Summer's End Part 4 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 IV: Memorial

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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."

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Chapter 8:

Mid August, Wednesday, 12:45.

"Okay everyone. Have fun on the beach, but be back here in the parking lot by quarter to five. The bus leaves for the city at five sharp, whether everyone is on the bus, or not."

Actually, although I was standing close enough by to hear Amber's little speech, catching that bus wasn't something I really needed to worry about. I had made enough really short trips in my car lately, that I was starting to worry about the battery not having a proper chance to re-charge... so I had decided to waste the fuel, and follow the bus out to the lake in my own car. It had a big engine, and would really guzzle gas if I put my foot down... but driving the way I usually did, it actually got surprisingly good gas mileage.

I suppose I have mentioned my car a few times... but never really talked about it. Not surprising, really. Normally, cars are just transportation to me. So long as they are pretty, comfortable, and reliable enough to get me to where I am going -- in more or less that order -- I never really think about them. I have never bothered to waste the money on a new car in my life... so every one I have owned, has had a 'history' to it.

This particular one dated back to my days of working for an airline, when a friend of mine decided he wanted to become an air traffic controller, instead. A twenty-something boy... despite his age, I thought of him as a 'boy', rather than a 'man', just because of how he behaved... his car at the time was an ancient, but carefully restored, white '81 T-top Camero Z-28, with all sorts of things that he was willing to babble on about endlessly... but which went in one of my ears, and straight out the other. Anyway, long story short, he needed cash to go back to school... and my previous car had just died. Hence my buying a car that normally I would never have considered... but in hindsight, had been a great buy, as it provided me with many years of trouble free transportation.

What I actually cared about, about that car, was that it had a nice interior, power everything, a good stereo... and the two removable glass panel thingies that made up the T-top. The panels were a bit heavy for me, but I could (barely) manage them, normally... and when I did, it opened up the roof over the driver and front passenger. Sort of like a convertible, other than the bar down the middle... but with a solid, securely latching 'hard' roof, when the panels were back in place -- and with the rear section and strong center bar to provide at least the illusion of safety, in case of a roll-over. Actually, I have no idea if that thing would have been strong enough to save me if I had ever rolled it... but I did like to think it would, anyway.

Alas, while it had been a faithful companion for years... a really nice car, once upon a time... I was not the car nut that my friend was, and it was showing its age, now. Enough so that I was starting to think of it as a "beater", rather than a car to be proud of. A bit of rust here and there... paint flaking in some areas... and an engine that occasionally made some rather distressing, expensive sounding noises... although I haven't a clue what those particular sounds really meant. Well, other than a big repair bill, if I ever had the money to be able to take it in to a mechanic. The little backwards facing flap thingies on the engine... an extra air intake of some kind?... had also stopped working a couple years back -- but the car still really took off, on the rare occasion when I floored it.

Actually, I suppose the fact that my car needed more work done to it than it was worth, was actually a 'good' thing, in the present, weird, circumstances. Like many things I owned... it had once been of good quality -- but that was years ago, and as with most of my stuff, it was now severely 'depreciated' in value. Replacing all of my things would possibly cost tens of thousands of dollars... but it I tried liquidating, I doubt I could raise a tiny fraction of that -- a thousand or two in total, for everything I owned, at the very most. And even *that* theoretical value is a bit misleading -- I would probably have starved to death waiting to find a buyer for most of those things, if anyone had been willing to buy them at all.

Which no doubt was why I had not been required to sell some of these 'assets', when I went on financial aid. My car wasn't much... and might break down for good at any time... but while it lasted, the fact I still had *any* transportation was a huge plus, compared to many people in the shelters.

I have some fond memories of driving that old car on hot summer days, with my long hair flowing back through the open T-top roof... and the drive out to the lake today had been another of those memorable experiences. By the time I had pulled into the beach parking lot, the combination of sun and wind had really relaxed me -- I was looking forward to sunbathing, and maybe a little cautious swimming... truly happy, perhaps for the first time in what felt like ages. Had it really only been a couple weeks, since my life had changed so dramatically?

Although the T-tops were in their special padded storage bags in the car's trunk, there was no way I was going to be able to put them back on myself, what with my currently bad right shoulder.  «Oh well, at least it is a sunny day -- no sign of rain -- and I am parked in the row closest to the beach, where I can keep an eye on it. »

Back at the residence, it had been Carrie's husband, Marc, who had taken them off for me... although I might get someone else to put them back on, this evening. Marc had almost dropped one of them, when a bad coughing spell had overtaken him in the middle of taking it off. I had suggested he go see a doctor about that... but like most men, he didn't like doing that sort of thing -- he had insisted it was just a cold, brought on by working outside in the storm we had had, last week.

I sighed, thinking about that. Like so many people in the residence, he worked for a temp agency that paid cash daily, doing whatever work was available -- usually, stuff so miserable that people would rather hire someone else to do it. Minimum wage earnings, for lousy work, often in horrible working conditions... but it paid cash, and the income assistance rules allowed people to earn up to a couple hundred extra dollars each month, before they started deducting the earnings from the benefits. Extra cash that often made the slim difference between just getting by, and starving. Canada may be in the top five countries in the world to live in... but even here, life on the street is no bed of roses...

Eh. I suppose I should clarify about just what 'Marc' was doing in a 'women's shelter'. Although men *generally* were not allowed inside, even for visits... there were a few exceptions. Men who had been *very* carefully vetted, and known to be 'safe' -- NOT part of whatever had driven their women or children into that shelter -- were occasionally allowed to live in this particular shelter, with their wives. A sort of strange situation, and not at all usual... but it was allowed, occasionally. Marc was such an exception -- and a really nice man, who even I had enjoyed chatting with on occasion... despite the fact that right now, I was one of the many women there who were not real 'comfortable' around men.

And yes, I know how that must sound, considering my birth gender. But that was a long time ago, and recent events had only served to drive home once again, in spades, just how little I had ever had in common with that gender. How much, at the moment, I actually feared them. Or at least, *most* of them...

 «Interesting thought. I wonder if the shelter does things like organize this beach outing, and putting 'safe' guys like Marc around us, deliberately? Knowing full well that there are a *lot* of women like me, there... women who have been assaulted, and might be afraid of men -- who might benefit from being placed in situations where we can 'safely' interact with guys, to help overcome those fears? »

I made a face, thinking about it.  «Forget that crap, girl. Today is a lovely day... just enjoy yourself, for once! »

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Wednesday, 12:50.

As I came back from the beach change-rooms -- nothing fancy, just a small, free-standing building with a few toilet stalls and a couple benches inside to change at, lit only by a couple skylights in the roof -- Angela looked up from spreading lotion on her son's back. "Hey, Crystal. Can you watch Sandy and Lenaya for a couple minutes, while I go get changed?"

"Umm, sure, no problem. Have you gotten lotion on both of them, yet?"

"Not yet... if you can do Lenaya, I should be back before you know it."

I smiled acquiescence, noting in passing that perhaps it was a good thing, that "Sandy" was a fairly gender-neutral name. With his shoulder length, slightly wavy, light blonde hair, and fine boned face... inherited, no doubt, from his petite mother... he looked more like a little girl, running around without her top on. Something that wasn't really helped by the fact he actually *was* wearing a girl's swimsuit bottom... although everyone had been careful not to tell *him* that.

"Can I play in the wa-tah, Auntie Cris-tah?"

Ignoring the way he had mangled my name... he was, after all, only three... I nodded, but put a 'serious' expression on my face. "Yes you may, Sandy. BUT...", and he stopped, turning back towards me. "BUT, stay close by, until I finish with your sister and can come join you, okay?"

"'Kay."

"Are you re-al-ly our Auntie, Auntie Crystal?" Lenaya was looking at me with big eyes... wise beyond her four years, as so many children placed into protective custody get.

"No, Lenaya, not really. But your Mommy trusts me, and wants you to stay with me right now... so it just makes things easier if you call me that. If you get lost, and you ask someone to help you find 'Auntie Crystal', they won't worry so much about who I am..."

"Oh. Can I go play with Sandy, please?"

"In a moment, dear. Turn around for me, so I can get some lotion on your back -- it is really sunny today, and you don't want to get a sunburn."

As I finished up with her, I decided I had better follow my own advice, and put sun-block on myself. A tan would be nice... but as a strawberry-blonde, I have a red-head's very thin, very white, skin. Skin that burns and freckles, rather than tanning, usually... and while I can tan, at least a little, it has to be done very slowly. A little at a time. Not something there was any point in even attempting to do, this late in the summer. Thinking about my skin made me smile, a little.

 «People who look at me never guess that, technically, I am 'native'. My father was half-blooded... but obviously carried some recessive genes from his own blue-eyed, blonde-haired father. »

I have always lived stealth, from my youngest years... although as a child, the "passing" I did, was to pass myself off as a "white child", rather than native. Not something I normally think about... but lately, applying for benefits... for the first time in my life, I had seriously considered ticking off the little box for "First Nations Status". If I had done so, as I am actually legally entitled to do, I might have received preferential treatment... but old habits die hard, and I had refrained from doing so.

 «They probably won't have believed me, anyway... not the way I look. »

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Wednesday, 13:14.

Rolling over, carefully, so as to not jar my shoulder, I absently noted that the girl on the next blanket over was casually sitting up, removing her top.

 «Must be nice to be so young and free. She's what... maybe late teens, maybe early twenties... and on a public beach, topless. The times have definitely changed. I remember living across the street from a nudist beach, when I was her age... which taught me to treat skin casually. But back then, that beach was secluded, with trees planted to block the view of passers-by. Now? She honestly doesn't seem to be giving it a second thought, despite how open this beach is to view... and how many children are roaming around with their 'non-nudist' families. True, she is the only one I can see, doing that, at the moment... but no one else seems to care, in the slightest... »

I grinned to myself.  «So? Are you game to imitate her? »

Perhaps fortunately, I did not act on my own dare. After all, it is one thing for a pretty young thing like her to do that... but I am getting closer to middle aged, now...

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Wednesday, 13:28.

I paused, on my way to the water. "How's it going, Michelle? Any problems?"

She gave me a sheepish grin. "Not a one, actually. Thank you for talking me into coming..."

"No problem. Did Kristine's suggestion work, about the wig?"

"Umm, I haven't tried swimming yet. I want to tan a bit first." She paused, then changed the topic. "You know, I was watching you, as you walked down the beach from the change-rooms. And watching the guys, who were watching you. Just curious... the way you were walking... like... I dunno... as if you weren't even aware of them all looking at you. How do you do that? I mean... if guys were looking at me like that, I would be freaking out. Wondering if they were *really* all just drooling, or if someone had read me..."

She gave a sort of bitter, self-conscious laugh. "Not that guys *ever* stare at me, the way they were at you. You really are hot, you know?"

"Err... thanks, I guess, although I think I am a bit too old to be called 'hot'."  «What do you say to something like that? » "As for the ignoring it... well, you just get used to it, after a while..."

 «Well, that... and simply not thinking about it. Even now, after so many years... if I see someone looking my way with lust in their eyes, I tend to assume they are actually looking at someone else, and wonder where she is. Not to mention that right now, I really *don't* want to even think about men thinking about *me*, sexually... »

Being out here today -- so skimpily dressed -- was probably therapeutic, actually. Although my bikini really wasn't covering much of my body... and there were men all around, at least some of whom definitely *were* looking at me, *that* way... it was a "safe" environment, where I truly *knew* -- deep down in my bones, not just in my mind -- that no one would hurt me. That the guys might look... but they would NOT touch, without invitation.

Right then, I needed that assurance... and receiving it, it helped my fears subside -- at least, a little...

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Wednesday, 13:38.

Swimming was actually a bit of a problem, although I suppose it was good physical therapy. I could use a side stroke, if I lead with my left arm. I could even manage a sort of gentle, modified breast stroke... if I was really careful about how far I moved my right arm. But most strokes, I could not even attempt... they were just too painful. Oh well, at least the water was shallow to a long way out, so I could wade whenever I tired.

At the moment, I was sort of leaning up against the side of the rather long dock, near where it joined with the short cross dock... sort of making a very thin, long "T". I absently noticed a couple young children swimming nearby, though the water here was probably over their heads. A detail that caught at my attention... and made me keep half an eye on them, so it wasn't really surprising that I noticed when the girl (six? seven?) seemed to be struggling in the waves of a passing motorboat. From the looks of it, she had been breathing in just as the wave slapped water into her face...

Stretching out my good arm, I offered, "Grab on for a moment, love."

As she did, coughing for a bit, I heard a man's voice drift down from the dock, somewhere above and behind my head. "Thank you. I was almost ready to jump in, and I am really not dressed for that..."

Twisting my head around, I glanced up... noting a lean, well muscled, and yet sort of 'distinguished' looking gentleman, dressed more for work than for the beach. Not young... but not old, either. Middle aged... and there was no mistaking the family resemblance, to the little fish hanging onto me. I smiled up at him. "Not a problem. Is this young man yours as well?"

"Her brother," he replied with a smile, referring to the other child swimming with the girl... a boy of somewhere around ten, treading water and watching his sister with concerned eyes.

With a glance at his watch, he broke the moment by addressing his children directly. "Actually, it's about time to go. I know I said you could swim out to the end of the dock first, but you are mostly there... and we really need to get going."

"Umm, Daddy? I need to go to the bathroom, before we go."

I grinned, at the expression on his face. If I had to guess, he was not here with their mother... and taking a little girl to the washroom was not something he was really prepared for. In fairness to him, she *was* at an awkward age... too old to take into the men's room with him without causing difficulties, but too young to safely send off to do her business on her own, yet. I was not really surprised to see him looking at me as if he wanted to ask, but wasn't quite prepared to do so.

"Would you like me to take her there, for you?"

His relief was palpable. "Thank you. How about it, Julie? Are you willing to go with the nice lady?"

She just nodded, but I felt her tightening her grip possessively on my arm... latching on securely, no doubt. Taking my cue, I started wading back to shore, with her in tow -- while her brother quickly climbed the dock end ladder, joining his father in tagging along on the dock above us.

It's funny, the things we remember, sometimes. I have no children of my own... and previously, not a whole lot of experience with children. Having a little girl cling to me so trustingly, like that... it felt really good. And having a complete stranger, a loving father, entrust me with his young daughter... well, lately, I had once again been thinking about transition things, reminded by my contact with several pre-ops. And so, where usually I would just accept that as 'normal'... today, it struck me that *this* was part of why I had gone stealth, so many years ago.

To just be seen as a woman, trusted to do things like this... with no hesitation, no wondering about my motives. Just seen as me, a woman like any other. Taken at face value.

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Wednesday, 14:55.

Watching Michelle 'cannon-ball' off the end of the dock -- then re-surface with her wig still attached -- it was apparent Kristine's idea had worked...

 «Glad that she knew that trick. I wouldn't have had a clue about something like that... »

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Wednesday, 17:05.

As I watched the chartered school bus fade into the distance, heading back to the city, I leaned up against my car for a few minutes. Just enjoying the feel of the sun on my face and body... relaxing. As I had my own transportation, I was not on any particular timetable... and hence, had decided to hang back, letting the others use the change-rooms first. Now that they were gone, though, I supposed I should probably get changed from my wet swimsuit. Changed back into the sundress I had worn for the drive out.

Wandering along the beach alone, I noted absently that most of the people had already packed it in. Not really surprising, I guess... most everyone here was probably like myself -- a day visitor from the city, who were facing a moderately long drive to get home for supper. And much as I was enjoying this "alone time"... I should probably get moving too. Directing my wanders consciously, it was not long before I found myself in front of the women's change-room.

The *locked* women's change-room... with a sign that I only now noticed, reading, "Open from 9:45 AM to 4:45 PM daily."

 «Oh, crap. Wonderful. W-a-y to go, genius. And once again, you learn the difference between just having a high IQ, and actually being *wise*... »

As I headed back towards my car... for lack of a better idea... I casually noticed someone standing beside a vehicle -- shielded partly by their open truck door, and partly by another person holding up a beach towel, they seemed to be changing right there in the parking lot.

 «Well, at least you are not the only one to make this mistake... »

Giving a second, more speculative, look at the changers... it occurred to me that I really could not see anything I was not supposed to. And while the person changing was a guy, which meant he didn't have to worry about his chest being seen... still... that other girl had been topless earlier, and no one had cared...

Shrugging, I continued on my way to my car, shifting my beach bag to a more comfortable position on my left shoulder. A bag I had carried while walking, with the vague plan of changing at some point... but which now it looked like I might as well have left it at my car, earlier.

Actually, changing wasn't all that hard to do. A little nervous making, yes... just because I tend to get rather "conventional", when taken by surprise... and I really had not planned on doing this. But not difficult. Of course, I did not have the helper that the other person had, to hold a beach towel up as a screen... but then, the sundress I was planning to wear was easier to don, than the shorts and tee-shirt the guy had been putting on. I simply pulled it up over my two piece suit, loosely tied the halter top strap behind my neck momentarily while undoing and slipping out of my bikini top, then re-tied the halter top strap more securely. A few damp spots on my dress from touching the suit top, but those would dry soon enough. Slipping my bottoms off, I started to reach for panties... when I noticed how 'damp' I still felt, down there.

I hesitated, watching a family with small children walk towards me... almost certainly heading for the car nearby -- where they would have an excellent view of any further antics I indulged in.  «Maybe I will just skip the panties, this time... it's not like I am going anywhere besides straight home... »

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Wednesday, 17:18.

Traffic was not all that heavy going back towards the city... although evening commuter traffic looked to be almost bumper to bumper, going the other way. Taking advantage of the more or less open freeway, my being alone, and the wind from the open T-top on my car, I decided to 'air dry' my still damp parts. Which is to say, I casually allowed my dress to ride up, exposing myself... not that anyone but myself could see.

Or rather, that was what I *thought* would be the case. I forgot about the little detail that the drivers of big trucks are *much* higher up than my low-slung car is... and could see down into my currently open-roofed vehicle, as I passed them.

"Woopsie. I thought that one was going to drive off the road entirely, for a minute there. Maybe I should cover back up..."

Okay, I admit it. I *do* have a small exhibitionist streak... when I know it is _safe_ to do so... and sometimes, just sometimes, I can be a little, teeny weenie bit, _evil_. Grin.

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Chapter 9:

Mid August, Thursday, 11:05.

I bit off a scream, as I collapsed to the floor, literally writhing in agony.

"Oh my god! Crystal, are you okay?! I'm so *sorry*! I just didn't _think_ for a moment! PLEASE tell me you're going to be alright..."

My lungs were nearly paralyzed from pain, but after a couple failures, I managed to sort of grasp out in a higher-than-normal pitched, weak voice. "Yeah... just... give... me... ah... min-... -ute..."

For a bit, I just focused on breathing while curled up in a ball on the floor, holding my right arm safe against my body. After a while, though, I opened my eyes again... to find Angela kneeling beside me, looking devastated.

Whispering, I managed to say, "It will be okay in a bit, Angela. The pain when I move wrong... or someone grabs my arm like that... it spikes really high, really fast... but... it fades away reasonably quickly, too. Just let me lie here for a bit, please..."

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Friday, 14:22.

"Bonjour, Marc. Vous allez bien ?"

"Bonjour, la belle dame. Il va bien, merci. Mais vous permettre de pratiquer l'anglais, s'il vous plaá®t ?"

I grinned up at him, raising an eyebrow. "Or in other words, my accent is so atrocious that you would rather we spoke in English?"

"Mais non, mademoiselle," he mock protested... although the twinkle in his eye said otherwise.

I laughed. "You're sweet, but I know how out-of-practice I am." Changing the topic, I continued, "I am just about done with the washer and drier, if you want to wait a minute, dear. And thank you, again, for your help with my car on Wednesday..."

Quickly finishing unloading the last few items from the drier, I started to pick up my basket of clean laundry... momentarily grimacing, as my shoulder protested. I thought I had hid that reasonably well... but apparently not, as he insisted on carrying it up the stairs for me. He did have to pause once, though, for a coughing fit.

"I don't suppose you have had that looked at yet, have you?" I gave him a fake scowl, before breaking up into a small laugh.

"It's nothing. I will be fine... I just need to rest for a few days."

"Are you sure about that? Even without examining you seriously, I can tell from here, just looking at you and hearing your cough, that it is more than just a cold..."

He just shrugged, then changed the subject.

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Sunday, 11:00.

The woman who stepped up to the podium, in this community hall, looked pretty ordinary. Middle aged, in reasonably good shape... not particularly attractive, but not too unattractive, either. Dressed much like any other woman her age.

"Thank you all for coming today..."

Actually, I don't remember all of what she said... nor what, exactly, the others said. And there were many others who spoke... as the gathering devolved into a large sharing circle, with women in a large circle all the way around the big room. Sharing, one after another, little details. Things from their own lives... and things from the lives of others. Friends, and acquaintances, who were not there that day.

Not there, because they were dead.

All of the women there, with only a few exceptions like myself, were sex trade workers. Some still working the street, some 'gone clean'. I could not help but remember a time, many years ago, when another 'long term post op' invited me to attend a TDOR -- Transgendered Day of Remembrance -- ceremony... and I was struck by the similarities, in what I was seeing and hearing. But there was one, huge, difference.

All of the dead these women were remembering, were locals. Women who had died on *these* streets -- not scattered all over the world, over a period of decades... but right here, in this city... within the last few years. Hundreds of names...

Women whose passing was rarely reported in the news, often other than in a tiny paragraph, somewhere in the back of the newspaper. Drug overdoses... by women who no longer cared if they lived or died. Women beaten to death, by clients or pimps. Women who jumped off a bridge... or a building... or stepped in front of trains -- desperate just to make things *end*. Even some deliberately murdered, by a serial killer -- whose existence in the city I lived in, I had been almost unaware of... as the press rarely mentioned his victims. Certainly, I had been unaware of just how *many* victims he had killed.

The women I met that day were from all walks of life, and a surprising (to me) variety of ages. From teenagers, to women in their fifties. Rich girls, fallen on hard times. Poor women, who had never had much. Professional women, who for various reasons had lost their jobs. College girls. Housewives. Many women with children, who just needed to feed their children -- whatever it took. Drug addicts, wanting to support their habit. Their name was legion...

But they were not a faceless mob, nor were they easy to forget. Each one had a story, about how she came to be there... and, after I admitted I was there because I was seriously contemplating joining their ranks, many approached me, one on one, to share their stories.

It ended up being a rather long afternoon, and one I will never forget.

Especially some of the little anecdotes, that some told. The woman who was *almost* a victim of the serial killer... who realized what was about to happen, as she lay naked and tied up in the back of a van being driven somewhere... and had managed to wiggle out of her restraints. A woman who had somehow found the courage to jump, still naked, from the back of the speeding vehicle as it was driving across a bridge. Who got up from the pavement, nude and bleeding, and ran back across the bridge to escape... knowing the van could not turn around there, to follow her. She survived... although with many scars, both physical and mental.

Women who had been beaten, then left for dead. Women who had 'performed' at knife point, doing anything they had to, to stay alive. Women who got into the trade after fleeing from abusive homes, with nothing but the clothes on their back.

My considering becoming a prostitute? That plan died, that day. Mostly. In a bizarre way, though, I came away with much more respect, for the women of the night. Their sheer persistence, in the face of incredible hardships. Their strength, and their will to live, even under intolerable conditions. The willingness of some to go to *any* length, do *anything*, for the sake of their children. I almost wish I were a member of their ranks... for in some ways, it would be an honour.

Almost.

~ ~ 0 ~ ~

Sunday, 22:12.

I don't normally wear a bra, these days. After my augmentation, my surgeon had recommended that I not wear one for a while... at least, once the initial healing was done. Something about helping ensure that the implants "dropped" properly, from where they were inserted to the position they would eventually settle into. But while I had worn a bra pretty much constantly before that time... after not wearing one for a few weeks, I was surprised to discover how little I actually needed one.

Even with double 'D' cup breasts, it wasn't really a problem. Oh, sure, I still wore one when I was planning to exercise, or whatever... or for modesty, if I were wearing something where my nipples might show through -- although most of the time, I wore enough layers that *that* wasn't really an issue. But as far as 'support', for day to day activities? It really made no difference. Something that mildly puzzled me, until I happened to find a web site about exactly why women wear bra's... which, according to that site at least, seems to be mostly just for cultural reasons. The site claimed that over ninety percent of women of North American women wear a bra, and that many had never even asked why...

Not surprising, I guess. Truthfully, I was in pretty much the same boat, before then. I wore a bra because that is just what people *expected* women to do. Because I just assumed my breasts needed the support... without really considering that a bra is a relatively recent invention, that women had done just fine without for most of recorded history. Assumed many things. Not all that smart, in hindsight...

I suppose the situation might be different if my breasts were 'saggy'... but fortunately, that isn't the case. And according to that site... it was actually *less* likely to become the case, if I *didn't* wear a bra constantly. Something about the ligaments that support the breast atrophying when not in use... making them *more* prone to damage, if anything ever did cause them to come under strain. Whatever.

My point is, wearing a bra is not an 'all the time', or even 'every day' event for me. Sometimes I wear one, such as for sports, or when it *is* socially 'necessary'... but most of the time, I do not. But, unfortunately... I considered something like today's memorial service one of those 'socially necessary' occasions. Not having the slightest idea what I was getting into, I had asked Michelle what to wear... a mistake, in hindsight. A typical 'early stage transitioner'... she is still in that phase so many seem to go through, where all they want to wear is skirts or dresses. So, naturally, that is what she told me to wear... even though it turned out few other women there were dressed that way. Anyway, I had worn a rather 'nice' dress... which happened to be one that needed to be pulled on over my head, since the waist was too tight to pull up over my hips.

And yes, I do know that for many TS their shoulders are actually more of a problem than their hips -- what can I say? I am not even close to "most TS" in body shape. In most respects, I fall entirely within the 'norm' for a 'natal' woman my height. And my height is also not exceptional, although a trifle above average... which makes sense, what with it being the same height my mother was...

My mouth twitched, as I remembered a really bizarre TV show I had channel surfed into the other day. A show on a US station that claimed to have answers to "men's" questions... and at the particular moment I tuned in, claimed to have a fool-proof method of spotting a TS. Their stupid brainwave? Supposedly, you can look at a woman's hands... and if the index finger is shorter than the ring finger... 'she's a guy'. Idiots. Not only were there lots of natal females out there whose hands are like that, considering that my own index finger is longer than my ring finger -- yeah, okay, I admit it... I actually looked -- their method really isn't that 'fool-proof', is it?

"Umm, Angela? Help?"

"What... oh, I see."

Dodging around behind me, she quickly helped untangle me, from where I had managed to get the dress over my breasts, and partway over my shoulders... and then, my bad shoulder had 'locked'. So there I stood, half naked... with a dress stuck around my shoulders and head. Not able to either pull the dress the rest of the way off, or pull it back on.

"Thank you, dear. I would be in a real fix right now, if I lived alone..."

"No problem. Do you need help with your bra?"

I hesitated for a moment. I had bought a couple "front closure" bra's after my shoulder was injured, before things became so tight financially. But while they helped a lot... getting in and out of them was a frustrating challenge, at the best of times, these days. And 'best of times' did not describe how my shoulder was feeling at the moment, after losing a battle with my dress.

"Yes, please," I finally said in a small voice, although I felt really stupid saying it.

Fortunately, she did not make a big deal out of it, just quickly undressing me as if I were her daughter. But afterwards, alone in the privacy of the bathroom, I found myself collapsing against the wall, sliding down to sit on the floor.

 «I *HATE* being dependant on people like this! Being a useless *cripple*. Can't defend myself. Can't work. Can't pay my own bills, without charity. Can't even get *undressed*, without help. I HATE MY LIFE. »

I sat there for a long time, crying. Quietly whispering over and over again. "I hate my life. I hate my life. I hate my life..."

~ ~ 0 ~ ~

Tuesday, 13:00.

I knocked on the open door to Amber's little office, down by the MAR building's front door. "Hi... you left a note in my mailbox, that you wanted to see me?"

"Oh, hi, Crystal. Yes, I did. As you probably know, I am also a social worker... and I wanted to ask you about a program that is starting up in a couple weeks, early in September. You don't have to decide right now, but I have a brochure here that I wanted to give you -- so that you can think about it and get back to me. I would need to know in the next couple days, though, as there are not that many seats available in the program..."

~ ~ 0 ~ ~

Thursday, 04:58.

The nightmares had been bad, last night. Really bad. Which possibly explains just why I was digging through one of the few boxes of books that I had not sold, when I liquidated so many others. A box of hardcover books... some old, some new... that I had acquired over the years.

The black leather binding, imprinted with silver Sigils... the silver gilt-edged pages, with the sewn in black ribbon bookmark... the particular book I was looking for was pretty distinctive. A numbered, original signed copy of Simon's version of the Necronomicon. The Book of the Dead. Not exactly part of my usual reading, or part of Celtic Wiccan rituals, for that matter... not that I have ever limited myself to just one aspect of being a wicce. Wicca is a very individualized faith... and I am rather flexible in my personal interpretations of it -- on those days when I felt any sort of spiritual leanings at all. Most of the time, I call myself an atheist...

It took me only a few minutes to find the particular ritual I was looking for... mostly just to refresh my memory of some of the more obscure words involved -- I may speak several languages, and comprehend a few more... but I am not really a true scholar of ancient Sumerian, although I *have* carefully learned the meaning of a few, specific, "useful" phrases...

Skyclad, I began to walk the circumference of the Circle, whispering softly the words of over five millennia ago... as I *really* did not want Angela to wake, while I was doing this.

"Isa ya! Isa ya! Ri ega! Ri ega!
Bi esha bi esha! Xiyilqa! Xiyilqa!
Duppira atlaka isa ya u ri ega
Limuttikunu kima qutri litilli shami ye
Ina zumri ya isa ya..."

~ ~ 0 ~ ~

Friday, 19:40.

"Umm, Crystal? You busy?"

I looked up from my notebook computer, from where I was sitting cross-legged on the bed with it in my lap. It was a truly decrepit Win2k relic that I had not bothered to try to sell for cash, since I doubted anyone would pay anything for it. It's batteries no longer worked, meaning I had to keep it plugged in... and there were other things wrong with it... but it was certainly better than nothing. Despite it's age, it would still surf the web, and even ran an obsolete version of Office that I had kicking around from my I.T. days. As the building had free internet and cable for its residents, I had dug it out of storage -- a free way to kill time, of which I had too much at present...

"Not really. I'm just reading some stuff online... mostly just for something to do. What's up?"

"I promised Nasrine I would watch her newborn this evening, while she goes to Mosque... but I just got a call from my children's guardians, and I really need to go over there for an hour or so. Would you mind looking after her baby for me? I promise I will be back as soon as I can..."

Slightly taken aback, I blinked. "Err... I guess I could. But I should warn you, I don't have a whole lot of experience with very young children..."

She smiled, with one side of her mouth. "Trust me, it won't be a problem. She is only a month old... she may very well sleep the whole time, and if she wakes, all you would need to do is change her, or give her a bottle. Nasrine is breast feeding her, but she expressed a couple bottles for this evening, which are in the fridge -- and everything else you might need is in the bag she brought over. Please? I really need to leave, right now..."

Against my better judgement, I acquiesced with a tilt of my head.

The almost panicky look in her eyes faded, replaced with a smile of relief. "Thanks, dear. You're the best..."

 «The best what? Idiot, perhaps? » I smarted off to myself... but, carefully, NOT out loud... as I watched her quickly gather up a few things and dash for the door.

~ ~ 0 ~ ~

Friday, 20:11.

"Yeah, right. S-u-r-e she will sleep the whole time. Now what do I do?"

Carefully peaking into her tiny diaper, she didn't seem to be wet... which a very tentative finger more or less confirmed. Although, I really wasn't that sure exactly what a wet diaper *would* feel like.  «Umm, don't these things have a 'stay dry' lining? *Would* it even feel 'wet' -- even if it was? Oh, wait... if it didn't *feel* wet, she wouldn't be crying... would she? »

 «Maybe try her with a bottle, to see what happens? »

Carefully picking her up... trying to remember what little I knew about how to hold a baby... I soon had her safely nestled in the crook of my good arm, securely tucked in against my naked breast. The sunny heat wave was still continuing... and while our apartment was not as bad as the ones on the other side of the building, which faced the sun in the evening... it was still way too hot for comfort. Hot enough that I had taken a cool bath just an hour previously, and never bothered to dress again after cooling off. Actually, the tiny baby girl -- whose name I could not remember at the moment, if I had ever heard it at all -- was almost as naked as I was, wearing only her diaper.

 «Ai-yi-yi-yah! Well, it's a good thing she doesn't have teeth yet... and I suppose this confirms what Angela said, about her normally being breastfed. » For a moment, I debated attempting to pry her loose from where she had "latched on" to my nipple... then just shrugged.  «I just had a bath, so my skin should be clean enough... and I don't have a soother to give her, to keep her quiet while I heat a bottle. Considering that about the only other thing I could use for a soother would be one of my fingers -- which probably have goodness-knows-what chemical residues on them, from my cleaning the bathroom after my bath -- maybe I should just let her be... it should only be for a minute or so before I have her bottle ready, anyway... »

Moving carefully so as not to disturb her, I shifted slowly to my feet, then started to walk towards the small kitchen alcove... absently noting the way her jaw and cheeks were moving, as she attempted to feed.  «Well, I suppose that confirms that she is hungry. I just hope she doesn't get mad and give up, crying, when she figures out I have nothing for her... »

Heating the bottle probably took me longer than it should have, much longer than I thought it would... as I really wasn't sure how long to 'nuke' it. I *did* vaguely remember that I was supposed to test it against the inside of my wrist... so I did have a gauge by which to tell when it was 'done'. But I didn't really know how long that would take, and didn't want to overheat it... so I kept zapping it for short periods of time, then taking it out to test again. By the time I figured it was 'right', the little girl was starting to get frustrated.... squirming around a bit... but was still being quiet.

At first, she did not want to let go... continuing to nurse on my barren breast, even though the bottle nipple was pressed up against her lips. Attempting to gently pull her away didn't really work -- she just latched on even harder, painfully so, as my breast informed me that particular plan wasn't a good one. After debating pulling harder, quickly enough that she wouldn't have time to react... but unsure if her neck was strong enough for that to be safe to do... instead, I tried squeezing a little milk from the bottle, dribbling it down my breast towards her mouth. It seemed to work, as after a minute she began to notice the milk on her lips, and started moving her mouth around up my breast towards its apparent source -- at which point, I was able to slip her the bottle's nipple. Shifting her around a bit as she sucked greedily, I eased myself down onto the battered old couch, gazing down at the loving little child in my arms.

Softly, I whispered, "You are so beautiful, little one. So innocent. So trusting..."

I felt my eyes tear up a little, as once again my old yearning for children of my own rose within me. The ache within my heart, as I had felt this little bundle of joy kneading my breast, attempting to nurse. The upwelling of frustrated maternal instincts... so long ignored. Children were a dream that I knew would never happen... but which I still found myself longing for, sometimes. My eyes lost focus, as I found myself drifting back in time, to when I was a little girl... and used to tuck stuffed toys under my clothing, pretending I was pregnant... pretending to give birth to my children. Something else I would never know...

My mouth quirked, as for a moment the irony of my previous thought caught my attention. "When I was a little girl...".

I shrugged, carefully so as not to disturb the child, letting that thought slip away. Once upon a time, such things might have mattered to me... but that was long ago. These days, I barely noticed thinking things like that... if I noticed at all.

My thoughts turned to the memorial I had been to, the previous weekend. To the brave women I had met, so many of which had children of their own... some, dearly loved... but some, unwanted -- unintended by-products of their trade. What I wouldn't give to be one of them, if it made me able to conceive my own children...

It was a very special evening for me, on many levels. Painful, as it reminded me of what could never be... and yet, immensely satisfying, as well. My heart ached, with suppressed instincts finally finding an outlet. Before that evening, I never really considered working with young children... fearing it would be just too painful, being constantly reminded of what I could never have. But as that night progressed, it really sank in to me, deep down inside, that even if I could never give birth... I *could* be a mother. Something I had "intellectually" known before then... but which now found its way deep into my heart.

A turning point, of sorts... when for the first time in too long, I looked forward to the future -- instead of miring myself in re-living the horrid past. Not a cure... but a first, necessary, step.

~ ~ 0 ~ ~