The Sight
By
Nick B

 © Nick B 2008
Wonderfully edited by Gabi

Darryl's stay in hospital continues and so does his worry about "the operation"...

Chapter 2

The next morning–day three–the murmur or hum in his ears had become noticeably louder. Just on the edges, was what sounded like chatter, but nothing discernible and before he had had a chance to try and fathom what it was, the nurse came to give him his medication.

Darryl was almost overcome by a wave of emotion that felt like worry. He looked at the young auxiliary nurse as she handed him a small beaker with three pills in the bottom. She looked fine, happy even, with a chirpy and bubbly nature. From the outside, no one would ever have suspected she had things on her mind.

He didn’t know how he knew, but he did know that she was the source of those feelings of worry and he wondered what could be on her mind to cause it or how on earth she managed to hide it so well. As she walked away, Darryl could feel the emotional wave receding with every step she took.

What the hell? he wondered. Would he get similar feelings from everyone that walked past or came to see him?

As if in direct answer, a woman was being escorted by the sister from the ward. There was no disguising how she felt. She was crying loudly as–with an arm about her shoulder–the sister took her across the polished linoleum tiled floor towards the doors.

Darryl was not prepared for the tsunami-like rush of despair that washed over, through and around him; so much so, that it was much later that he finally opened his good eye and stared around the ward.
The weeping woman was gone and so too was the feeling of despair, but without a watch or a clock that he could see, there was no way of knowing how long he had been unconscious.

“Holy–!” he exclaimed. “What the hell was that?”

“Are you alright Mr. Groves?” asked the sister.

He so wanted to say, “Aside from my balls being left on a gorse bush somewhere off the A23? Fine.” But no–it did make him snort a bit before getting out what he knew he could get away with.

“Er, fine. A bit of pain from the gash in my left leg, my right leg itches like crazy and I can’t see squat through my left eye, but apart from that, super, thank you,” he said finishing off with a huge cheesy grin. The sister rolled her eyes and shook her head as she wandered off.

As if being able to feel the emotions of others wasn’t unexpected enough, that last blast was a real kick in the teeth. He felt drained, both physically and mentally, but it did take his mind off the possibility of having been given the “snip and tuck” treatment. However it wasn’t long before it was back at the forefront of his mind, gnawing at him like a dog on a tasty bone.

Would being a girl really be so bad?

Propped up against the pillows, Darryl thought about his younger days (ironic at the tender age of sixteen). His almost overwhelming desire to wear what all the pop stars of the time were wearing and how this would not have gone down well in the provincial school he attended played on his mind. The shoes he wanted were a prime example.

The idea of a boy wearing something glittery or having boots or shoes with stacked heels; wearing his hair long or anything remotely ‘girly’ was likely to incite a riot, despite there being any number who were avidly listening to Roxy Music, David Bowie, Mud, Sweet, Slade, Kiss, T-Rex or any others in a long list of glam-rockers, but it wasn’t just that was it?

No it wasn’t.

He had found himself at school looking with envy at the way the girls could adapt their uniforms to incorporate other elements, such as longer pencil skirts, pleated skirts, circle skirts, ‘A’-line skirts; with tights, without tights, sheer tights, woolly tights, coloured tights; silky blouses, cotton blouses, cardigans or jumpers and that was apart from the fun they could have with underwear–a subject, about which Darryl knew precious little, other than what he had gleaned from his infrequent peeks at said items in his mother’s mail order catalogue.

He, on the other hand–as with all the boys–was stuck wearing the same old stuff day in, day out. Well not the same stuff necessarily, but certainly the same style; the trousers, shirt and shoes. Not exactly exciting.
It was odd; like the dawning of realisation.

He had what he termed as an unhealthy desire to be more like the girls and little interest in trying to fit with the boys. To him, they were just a necessary evil; something to tolerate until he could decide for himself…

The fact was he knew that school uniforms weren’t there to be exciting, but dress code aside, the girls seemed to have the better deal. They seemed much less prone to fighting, were generally a much better package visually (in most cases anyway) and from what he’d seen his mum go through, there were obviously bits that didn’t appeal, but not half as many as didn’t appeal about being a boy.

It didn’t help either that Gemma–a budding dressmaker–would often enlist his help when pinning the hem of a dress or skirt and he would stand upon the kitchen table, twirling slowly as pins were inserted into the fabric to mark the position of the hemline.

He tried to keep his thoughts to himself about how he felt when posing in his mother’s latest creation. The feel of the light, silken material as it swished like a soft breeze against his legs, or how the bodice enveloped his smooth, hairless skin sending tingles up and down his spine.

The killer was when she made a fairly tight-fitting skirt for her friend and he had to wear a pair of her panties as his own briefs were “far too lumpy”. This he did–after some protestation, although in truth he couldn’t wait–and upon slipping into said skirt, he was told almost immediately to “tuck yourself back. We can’t have that showing now, can we?”

After a little confusion, he had tucked his willy out of the way between his legs before pulling the panties firmly into place, followed by the skirt.

“See, nice and flat,” said Gemma.

The whole experience was one he will probably never forget. Seeing himself in the mirror, flat stomach and on down to the groin, just like the girls at school. Consequently, this had a profound effect on Darryl and whilst the feeling of wanting to be more girly waxed and waned, or at least didn’t dominate every waking hour of every day, one glance at that memory and it all flooded back.

So would being female be so bad?

He couldn’t answer that. He felt like a baby being taught how to swim by being chucked in a swimming pool, where the idea was to sink or swim. Nine times out of ten, the baby will float to the surface and splash along at its own rate, perfectly safe. Was this the same?

Hardly, but he did feel as if he was being dropped in the deep end and the thought of suddenly having to change his ways because of a stupid accident was not inspiring confidence. Having posed in a skirt or stood in a dress for a matter of a few minutes, did not constitute being a girl, however much he may have liked the experience.

“We know you’ve had sixteen years of being a male, but now we want you to forget that and do this now…”

Swimming never seemed so hard once you got the hang of it, but this wasn’t swimming, was it? No, this wasn’t even doggy paddle.

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When Paul and Gemma arrived, Darryl’s head had practically reached overload. The only thing missing was the steam jetting from his ears. Not only was he contending with being able to feel those emotions that the majority of people hide behind brave smiles and the classic ‘stiff upper lip’, but that humming noise was also starting to encroach. Was it louder or was he just more aware of it?

It was insidious; worming its way in from the edges of his consciousness, sometimes overshadowing sounds he needed to hear. What few conversations he had had with staff were difficult as many of those staff members were overworked, tired and stressed, which sent their emotional levels higher than he was comfortable with, and some were experiencing their ‘pre-monthlies’ which just made the whole thing a complete nightmare.

It was like an industrial air conditioning unit which makes you jump out of your skin when it fires up and annoys the hell out of you until eventually you get used to it, at which point, it shuts off and you get the feeling you’ve just gone deaf.

Would he get used to it or would it go away?

“How are you doing? The ward sister says you’re making good progress,” said his mum.

“I’m okay I suppose. It’s so boring.”

As clear as day, his mum’s thoughts rang in his head–you should try doing the job I do all day…

“I wish I HAD a job to do,” he said without thinking.

“Pardon?”

“Well, you know–all I do here is sit or sleep; there’s nothing much else to it. I can’t get up or go to the bathroom, although the sponge baths are rather nice…”

“You should have thought of that before you threw yourself off of that bloody motorbike, shouldn’t you? What is it with kids of your age and those infernal death traps?”

“It wasn’t like that. D’you think I did it on purpose?”

“No, no, of course I don’t,” she said, but was in two minds about that–and Darryl knew it. “But I do think Paul should have shown better sense.”

Paul just sat there quietly. He knew better than to argue. It was his bike and his fault that Darryl had got himself into this mess. Darryl meanwhile saw this as a warning signal and knew what to do about it.

“It WASN’T Paul’s fault this happened. He didn’t make me ride his bike. If anything, I made HIM let me ride it, okay? I’m sorry all this happened and I’m sorry I broke his bike, but it was MY fault–MINE!” he said, feeling redness creeping up his face from his neck to his brow and with that, he started to cry.

Tears streaked down his face and whilst he couldn’t look directly at his mum, he could see out of the corner of his eye that she was calming down, though occasionally threw black looks and Paddington-hard stares in Paul’s direction.

“For God’s sake stop that snivelling. D’you want everyone to think you’re a girl?” Gemma asked, coldly.
That was enough for Darryl, his emotional bank was already way overdrawn and a fresh flood of tears began.

“Still,” said Gemma, changing the subject and arranging her handbag on her lap whilst looking decidedly uncomfortable with her son’s outbursts in front of all the people on the ward, none of whom–in reality–were paying any attention. “If you continue making improvements like you are it won’t be long before you’ll be home again.”

“How long?”

“A day or two? Three at most?”

“Um, that’s great,” he said without any real excitement, but quite a few sniffles.

“You don’t sound too pleased.”

He wasn’t. The thought of being all on his own all day without being able to get about wasn’t as stunningly exciting as he had hoped. That was without even bringing the “surgery” into the equation.

Surely the doctors would have said something about what they were going to do wouldn’t they?
Maybe they did, just not to him. They did tell him they were going to perform a small operation. Did cutting off his manhood constitute a small operation then?

It just didn’t bear thinking about.

“I’m fine, mum. Happy to hear it, but I just don’t know if I’m going to be healed by then.”

“You’re not here to get healed all the way, just well enough to go home.”

Was it just the fact that he knew his mum so well, knowing that–all too often, her mouth was saying one thing but she meant another? This time, he could tell that she was afraid of not being able to earn the money to support them if she had to nurse him back to health. It wasn’t just the money either, it was the fact that if she had to take too much time away from work, they may well find someone else to fill her place; a place that wouldn’t be there by the time she was able to go back.

“But… I just don’t want to be a burden, mum,” he said, trying to head her fears off at the pass.

“Burden? How could you possibly be a burden? You’re my son.” He felt a bit better hearing that, but still he didn’t feel comfortable and neither did she. The tears rolled freely once again down his face and Gemma nervously fidgeted with her handbag, trying not to look directly at Darryl.

“There’s always my house,” said Paul helpfully. “You could have a bed downstairs. No awkward staircases and, with Doris at home all day, you won’t be on your own will you?”

“That’s kind of you, Paul, but we can manage,” said Gemma.

“No. I think that’s a very good idea,” said Darryl. “You don’t have to take time off work and I won’t be on my own. You can always come visit in the evenings after work.”

There was little hope of that.

In all the years that Paul had been living there, not once had she ever taken the time to ‘come visit’.
“Well, if that’s what you want…” she conceded, grudgingly.

It wasn’t really what he wanted. There was comfort to be had from being in his own bed, with his own stuff and in familiar surroundings, but somehow, as much as he loved his mum, he knew she would have greater difficulty accepting the ‘new Darryl’ that he had become.

“Well, I need to use the loo and I think we’d better make a move don’t you?” she said, clutching her handbag in front of her and looking directly at Paul.

“I guess.”

They said their goodbyes and left Darryl feeling somewhat shell-shocked. Why did she always have to be so confrontational? Why couldn’t she just accept that things happen?

He felt worse now than before they came and he had been so looking forward to it too.

Outside in the foyer things were getting heated.

“Do you have to be so cruel?” asked Paul when they were well and truly out of earshot of Darryl.

“Mind your own business, Paul. Don’t you think you have caused enough trouble, letting him ride that stupid bike?”

“He’s emotional. It’s not good to keep emotions like that bottled up.”

“Real men don’t cry.”

“Oh really? Where does it say that? Why can’t they show emotion and anyway, he’s not a man–yet.”

“No and we’ll be lucky if he makes it that far too, no thanks to you.”

“Me? What have I done?”

“Letting him ride your bike. Getting him mixed up in things he’s far too young for.”

“It’s no more than any father would do and besides, he has taken responsibility for it, which makes him more of a man than I think you realise. You want him to be a man and yet you won’t let him get there, you keep stopping him–why?”

“I think we’ve gone about as far as I want to go here, don’t you? He’s my son and my responsibility. I’ll thank you to keep out of it in future. Now I think it’s time to go.”

“Then I think you’d better go on your own. I’m angry Gemma and I don’t think it would be good for us to travel back together. I’ll get the bus if it’s all the same.”

“Suit yourself.”

Darryl’s face went from a twenty-to-four to a ten-to-two face in no time at all upon seeing Paul step through that door. His uncle looked a little sheepish and he shrugged, grinning at Darryl as he walked back to beside his nephew’s bed.

“I thought you’d gone, Paul.”

“You know how it is. People change their minds. I thought you could do with the company for the last fifteen minutes of visiting time.”

“You have no idea. Mum doesn’t exactly have a particularly good bedside manner.”

They laughed and joked for a few moments, but Paul’s face got serious.

“You’ve changed,” he said.

Oh God, he can tell. Is it that obvious? What am I going to do?

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To be continued…

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