Donald Weaver hated Christmas, especially Christmas Eve, almost as much as he hated himself. It was supposed to be a time of joy and rejoicing. For the last two years it meant anger, frustration, supreme guilt and utter desolation. As he sat covered in the falling snow in front of the headstones of his family he took another swig from the rot-gut booze that was rapidly destroying his emaciated body. But on this horrid anniversary, even the booze couldn’t dull his pain. Two years... it seemed forever.

Growing up he’d been a shade tree mechanic. A ‘C’ student, college was not in his plans. However his soon to be wife, Betty, was pregnant when they’d graduated high school. Knowing there was no way he could support a family on his meager skills, he joined the marines, signing up for the Motor Transport Field, specifically as an intermediate maintenance mechanic. Between his two tours in Iraq, Betty had become pregnant with their second child. After six years he was discharged but had become an E5 sergeant and a master mechanic. Being a marine he refused to admit any weakness, especially PTSD. Like all too many servicemen, he hid the symptoms by drinking, becoming a functioning alcoholic. Upon discharge he took his family and the small inheritance he’d received from his parents estate and bought a run-down service station with an equally run down house next door. It didn’t take he and Betty long to fix both places up and built a thriving automotive repair business. By that time both boys were in school.

Betty was the bookkeeper and parts gofer, even helping him on jobs where extra hands were needed. She didn’t mind getting dirty at his side and she certainly cleaned up well. Their sons Donald Jr, better known as DJ, and Hollister, often shortened to Hol, as soon as they could hold a wrench worked in the shop after school, on weekends, and during summers and holidays.

By age fifteen, Donald was big and strong, unfortunately he was rebellious and a burgeoning skinhead as well as lazy. Donald had learned the hard way that every job DJ did had to be inspected to see if it was done correctly. The father and son were always at loggerheads.

Although short and thin, thirteen year old Hollister was a wiz at identifying problems just by listening to the way an engine sounded. For a mechanic, it was a natural gift. The boy could be depended upon to complete every job he was assigned in a timely and correct manner as well as using his initiative to identify and fix potential problems before they fully emerged. Because of his abilities and willingness to work, Hol was allowed to wear his hair like Joe Jonas of the Jonas Brothers. (http://images2.fanpop.com/images/photos/2600000/Joe-Jonas-th...)

DJ didn’t like being stuck working in the garage. He had no time to hang out with his buddies. What was even worse was when those buddies would drop by to see DJ. They always wound up in some sort of mischief, usually destructive. As often as possible, DJ slipped away to join his confederates in acts of minor vandalism. In school, the pseudo bad guy was always in hot water and barely passing. DJ was loud, hot-headed, and took pleasure in picking on dweebs and dorks and nerds, not to mention his goody-two shoes little brother who he enjoyed tormenting by calling him Holly.

Hollister never got into trouble. In fact, he was an intense often silent youth. Not once did he complain about the time spent working in the family business. While he never ratted DJ out to their parents, he would not lie to cover up DJ’s behavior. If questioned, he spoke the truth. This certainly did not endear him to DJ or his nearly degenerate buddies. In school Hollister was a straight A student who avoided drawing attention to himself. While he never had close friends, he loosely fit in with the class nerds and the Emo kids.

The business closed each day at suppertime. As Betty prepared supper, Donald tried to relax by drinking two to three beers and watching ESPN. If he was not out with his buds and not grounded for some misdeed, DJ joined his dad, sans the beer, though he repeatedly asked for a brew. After supper, Donald usually drank until he was drunk before heading to bed. Betty never said anything about the drinking, as the wife of a an active marine she’d learned Donald’s behavior was considered normal by the other wives. Betty did the housework, laundry and cooking, actually glad not to have the help of Donald and DJ as their efforts at helping usually meant a bigger mess. On the other hand Hol often helped his mother, much to her relief and joy. When not otherwise busy, Hol was in his bedroom on his computer.

The family dynamics were such that while normally balanced, were always near a tipping point. Most tips were minor and the status quo re-established within a few days. That had not been the case for several days. The week before Christmas the school had suspended DJ for five days for bullying. Needless to say DJ was not thrilled to have the time off from school spent working in the garage as Donald and Betty had grounded him for the entire Christmas break. Angry, he lashed out at Hol, giving his meek little brother a bloody nose. To make up for DJs nasty behavior, Hol was pointedly excused from working in the garage for the Christmas break. That only riled DJ up into a barely controlled frenzy.

Knowing to avoid his brother, Hol spent the unexpected free time in his room on the computer. Being computer savvy, he knew how to conceal his internet tracks from his parents even though they never checked his computer like they did DJs. Seven times in the past year they’d found DJ had been to porno sites which lead to his computer being relocated to the family room where he could be watched. That was another reason for DJ to hate Hollister.

Each day Hollister visited his favorite Trans story/info sites. First was Literotica, even though he seldom read any stories. Next was Recent updates to the Nifty Archives which occasionally had a story that drew his interest. Then came a site called Child Starlets where stills were pulled off movies and TV shows that, as it name suggests, featured preteen and teen actresses. Hollister turned green with envy as he dreamed of looking as cute as the actresses depicted. Then he moved to Betty’s Pub 5.4, where he read the posts and enjoyed the links to Trans photos and video posts. Then came Fictionmania with its daily posting of stories. The last site was his favorite, the Big Closet, where he read nearly every story posted.

Hollister longed to be a girl. For as long as he could remember he’d never felt comfortable being a boy. It was only when he discovered internet sites for people like him that he realized he was a girl in a boys body. Unlike tough macho DJ, Hol portrayed himself as being Emo since that allowed him to wear nondescript unisex clothes and keep his hair long. In reality that was as close as he could push his parents to letting him dress as a girl. They let Hollister push those limits because he stayed out of trouble, stayed quiet, worked well and without guidance in the garage, did his chores and homework and simply because he didn’t cause issues.

It was DJs near constant harassment of Hollister for sissy behavior (i.e. goody two shoes brown noser) from the time he was a toddler which made him hide his innate girlishness. Once in school the boy quickly learned attitudes like DJs were the norm. Hol hid his girlishness by fading into the shadows. It was only in privacy of his bedroom he let his inner girl free. The web sites allowed him to realize there were others like him, most of whom had to hide their reality just like he did. He longed for the freedom to become Holly. Meanwhile, he imagined himself to be the heroine in the stories he read or the girls depicted in the photos. The intense youth had even written a few stories but had yet to post them online.

Christmas Eve the crap hit the fan. Hol was reading an engaging story on Big Closet. When Betty called up to tell him supper was ready, he simply left the story on the screen. The atmosphere of the meal was not pleasant. Angry at DJ, Donald had downed five beers in quick succession before the meal. DJ had intentionally stripped the threads on a four cylinder head that held the spark plugs. Donald and Betty were at their wits end in trying to deal with DJ. Hol merely kept his head bowed and quietly ate while the parents berated their eldest who snarled back in protest. Finally in frustration DJ was ordered to his bedroom for the rest of the night. Angry, DJ shoved his chair away from the table only to have it tip over spilling him to the floor clunking his head. While Donald chewed DJ out for his latest bad behavior, Hol could not suppress a grin. Unfortunately, from his position on the floor, DJ saw the smirk which only infuriated him. Scrambling to his feet he stormed upstairs.

Passing Hollister’s bedroom, he opened the door intending to trash the room in reprisal for the smirk. Instead he saw the glowing screen. Although a poor reader, he quickly realized what he was reading. Fifteen minutes later with his own smirk plastered on his face he returned to the kitchen. “I’m going right back to my room but I want to say something first,” DJ sneered as he saw his parents about to yell at him for not staying in his room. “You always come down on me for what I do but you never do anything to Holly. Go upstairs and check what’s on HER computer!” With that he turned and ran up to his room laughing like a maniac.

Donald and Betty turned to look at their well behaved youngest wondering what DJ was crowing about. Instead of their calm son they saw Hollister sitting there clearly stunned with his eyes wide in terror and his moth hanging open in shock. All color drained had from his face. Pulling back, Hol pushed away from the table to head to his room to destroy the damning evidence. Donald snagged his arm before the boy could escape. The bewildered parents wondered what could be so terrible but it was clear Hollister was terrified.

Not being able to escape capture, Hol merely collapsed in tears knowing his life was over.

Needless to say a few moments later the young boy sat sniffling on his bed while his parents went through his favorite sites and even skimmed his stories. While not outright rednecks, they were certainly not bleeding heart liberals. Homosexuality was something they never dealt with as it was never a part of their lives. Transsexuals were even further removed from their reality. Such things sounded perverse and while they assumed such things existed, it was outside their frame of reference. Now to find their ideal son was a pervert was a slap in the face. Their world seemed to implode, especially when they found a poem Hollister had written. Donald read it aloud.

I’m really Holly

Most all boys are filled with conceit; but for me, I feel incomplete.
With frustrations I am replete; my male life is one of deceit.
Often times I feel a deadbeat; for joy in my life, I must cheat.
About my secret I'm discreet; to indulge myself is a treat.
To the heavens I do entreat; "Can't I be girlishly petite?"
Gazing upon my boyish teat; I wish pert flesh it would accrete.
My manhood I'd gladly delete; to be a girl, nothing could beat!
In my loins I feel such great heat; but my desire I must secrete.
I'd love to wear about my seat; mini-skirts with many a pleat!
To wear Mary-Janes on my feet; as I pad upon the concrete.
I'd love to wiggle down the street; let the boys watch my rear retreat!
I dream of her and hate my meat; any orgasm is bittersweet.
I'm always ashamed of such a feat; my sad face glows red as a beet.
Each morning I'd happily greet; to awake in a frilly suite.
In a dress all lacy and neat; I'd smile at everyone I'd meet.
To be a girl, one so elite; to be a girl would be so sweet!

What made things worse was the maniacal laughter coming from DJs room as he knew what his parents were finding.

Donald and Betty were stunned. Holly wished she could die as her deepest secret was finally revealed.

“This isn’t some sort of fucked up joke, is it?” Donald, feeling the effects of the five beers, finally asked the quivering youth.

Now that it was finally out, Holly bravely decided to face their wrath. Sniffling loudly, she gathered her courage, slowly raised her tear stained face and spoke softly but clearly and defiantly. “Of course it’s true. I’m not a dumb jock like DJ. That poem is EXACTLY how I feel. I’ve never felt like a boy. I’ve never liked being a boy. I hate being a boy. I’m a girl and my boy bits are just a birth defect.”

“Birth defect... BIRTH DEFECT! Being a boy is NOT a freakin’ birth defect!” Donald angrily retorted as only an ex-marine can while he swung his right arm landing a resounding open hand ‘SLAP!’ on Hol’s face.

The impact snapped the erstwhile girl’s head to the left and knocked the skinny kid off the other side of the bed. As her body crumbled to the floor a leg hit the night stand. The old wind up double bell alarm clock fell to the floor by the dead body with a melodic DING.

“DONALD!” Betty scolded her furious husband as she rushed around the bed to the crumpled body of her youngest. “Oh my God, you broke his neck!” She screamed as she saw the unnatural angle of Hollister’s head. Kneeling down she felt for a pulse. “You killed him! You bastard, YOU KILLED HIM!” Betty cradled the limp dead body of her son as she cried hysterically.

Donald was stunned by what he’d done. Dead? Hol was dead? Numbly he peered behind the bed to see his cruel handiwork.

“Christ dad, you killed the little freak?” DJ asked as he stood in the door looking into the bedroom.

Donald turned to scowl at his remaining son. Then stormed towards the door.

DJ wisely scampered back not wanting to face the wrath he saw on the man’s face.

Donald stormed down the steps to the kitchen. Picking up the phone he dialed 911. “This is Donald Weaver. I live at 862 Chestnut Street in Milford. I just killed my son.” Before the operator could say anything Donald dropped the phone. to report what he’d done. Reaching into the refrigerator he pulled out another bottle of beer and chugged it. Going to the cabinet where they kept the liquor, he pulled out two full bottles of whiskey. Then he went to the front of the house, opened the door, and exited, closing only the storm door. Then he sat on the steps to await the arrival of the police and ambulance.

Fifteen minutes later when they arrived, the second bottle was nearly empty. They responding policeman could clearly see Donald was totally inebriated as well as in shock and presented no threat. In fact, the officer wondered how he was even able to sit upright. The rest of the night was a blur. Donald was arrested and taken to the county lock-up. Hol’s body was quietly taken away. DJ wisely stayed in his bedroom, not able to handle the horror although he answered the police investigator’s questions. Although clearly dazed Betty slowly gathered herself and answered all questions.

The funeral was very solemn. Donald was allowed to attend in shackles. Betty refused to even look at him as she stoically faced casket. DJ was shaken. His entire world had been shattered and he felt it was all his fault for squealing on Hol. The family was shattered.

Numbed by what he’d done, Donald wearily plead guilty to manslaughter and silently accepted the twenty three month jail term to which he was sentenced which included time served.

DJ grew rebellious and belligerent. It wasn’t long until he fell in with an even worse group of friends. Within a year he was expelled from school for selling pot. Fourteen months after Hollister died, he was killed while trying to outrun the police in a stolen car.

Betty never recovered. Her life had been destroyed. Unable to handle a job, she managed to hang on by selling their home and garage. When DJ died, she simply gave up. An overdose of prescribed sedatives ended her suffering.

Donald rotted in jail, riddled with guilt for what he’d done. As first DJ and then Betty died, he slid further into depression and guilt. His moment of drunken weakness destroyed his family. By accidentally killing Hol, he’d also killed DJ and Betty. Solemn and quiet, the other inmates and the guards referred to him as a zombie. Donald had emotionally died but his body refused to do likewise.

Day after agonizing day he berated himself. Intellectually he believed homosexuality and gender dysphoria were not choices. No one would choose either. It had to be a very real physical quirk that made people follow their harsh reality. Why had he lashed out so violently? Hollister... Holly... had been a good kid. Always willing to help, worked harder than needed, never said a bad word about anything or anyone, and never complained about working in the service station. Why the hell had he hit the innocent child? Christ, she even had the courage to admit her reality once it had been so cruelly exposed. He loved Hollister... his son... his daughter... what the hell difference did it really make WHAT his youngest child was?

Sure, he knew the Marines were overtly macho and homophobic. Yet he knew a few guys who were quietly gay. They were upright and good Marines. Why had he reacted like that? Why?

Deep down he knew it was the PTSD and the alcohol he drank every night that had caused him to flip. Being so angry and frustrated with DJ had primed the pump. That wasn’t an excuse, there could never be an excuse. Hollister... Holly... had suffered. His family was destroyed. Some tough Marine he turned out to be. He didn’t deserve to be one of the few much less the proud.

When he was finally released from prison just after Thanksgiving, Donald had lost everything he’d had in life. The first thing he did was visit the cemetery where his family now rested. Still numbed by what his moment of alcoholic weakness had wrought, he felt utterly guilty for still being alive. Added to his guilt was the knowledge that he was too cowardly to end his own life. Enduring his agony was a punishment he meekly endured.

With a few hundred dollars to his name, he’d taken a room in an old motel that rented by the week located near the cemetery. When he awoke each day he had no ambition and no purpose. So depressed and guilt ridden he stopped bathing and changing clothes. As he walked to the cemetery he stopped at a liquor store on the way. Then he collapsed before the gravestones and drank the rotgut whiskey. It was only when drunk that he could cry. As darkness fell, he roused himself from the lethargic guilt and stumbled back to his cheap room. Every night he fell asleep in a chair watching whatever was on TV.

When he awoke on Christmas Eve morning, he was ready to kill himself. As he was getting ready to leave the classic movie ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ began on the TV. Remembering the movie, he easily identified with the hopeless George Bailey as he prepared to jump off the bridge. For whatever reason he simply could not rouse himself to turn the TV off and go to the cemetery to kill himself. A tiny part of him hoped he might find an angel to like Clarence to save him. At the end when the small bell on the Christmas tree dinged, Zuzu said “Look, Daddy. Teacher says, every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings.” George Bailey knew his angel Clarence had been rewarded for saving George.

Happy endings were all fairy tales! Angrily he stood and kicked the TV, smashing the tube in a shower of sparks and fumes. Suddenly Donald was staggered and stumbled back to drop in the chair as a forgotten memory of that fateful night hit him. When he’d slapped Hollister off the bed the alarm clock had fallen and dinged once! Could it have been Holly getting her angel wings immediately after his brutal death? It was a nice hope but that only aggravated Donald even more.

Pushing himself up he stormed out of his room without bothering to put on his ratty coat. Clad in his smelly flannel shirt he headed for the liquor store where he bought two bottles of the rotgut whiskey. Angrily making his way to the cemetery, he flopped down before the tombstones. While he wanted to cry, he couldn’t. He no longer feared going to hell. He’d been living in hell for two years. Going there would actually be a relief. Without further ado he began drinking. The cold settled in his bones as he forlornly sat. By dusk the first bottle was empty and he was able to cry. Looking at the name HOLLISTER engraved on the stone he fervently wished he had the money and will to change it to HOLLY. The lost child was his daughter and she deserved so much more!

Snowflakes began to fall as he shivered. The tears running down his cheeks began to freeze before they could drop off his chin. The alcohol numbed the discomfort of the cold as it began to claim his filthy body. By the time it was fully dark, Donald could no longer raise the nearly empty second bottle to his blue lips. The world was silent and covered in pure white. Donald felt the end coming and welcomed it. Slowly he crumbled to the ground as what was left of his shriveled soul gave up the ghost.

The ghost of Christmas Past

The Ghost of Christmas Present

The Ghost of Christmas Future

As everything faded into welcome blackness, Donald’s last coherent thought was that here was no future.

Ding

Ding

Ding

Ding

Ding

Even the welcome oblivion of death was out to torment Donald. Those damn bells... incessantly torturing him, reminding him of his failure every time another angel received their wings! Why? Why couldn’t it all just end?

Ding

Ding

Ding

Ding

Ding

The blackness began to fade and light began to filter through his closed eyelids. Smells... antiseptic smells began to irritate his nose.

Ding

Ding

Ding

Ding

Ding

Slowly feeling began to return to his fingers and toes. The numbness of the cold faded. As he became aware of more sensations he realized he was covered and lying on a bed.

Ding

Ding

Ding

Ding

Ding

Was he still alive? Had he even failed in his attempt at suicide? Life was so damn cruel!

Ding

Ding

Ding

Ding

Ding

Finally returning to the present he cautiously opened his eyes. Indeed he was lying in a hospital bed with numerous tubes and wires connecting his damned body to whatever monitors and medicines they were giving him to save his worthless life.

Ding

Ding

Ding

Ding

Ding

Those damned bells! Were they going to constantly remind him of what he did to Holly?

Ding... This one sounded as if it were off to his right in the hospital room!

Ding... Frustration filled his reawakening being. With great effort he turned his head toward the irritating sound.

What he saw made him realize he had truly made it to hell. Hollister was seated in a chair by his bed! It appeared as if he was playing some sort of hand held game? Ding... the bell sound came from the game? His personal hell was to lie in bed while Hollister tormented him? Hol would never do that! Donald moaned in mental agony.

“Dad? DAD! You’re awake! You’re finally awake! Thank you God, Thank you,” the boy exclaimed as he dropped the electronic pinball game he'd been playing and rushed to the bed to hug his father.

“Hol? Is that really you?” Donald asked despite his dry scratchy throat. “Hol... I’m so sorry! Please forgive me! You can be Holly! I’ll help you become a girl any way I can!”

Hol’s mouth dropped open in surprise. A smile began to fill his face, then fade just as quickly. “Dad, I’m your son. I put Holly away. I promised God I’d remain a boy if he let you live.”

“No, Holly, you are my DAUGHTER!,” Donald firmly croaked. “God put me through hell so I’d know I had to help you become the girl you are inside! The fact you’re willing to give up your true self for me just proves how wonderful you are! You deserve to be the best girl you can and I promise to help you all I can and then some! Holly, I love you!”

Holly began to cry and despite the wires and tubes threw her arms about her father.

Just then the door opened and Betty and DJ entered the room. The delight on their faces was instantly evident as they rushed the bed. Even tough guy DJ was teary eyed.

The day was January 6th, the twelfth day of Christmas, appropriately named Epiphany, the traditional day the Wise Men arrived to pay homage to Jesus.

Holly had only been knocked unconscious by the nasty blow. The fact Betty couldn’t find a pulse was because in her haste she placed her fingers in the wrong place. The police and paramedics arrived and passed Donald by as they headed for Hollister. When the second policeman arrived, the second whiskey bottle was empty and Donald unconscious. The paramedics had revived Holly and took her to the hospital for overnight observation. Donald on the other hand had consumed six beers and two fifths of whisky because of his guilt. He too was rushed to the hospital with acute alcohol poisoning, with a BAC of 1.13. Anything over a BAC of 0.5 can be fatal. Somehow he survived but stayed in a coma until he awakened on Epiphany.

Donald returned home the next day, never to touch alcohol again. True to his word, he supported Holly in becoming the girl she was, facing down the local school board to not only accept her transition but to ensure she was not harassed.

That hellish night also straightened out DJ. His grades rose and by the time he graduated from high school, he’d landed a full ride NROTC scholarship. He was commissioned a Second Lieutenant in the Marine upon graduation from college.

Betty loved her husband even more than before and was proud of her son and daughter.

Holly was a girly girl at school and home except when she worked in the service station. Like her mother, she cleaned up real nice. After corrective surgery at 18, she returned to the service station and earned the respect of other mechanics. Weaver’s Service Station became the go to place for women who feared being ripped off by macho mechanics. At age 22, she and her parents visited DJ at Camp Pendleton. By then he was a first Lieutenant in the motor pool. As DJ showed his family about the shop Holly met a mechanic. Two years later, after his discharge, they married and he began working in Weaver’s Service Station. Eventually they adopted two transgendered children, one a MTF and the other a FTM. The grandparents were delighted.

DING!