum blonde hair. You're so pale that you need something bright like that, to add some colour to you..."

"Do you really think so?"

For such a pretty girl, Angela had a lot of insecurities about her looks... although I suppose the same could be said about me, so maybe that isn't so surprising. In her case, though, I guess I can see why she felt that way -- she had been slowly gaining back weight since leaving the detox centre a couple months back, but even now she still looked almost anorexic. Which I suppose is a sad commentary on current fashions -- that a twenty-ish, grown woman with two children, would actually be considered *more* attractive, when she was seriously underweight like that. Bizarre... but just reality...

Of course, who am I to talk? I don't think I have ever been heavier than ten percent "underweight" for a woman my height, since my early teens -- although in recent years, I had really had to watch my diet, to maintain that weight. Well, actually I *was* heavier than that once, for a short time... although I never quite reached my "medically recommended" weight. But when I gained that weight, I noticed that too much of it went to my waist, and not enough to my hips or breasts... a legacy of my birth genetics, I suppose. Whatever. It had just made me determined *not* to gain weight like that again -- and so far at least, knock on wood, I had managed to do that.

A knock on the door interrupted us, and turned out to be Carrie. She was holding a couple tiny suits... both for girls, since she only had three daughters, but the smaller one was a two piece, and the bottom was plain enough, in a gender neutral enough colour (black), that just *maybe* we could talk Angela's three year old boy into believing they were really boy's Speedos. Or at least, that was the plan...

A second knock at the door interrupted us again, only a couple minutes later. This time, it was Michelle coming to talk to me... which triggered a flurry of covering up, as Angela dove into her top again. I hate to admit it... but I was not far behind her in slipping an oversized blouse over the shorts I had been wearing -- although in my defence, I would add that I was mostly just following Angela's lead, without thinking about it.

Normally, that would not have even registered with me... and at first, I didn't think about it now. But after a moment, I blushed as it did slowly dawn on me what I had just done. The contrast, between how we had both had been wandering around the hot apartment semi-naked, and had not bothered to cover up when Carrie came over... versus the reaction when Michelle, a known transsexual, knocked on the door. I suppose it did not really surprise me -- I tend to get very 'conventional', when taken by surprise... as I suppose many women do -- but it was another sad commentary on stark reality.

 «And people wonder why so many TS go stealth, eventually. There is a world of difference between 'acceptance' as a 'woman' -- with quotation marks -- and how most people treat you when they simply do not know. If they know in advance that something is going to happen, sure, some can be 'open-minded', and 'accepting'... I am fairly certain that Angela would willingly share a change-room with Michelle, _if_ she thought about it. I *know* I would. But it is what we do when we are caught by surprise, that really shows you what is going on, deep inside people. Even me... who once was like Michelle. Well, sort of. Although that was a l-o-n-g time ago... and I never really looked, or acted, like she does... »

Strange, the things I see, sometimes. I am not "unclockable"... no one is, really. I have seen too many natal females mistakenly get "clocked" as TS, to think that it can not happen to me. But... how 'passable' you are, *does* make a huge difference, in my experience, to how people unconsciously act around you. Even if people "know"... as Angela vaguely "knew" about me, since Michelle had arranged all this... I have been told many times that I simply do not "vibe" as "trans" -- and hence, sometimes I find myself in rather peculiar positions. Like now, where I was, technically, (even if I almost never think of myself that way), a "trans-woman"... in the same room as a couple "natal females"... and watching them react to the presence of another "trans-woman" -- while *not* reacting to my own presence.

As I said, strange... at least, when I think about it. Which admittedly I usually do not. It is pretty rare for me to even be in the presence of another TG, so the whole situation was 'unusual'. Transition was something that happened a long time ago, and these days, most of the people that I know have nothing to do with "the community". Well, normally. But then, these were not normal circumstances, for me...

I suppose this wasn't really a fair example of the difference between being seen as a 'woman', or just a woman... without quotation marks... since Angela *did* know about me, even if she had forgotten for the moment. I have lived stealth for so many years, though, that I knew this actually *was* typical of that difference -- as I had seen the same thing, on occasions when I was present and truly no one knew about me. Seen how people reacted to a TG who came into a room... how they interacted with that person... and heard what was said, *after* that TG left again. Sometimes nice comments... sometimes, not so nice... but almost always, regarded as "different"... at least, for most people. There were always some who truly did not seem to care... but they were a small minority.

"Hi Michelle," I greeted her, slipping out into the hallway with her. "Are you going to the beach, tomorrow?"

The expression she put onto her face was... peculiar. "Err, no... I can't. I mean... my wig would come off if I went swimming... and in a swimsuit, there'd be a 'bulge'..."

Puzzled, I tilted my head. "A 'bulge'...?" Digging w-a-y back into my memory, I added. "Umm, can't you, you know, like... 'tuck'?"

"I tried that a couple times... and maybe I am just not doing it right, but that just *hurts* too much, ya know?"

Briefly crossing my eyes, then rolling them while giving a bit of a shake to my head, I could not quite suppress a smile. "I can't believe I am actually going to say this... but... well, you do know I have worked in the medical field, right? Would you like a little... professional assistance... with that?" I hurriedly added, "I promise I will keep it as clinical and... 'detached'... as I can...". I stopped, then smirked. "Err, perhaps 'detached' is the wrong word for me to use, when talking about your genitals..."

She laughed, the tension of the moment broken. "Hey, I don't mind. I've never really _hated_ that part of my anatomy, like some do... but... I won't miss it, when it's gone, either."

Following her lead towards the stairs... presumably heading towards her apartment... I partially switched topics. "I am not so sure about the wig thing, though. I have never worn one... never *needed* one... but... doesn't your roommate also wear a hairpiece? Maybe she will have some ideas..."

She gave an odd sort of half nod, half tilt to her head... as if to say, 'maybe'... then verbally added, "I suppose we can try. We'll be there with a group, so even if some people _do_ object, maybe they won't actually say so out loud..."

Changing the topic again, she asked, "By the way... why don't you still work in 'the medical field', anyway? I mean... I know you were saying that you were getting too obsolete in I.T. to be able to get another job, there. So... why not go back to that?"

I sighed. "The same reason I do not teach, anymore. I was a rather precocious child, growing up. Some trans-children react to their gender dysphoria by acting up... doing drugs, drinking, generally getting into trouble. Others, though, like me... sublime their discomfort in dealing with others by pouring all of themselves into something else. As a literal 'genius' -- and someone who tested quite high, even in the 'genius' range -- I was encouraged to advance way beyond my age group, in school."

I tilted my head sideways, thoughtfully, for a moment. "I don't think they do that, now... but they still did when I was young, at least in the backwater I grew up in..."

With a slight shake of my head, I returned to my previous point. "Anyway, learning was a task I focused on exclusively, since I felt... strange... like I just did not fit in... trying to interact socially with kids my age, what with the whole 'gender issues' thing. So much so that one year, when our coach was giving silly little 'year end' awards to everyone... while others were getting things like 'most likely to succeed', or 'best all around athlete' -- the award they gave *me* was, 'Most likely to *be* an extra-terrestrial'..."

I gave a small laugh, at that old, not-so-funny, 'joke'. "All of which resulted in the somewhat odd situation of my being a full professor at a post secondary institution, by the time I was seventeen. Weird, being the 'teacher', for a class of a couple hundred students -- all of whom are *older* than yourself... but I digress. My point is, that even though I transitioned young... with a few 'interesting' adventures even younger... well, my degrees were already in my birth name by then. And while I was able to eventually 'fix' my high school diploma, and other early school records... I never was able to do anything with those particular pieces of paper -- other than to get them to agree to keep them locked up, out of public or even normal staff access."

I grinned. "And no, I was *not* 'Dougie Howser, M.D.'. Not even close. But... there *are* real life people out there, on which that exaggerated character was very loosely based... and I suppose, in some small way, I *was* one of those people." My grin faded, then the corner of mouth quirked into a lopsided smile. "Not that I imagine Hollywood ever heard of me in particular, or anything... I was never famous. Quite the opposite, actually. As an occasional computer hacker, I went to a great deal of trouble to stay safely 'anonymous'... something that turned out to be useful, when I later transitioned. I just meant, I was one of that particular 'type' of person."

The smile faded again, as I stared off into the distance. "So much promise, so young... I don't think my parents ever really understood just why I never 'made it'. Unless you actually live with 'gender issues', it can be a bit hard to comprehend all the subtle ways in which they undermine your entire existence. As what old Harry Benjamin used to call a 'Type Six, High Intensity Transsexual', the conflicts between who the world expected me to be... and who I actually was... just tore me apart. Something not helped by the little detail that people who are a long ways from an 'average' IQ, whether high or low, are often a bit... umm, 'unstable'. Or in other words, I crashed and burned, young... there was just no way I could cope with my gender issues, the way some older transitioners somehow managed to do..."

Realizing that I was talking to one of those older transitioners, I quickly added, "Not that there is any real difference between a young transitioner, and an older one... other than life experiences. The 'gender dysphoria' is the same... it is just a little more intense, a little harder to deal with, for the young ones. It hits a tiny bit harder, a little bit younger -- before we have a chance to learn the coping skills that those who are 'less intense' manage to acquire. And being so young... lacking those skills... we are forced to act. 'Transition or Die', to use the usual cliché... which is no less real, for being a cliché."

I shrugged, then made a 'throwing away' gesture, returning to her earlier question. "I still have the knowledge, but I don't have useable credentials to back it up. Which basically puts me in the same position as some 'foreign' healthcare workers, with training from countries that our system doesn't acknowledge. Or in other words...no one would hire me, as things stand. I would have to go back to school all over again... and I always have had better things to do with my money. Surgeries, whatever. By the time I was finished with all that, well, the sort of women's jobs I could get simply do not pay enough to be able to afford to go back to school..."

I smiled. "Maybe I will go back to school again, someday. I do miss that sort of work... as I also miss teaching. Part of why I have written *so* many thousands of medical advice articles, on some TS sites, over the years..."

She rolled her eyes. "As 'Sherry', right?"

I gave an embarrassed little laugh. "Err, yeah. Among a great many other aliases. Sorry about keeping you in the dark about that, for so long..."

She gave an impish grin. "Don't worry about it. It's actually a little funny, when you think about it."

By then, we were standing outside the unit she shared with another, older pre-op TS, named Kristine.

"So why... I mean, you're homeless now. Nothing to lose. So... I know you prefer to live 'stealth', but wouldn't it make more sense to just 'come out', and use those old degrees, now -- even if you hafta explain about the name changes and things?"

For a long minute, I just stared off into space, lost in my thoughts. As always, when I seriously think about doing that sort of thing... I found myself re-living some very old memories. Memories that I had once written down, so many years ago...

 «The crack of the whip, the burning pain in my back, the taste of blood in my mouth, the smell of alcohol on my father's breath... as he pulled my head back up by the hair, and yelled in my ear, "You are a BOY, not a GIRL!", when I was a young child. The sensation of being torn in half, as he "taught me what it REALLY feels like to be treated as a girl"... at the ripe old age of five. The fear and wonder, at six, as my oldest brother (then, eleven -- but already physically larger than my father) pulled a knife on my father, and threatened to kill him if he did not stop hurting me -- and was very obviously ready and willing to do exactly that. The violent death of my youngest sibling (whom I often wonder if was also transgendered, although I will never know for certain), under suspicious circumstances, after my oldest brother left home and was no longer around to deter my father. (The case is still officially open and unsolved). Was he just a murdering, alcoholic paedophile? Or was he a well-intentioned fool, possibly acting on something he had read in our rather pathetic local excuse for a library -- a long obsolete psychology textbook, with some misunderstood reference to the ancient 'Gender Aversion Therapy' 'solution', for children like me? He died many years ago... so I will never know. »

I forced a smile onto my face. "Oh, no reason, I suppose. You know how it is... like a lot of 'old timers', who transitioned in the 'bad old days'... I just have a few 'silly issues' about what might happen, if people 'knew'. Call it just a strange quirk of mine, I guess... but, I really don't want to risk it."

My eyes lost focus again, as for a moment I almost lost control of my emotions. "I had some... problems... as a child. Problems that involved my sometimes being drugged... and... 'unpleasant'... things happening. Problems that my recent rape, after being drugged... have really stirred up, in my mind."

For another long moment, I suspect my eyes took on a rather haunted look. "My dreams at night lately have *not* been a lot of fun..."

Michelle is a lot bigger than I am, enough to make me almost feel like a child, sometimes. Which is how I felt, as she gave me a gentle hug. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you remember what happened..."

I just let her hold me for a minute, before stepping back. "No problem, really. I know enough about rape therapy to know that it is important to talk about it. However painfully it hurts to re-live the experience in telling... it is the *only* way to really lay those ghosts to rest. Talking about it, in detail, enough times that the 'edge' gets taken off of things."

I gave her a sort of sad smile. "You never really forget, but in time... well... it sort of becomes 'just another memory'. Not really, of course. If I make the mistake of thinking too deeply about it, even now... those experiences really mess me up. But... you learn to... sort of... 'distance'... yourself, from them, usually. A process that doesn't really happen, until you learn to talk about it -- or at least, that was how it was for me. I buried those childhood things really deep, for many years... and they kept haunting me, surfacing way too often. After I learned to talk about it, though... well, it was a lot more 'manageable'."

I shrugged. "This recent mess has stirred things up, but hopefully that will settle down again, in time. Once I manage to deal with my new fears, anyway."

I did not add just how much those current fears were troubling me... or how unlikely it was seeming, that I *could* get past them...

~ ~ 0 ~ ~

Tuesday, 14:17.

Michelle's apartment was... odd. Hanging from little strings all around the rooms, were stuffed animals. Toys... some new looking, some obviously very old. They were everywhere... not just hanging from the ceiling, but on the furniture, on the window ledge... everywhere. When I had asked, she had just said that they were gifts -- that she had told some of the other residents about liking stuffed animals, and they kept bringing her more and more of them. Refugees, salvaged from dumpster diving... she washed them thoroughly, then added them to her huge collection.

 «I wonder what Michelle's roommate, Kristine, thinks of living in this... menagerie? She's... what... maybe fifty-ish? A bit old for this sort of thing... but then, so is Michelle, even if she is more like thirty-ish... though I suppose we all do the best we can, to get along with our roommates... »

Kristine had obviously been on the edge of asking me something for a while now, so I finally decided to give her a little help.

"Umm, Kristine... you look like you have something on your mind...?"

Her lips twitched, in a momentary smile. "Yeah, I guess. I don't know if Michelle has mentioned it, but... well, I still have an insurance policy, from 'before'... and it is one of the few that covers SRS. My year of Real Life Experience was up a couple months back, and I have surgery scheduled for next month... and, well, Michelle said that you were a post op?"

I smiled. "Yes... although I am not sure how much in the way of questions I can answer. My own surgery was a long time ago... long enough that my surgeon has since retired, and while there are a couple other surgeons now continuing his practice, I think they have changed just about everything since then. Oh, the basic technique is still roughly the same... since I am 'recent' enough that they had developed the start of current techniques... so if you have purely medical questions, I suppose I could answer them... but... if you are wondering about what the doctor is like, or the facilities, or whatever, I won't be much help. Assuming that you are even planning to go to the same place I did..."

I won't bother to repeat all of that particular conversation... other than to say that there is a reason why most long term post ops do not usually hang around with pre ops. Well, many reasons, actually... but one in particular comes easily to mind, after that conversation. Sigh. I suppose it is reasonable enough, given how truly life-changing transition is -- those 'newbie' transitioners who wishfully think that transition won't really change them, are almost always in for a big surprise. There is a world of difference between *thinking* you are a woman, inside... and *actually* living the life of woman.

Life, *all* life, not just transition, inevitably changes who we are... sometimes in small ways, sometimes in very large ways. Transition is such a *huge* deal that it isn't really surprising -- or at least, it shouldn't be -- that most post ops (not all, but _most_), realize just how much they have changed... in hindsight, looking back from years later. But all of that takes time, and the process itself is incredibly absorbing for the person actively transitioning... which tends to boil down to their wanting to talk about the same issues -- surgeries, hormones, et cetera -- over and over and over again.

Fascinating, no doubt, to those whose very lives are involved in it... dependant on it... but looking back from years later, after the dust of transition has long since settled... it is all a little boring. 'Been there, done that... wore out the T-shirt, long ago...'

I answered her questions, as best I could... but it was almost with relief, that I finally changed the topic. At least, for a few moments... before I started thinking once again about how hard this particular topic was going to be, for me. You see, there was another reason I had approached Michelle for help, a little over a week ago. A reason I had not wanted to admit, even to myself, back then... but which had been floating around in the back of my mind, nonetheless. A reason that, actually, I suspect Michelle was 'street-wise' enough to already know I was thinking of -- and may even have mentioned it to the people who ran this shelter, since otherwise they probably would not have expedited my acceptance into here...

The cold hard fact was, I was in deep trouble. I never bothered to talk about all the things that went on in this last week... the fights between women in, and around, the other shelter -- even one all too memorable one with knives, inside my room. The drug pushers that had both tried to sell to me, and tried to 'recruit' me. The pimps that hang around on the street near there, also recruiting. The young woman, who borrowed a cigarette from another woman -- only to find out the hard way that the cigarette was laced with crack, and by the time she came back down, that she was hooked.

The daily grim reminders, of just how hard life on the streets can be. I had beaten Michelle's odds, and survived more than a week -- no doubt helped by the fact I had not actually remained in that first shelter for a whole week -- but I was very much a fish out of water.

Even living, now, in this 'much more civilized', second women's shelter, I was a girl from the other side of the tracks. In way over my head... desperately trying to keep my head above water, while fighting my own desire to just quit... and sink into oblivion. I seriously needed a short term solution, to a problem that normally takes a long time to get out of -- before I made a fatal mistake. And there *was* one way out, that I knew of. One way to earn money quickly. A way women had been using, since time immemorial. The 'oldest profession'...

Prostitution. A source of fast cash, in a world that revolves around cash. Lack of cash had helped put me in this mess, and it was going to take money to get out again -- *however* I earned it. With my physical disability, I could not really earn that cash the way I usually would... which meant only a few alternatives. Some might have turned to selling drugs, I suppose... but that simply was not an option I was even remotely prepared to consider. I *hate* drugs, and always have. Oh, I am not fanatical about it... I could smell that these two had probably been smoking weed recently, and it did not bother me. 'Different strokes for different folks', and all that jazz. What other people did was their business... but for *myself*, there was *no* way I would go that route -- I would rather die, first.

But prostitution... well, it *is* illegal, and I *know* it often destroys the women involved. But while I would never encourage *another* woman to go that route... a part of me saw it as different, when talking about *myself*. Yes, it was risky... even dangerous... but it was something I could do, even with my crippled arm... and I would be harming no one but myself. Or at least, that is the way I looked at it, in my street naivety. So long as I socially responsible about it, making certain to not spread disease, or whatever... well...

Double-think. Self-delusion. I was intelligent enough to know that was exactly what I was doing... but... what *do* you do, when there *are* no good solutions to a problem? When it is your very life that is on the line, and you have already learned the hard way that there are predators out there, just waiting? I was not yet committed to this plan of action... but... I wanted more data, with which to make a decision. Data best learned from someone who had already gone there -- as both of these two had.

Perhaps as well that I asked two of them, at the same time... for the answers I got were contradictory. Michelle hated the whole idea, and wanted me to have nothing to do with it. Kristine... well, she did not exactly encourage me, but I could tell that she had faced the same difficult choice herself -- she answered my questions honestly, holding nothing back. Neither encouraging, nor discouraging me. I will always be grateful to her for that...

Finally, Michelle said, "Crystal, there is something going on this weekend, that I think you need to know about. It is an annual meeting, of sorts... held by the women of the streets, for the women of the streets. As a transgendered former prostitute, I was asked to give a very short speech there... and I would really like you to come along, it you don't mind."

~ ~ 0 ~ ~

Tuesday, 20:05.

As I attempted to do the 'Range of Motion: Abduction wand exercise'... part of the routine my physiotherapist had given me... I noticed just how much of that 'range of motion' the last week had cost me. Fear of what might happen to me, if my disability became known, had caused me to skip those exercises for the week I was in the first shelter... and I was paying the price for it, now. I could not even come close to moving my arm as far as I could a week ago, before my shoulder 'locked', and the pain became too much to bear.

 «Okay, back to basics. I think I still remember the simpler, first set of exercises she gave me. Go back to those, for a week or two, then try the more complicated routines... »

I sighed, as it dawned on me that recent events had probably set back my shoulder's healing process by months...

 «At least, now, I am somewhere 'safe' enough to be able to start doing this again, twice a day. At the other place... well, it would have been blood in shark infested waters, if anyone had seen me... »

~ ~ 0 ~ ~

Wednesday, 01:17.

"Are you okay, Crystal?"

"I'm sorry I woke you, Angela. Go back to sleep, please..."

This time, I had woken up with a start... and in the process, flinched enough that my shoulder felt like it was on fire.  «I really have *got* to find a way to rest that more, soon. Necessity has forced me to do way too much with it, lately... if I keep this up, I will end up *permanently* crippled... »

Sliding out of bed, I quietly padded off to the bathroom -- not that *that* was a long journey. The whole one bedroom apartment was smaller than many modern bachelor suites... and the bathroom was a tiny room just across the 'hallway' from the bedroom -- with that hallway being about the size of a small coat closet, about a metre square. Still, at least this shelter had been converted from an old, World War II era apartment building... so it *was* laid out in self-contained units. Much better than the WEAR building, which had once been small offices. Plus the view here was amazing... it was right on the crest of hillside, overlooking a pretty wooded ravine. Prime real estate... except for the detail that the ground was too unstable there, to support a taller, more modern apartment building. Which was why there were many of those taller buildings across the street, but this old building sat out on its little spur of land, all alone... with unused parkland around it.

Sitting down to do my business... without needing to bother with fiddling with a nightgown, or whatever, since the apartment was so hot that both Angela and I were sleeping naked... I found my attention diverted by something that just did not feel 'right'. The peculiar 'burning' sensation of tearing flesh, which I have too much experience with... followed by the strangest sensation -- as if warm liquid were inside my vagina.  «What the heck? *That* isn't just another UTI, whatever it is... »

~ ~ 0 ~ ~

Wednesday, 06:08.

Angela was not a morning person... and actually, neither am I. But as I have not been sleeping well, lately, getting up at six in the morning was not really difficult for me -- I was usually awake, anyway. For those who have never lived in the north, the summer sun does not just set very late in the evening (or not at all, in the Arctic circle... although I was not, currently, living *that* far north)... it also rises very early in the morning. So at six, the sun had already been up for hours... and it was rather lovely, sitting by our east facing apartment windows, with the morning sun shining in... and the sound of birds chirping, drifting in from the ravine. I had been getting up early the last couple mornings, actually... as I rather enjoyed that time, alone.

I am an introvert by nature. Someone who *can* deal with other people quite well... but someone who needs time alone, to 'recharge my batteries'. As with all introverts, dealing with other people slowly wears me down, until I simply *must* have time by myself to recover. Something Angela sometimes had trouble understanding... for she was an extrovert, who recharged by being *around* other people. Drawing energy, from the very situation that exhausted me. It might have eventually been a problem for us... except, as I said, she was not a morning person... and while I wasn't either, I *could* adapt to that schedule easily enough -- which gave me the time I needed, alone.

The last two mornings, I had already used that precious time to dilate, while relaxing in the morning sun by the windows. But today, I had another plan in mind... one involving a little magnifying makeup mirror, some pillows, and carefully sitting in the direct sunlight in a rather undignified position. I smirked, as a stray memory crossed my mind... something I had read recently online, by someone convinced that women can't see their own genitals. Possibly true, for that particular woman... but then, I easily remembered a picture I had seen once, of a gymnast with her entire head tucked down between her thighs. I am not *that* flexible, but looking at myself is easy, for me... although a mirror *was* helpful, when I actually wanted to look up *inside* of me.

I grinned again, absently noticing my naked breasts, as the earlier train of thought reminded me of another funny delusion I had seen, in some of the TG stories that just recently I had begun reading online. Bizarre stories, really... although I must admit that even the weirder stories had a strange, almost morbid fascination for me, now that I had stumbled across them. Some of them were not bad... some, like Ellen Hayes' incomplete 'Tuck' saga, or some of the 'Whateley Acedemy' works, were truly excellent... but others, well, I can only shake my head when reading them. Such as a few transformation stories that claimed the person could not see their feet, around their new breasts...

My grin turned to a smirk, as I looked down. My breasts are not huge... but, thanks to that *stupid*, utterly unnecessary breast augmentation, I *do* wear a '34DD' bra (or '34E' / '75F', in UK / EU sizes), when I bother to wear one at all. Double 'D' cups, that in no way interfered with my vision down my own body... though perhaps that had something to do with my mostly lean dancer's body... with its long, thin neck. On a shorter woman, double D's might have appeared too large for 'lean' to describe them... but while not exceptionally tall for a woman, I *was* tall enough to carry them well, and have them appear merely 'well proportioned'. I suppose if I were shorter, or as 'neck-less' as some people I have seen, the viewing angle might be different... but for me -- especially when lying down nude, (when things naturally 'sag' a bit to the sides, even for someone as naturally 'perky' and 'firm' as myself) -- my breasts barely protruded into my line of sight...

Giving my head a shake, I tried to focus on what I was supposed to be doing. The results of 'peeking' at my own anatomy were not really that reassuring, though. There really wasn't that much to see... just a tiny, couple millimetre long red line, that gaped open slightly when I pressed around it. Its location, however, on the ventral ("towards the front") surface of my vagina, a few centimetres inside... accompanied by the sensations I recalled from last night... pretty much confirmed my fears.

 «Oh crap. A fistula... an 'internal passageway', between things that are *not* supposed to be connected... and from what I felt, almost certainly a urethrovaginal fistula. A tear from the sexual assault, re-opened by the physical stresses of moving out before it was fully healed... right through the lining of my vagina. And by bad luck, right in the one area where such a tear could connect up to my urethra -- literally, a bloody second 'pee hole'. Just what I needed -- NOT. It *might* heal on its own... so I suppose I should just keep an eye on it for a while, to see what happens... but then, it was probably the hydraulic pressure from my urinating that 'blew' through the weak spot, creating the fistula in the first place. Most likely, it will keep tearing just a tiny bit larger, every time I go to the bathroom... »

I closed my eyes, feeling a single tear leak out and down my cheek.  «Stop that. So life just keeps on getting 'better and better'. There is nothing you can do about it right now, and tears won't help. Suck it up, buttercup. You can't afford to be less than 'strong', right now... even here, alone. »

Thinking about my problem for a minute, though, I was pretty sure that among the diplomas on my gynaecologists office wall, was one about a urology sub-specialty. So... just maybe... she could take care of this, for me.

 «At least, I hope so. I really don't want to take this particular problem to just any old urologist -- under *that* sort of microscopic examination of *that* particular part of my anatomy, I rather strongly suspect I would need to disclose... which I hate doing, even to doctors... »

~ ~ 0 ~ ~