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.
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?
To be continued…
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Comments
We still have to learn
exactly what the nature of his injuries are. Even losing his gonads won't make him a girl, just a eunuch, and that can be eased with androgen therapy. Coveting the girls school uniforms, would make him more transvestite than anything. Wouldn't the Glam rockers have been a bit before his time Marc Bolam died in 1977.
So suddenly he can feel other people's moods, any more Uri Geller stuff to come? And what is the 'air conditioning' noise? Is that in his head, sort of severe tinnitus, why hasn't he told anyone about it? Will his eye recover?
Lots of threads to explore Nick.
Angharad
Angharad
Lots to learn
Thank you for your comment. It's quite a turn-round, since it's normally me commenting on your stuff - nice.
Anyway, something I should probably have said was when this all takes place. You're assuming this is set now, but it's not, well not this part. This is 1977 and I really should have said, sorry.
All will become clear, I promise
NB
School uniforms
Before we went to the Netherlands 3 years ago, Tricia had to attend school as Patrick, and her constant wish was to wear the same uniform as the other girls. Since transitioning, and returning to the UK, she now attends a girls' convent school and wears the same as all the other girls. The interesting fact is that now she bitches that she can't wear trousers to school when it's cold.
Just like all the other girls!
Hilary
School Uniforms
Isn't that normal, even in the adult world? Before transition, many TS women couldn't wait to get home and put on a dress.
After transition, what do they wear more often? Trousers, of course -- just like other women.
This is a crazy world.
Billie Sue
Yep
*Snort*. LOL. My standard wear going work is jeans since I am a software PERSON ( not geek, thank you very much !! )
Last year, I had to attend the ash laying ceremony for my partner's father so I went to work dressed up in a skirt-suit. Man did I get the once over thrice. One women said 'you have okay legs' apparently much to her surprise. This was the first time I had worn a suit since I interviewed for the job. This neatly segways into the old classic comment: 'are you interviewing ?'.
Hmmm, maybe now is not the time to mention I also wear cotton flannel pajamas in the winter ? Or that I absolutely hate polyester anything - doesn't breathe, darn it!
Kim
I guess
I think maybe it just depends on the person. I'm two years transitioned, and I still like skirts more than pants so do a lot of my friends though ((yes they are genetic girls)) we just love looking cute. I like jeans too, I just usually like to get cute ones, plain ones are boring. I don't really wear dresses much anymore, I only wear them for special occassions. And I usually change out of my skirts when I want to play a videogame, because I wouldn't want to wreck my pretty clothes.
However, now back on topic. This story is interesting, I like how Darryl realized that clothes don't make the girl. Though if Darryl thinks it's easier being a girl than a boy, well wait until you get back stabbed for your first time, that sucks big time. A woman's world is a jungle, and you need to know the rules to survive ^^
I know who I am, I am me, and I like me ^^
Transgender, Gamer, Little, Princess, Therian and proud :D
Abnormally Femmie?
That's interesting because I just did not come out like that. I have been activly "out" for a little over 3 years, and post op by a little over 6 months. In the last months I have just begun to wear Jeans, but only when practicality dictates it; like crawling around under a house.
Maybe it was just the pent up need, but every one I come into contact with says that I am a girly girl. Maybe that will ease as more time passes. In the winter here, it rarely goes below 20 F. and I do fine with simply leggings under my skirts.
I worry a lot about not being feminine enough, and there are some things that are "obligatory" before I will even leave the house. My cover up, lipstick, and rouge must be perfect, or I just can't allow anyone to see me.
Maybe I will be normal someday, but right now I can not see it coming.
Just a few thoughts....
Hmmmm... women wearing trousers....doesn't that make them transvestites? ;)
Lots going on so far - it's pulled me in, wondering where all these different threads are going, what they're attached to.
Can't figure out why his mum's about as receptive to him as a ham sandwich in a kosher deli... Are the doctors keeping his family in the dark about the procedures performed on him, is his mum just having a tough time accepting the new reality, or is she just dense? That damned humming sound (sure it's not fluorescent lighting?), and all his questions - sounds like he's trying to sort things out, but he's sure got a lot to figure out....
I'll be interested to see what decisions he... she? makes & what the repercussions are...
He conquers who endures. ~ Persius
Hmm...
I liked the sink or swim anaolgy...
maybe better put:
Like a baby thrown into water it either sinks or swims... only now the water was full of sharks and in the middle of a typhoon...
Great so far. :)
JC
The Legendary Lost Ninja
A theory
anyway is the loss of testosterone due to the loss of its source. And since he has gone through puberty. And as indicated so far that Darryl has always been more emotional then your stereotypical male. And the title of this series.
Adds up to somebody that needs to have a house dropped on ;-). Maybe.
It seems from most stories I've read that women have the stronger emotional radar than men, more empathic. Yes, Darryl seems to be telepathic also. If Darryl had gone through burnout we would be stepping into Whateley land and it could easily be transformed into a fanfic for that universe, but that is an aside.
With the removal of Darryl's testosterone blockage, he is effectively more 'feminine'. Being relatively young, its effect is not as persuasive yet as most TS folks know. Being more feminine may be enabling his ( soon to be her ? ) previously hidden talent. One wonders what happens when Darryl finally gets estrogen, possibly enabling her talent even further.
I really look forward to what comes between Darryl and his mother, it is the one area where I have no clue and ultimately will have a huge impact on Darryl.
I look forward to what comes next.
Kim
Mum's No Help
The poor kid gets no support from his mother. He's laying in a hospital bed and it's all blame and no sympathy. It's obvious the period is late 70s from the bands /groups mentioned and platform sole shoes. My memory says they were actually pretty unisex, and people forget that cuban heels were all the rage for boys in the early sixties, so maybe not so girly after all. The key to this has to be in the budding telepathy, but no doubt you'll manage to fool us, Nick,
Joanne
The Sight-2
Darryl's loss can leave him basically sexless or can allow his body to develop feminine attributes. Will be interesting to see where you take this story.
May Your Light Forever Shine
May Your Light Forever Shine
What kind?
We still don't know where this is leading, and maybe all the worries are his imagination. By the way, what kind of bike was he riding? Arecee
What bike?
It was a Honda TL 125.
The accident was real and my eye looked a real hamburger!
NB
the slight
ok now i see see the blind man .sorry i did not have a player card to tell me who was who or who did what but ok i fingerd it out have a good one and stay off tham bikes [email protected]
mr charlles r purcell
verry good story i wood love to see a lot more of this all i can say is wow verry good thanks for shareing
Staying off the bikes
I'll bear that in mind!
I'm a little more circumspect about what mode of transport I use nowadays and although have had many bikes, now stick to cars. Less chance of falling off them!
I have had a hankering after one lately though...
NB
TL 125
It's no wonder you crashed. Trials bikes aren't made for jumping. I have one in my garage. I bought it when I broke my back racing in the Nevada desert. I wanted to ride while my back was healing. The bike is good for climbing over logs, Arecee
TL 125
I beg to differ.
They are perfectly capable of being jumped, it was me who wasn't. I don't know what actually happened to this day, but somewhere between take-off and landing, we parted company. Next thing I knew I was talking to my mum and uncle in hospital.
The part with the air forks, the green gunk, the eye--all true. The attitude of the mother figure? True too.
I had a bad day that day and I still feel guilty, but as with the story, the bike was fine.
I don't jump bikes anymore. In fact, I don't jump if I can help it.
I've become--shall we say, sedate?
NB
looking into the sight
Loving where this is going so far, Nick.
I loved the air conditioner analogy....... I was giggling for quite a while on that one... I always hated how they would rumble to life, shaking the ducts and hum, then once you could start to ignore it, they would suddenly turn off, and there would be a deathly silence.
I think his internal radio needs a bit fine tuning. ;)
A.A.
p.s. may your sight forever see.;)
'Made your own bed ...
... now lie on it' would seem to sum up the Mother's approach. When not taking it out on the uncle that is. Not much evidence of maternal affection then. Didn't even bring any grapes. It is a tough unforgiving world!
The plot bed continues to be nicely seeded. Very much looking forward to finding out what finally comes up.
Fleurie
We are getting ahead of the plot here
The boy only suspects they have removed his boy bit.
The only thing we know for certain is he can read thoughts, the buzing may be thoughts to weak to come in clear. Nick is setting up something weird. It this magic, mutant power, weird sci-fi and is he a he or a she now?
Mom is a piece of work. The uncle seems okay if a bit too premissive.
If he can receive thoughts, can he send them? Maybe mom can get a taste of what her hateful remarks are like.
John in Wauwatosa
John in Wauwatosa
hoi
sublimal messaging maby ?