To Whom It May ConcernChapter 6 Conscripts and Recruits
- 3 years ago
- 7
- 0
Blister free porn video
Blister
by Alyssa Amene Palin
2001
[email protected]
***
It was the long walk up the drive that always posed the
first problem; the bullying on the bus home the second. So
what to do? To walk slowly, staring at the ground, letting
everyone pass me by, and so get a bad seat on the bus? To
walk quickly, overtaking all the way, but have to pass all
those who hate me? Whom I hate. If I walk steady, I've
found they tend to seek me out anyway. When I get to the
bus, no matter where I sit, someone will seek me out. Even
the first-years are scoring points off me now.
So I wait.
Five, maybe ten minutes, on the bench behind the science
block. Beside the greenhouse, where no one ever goes. And
then, when all my peers have trudged up the drive and
boarded the bus back to their own particular domestic
paradise, I can begin the walk home. It's only five miles.
***
My name is Christopher. Christopher Anthony Leach. Chris
to his friends, although he doesn't have many. I hover
somewhere on the periphery of life, drawing vicariously off
others' experiences. I ask a lot of questions, but if I
ever want to receive answers I'll have to ask them out loud
sometime.
***
There's no pavement on this section. I've lost count of
the number of times I've nearly been run over; the cars
swerve madly, only just missing the nondescript figure they
hadn't seen a moment before. Perpetually enclosed in the
bushes and the overhang from trees. Today, it's raining,
which makes the journey home all the more pleasant. Times
like these I really start to wonder just what it is I'm
doing; I ought to just get the bus home, and put up with it
for the scant half-hour it takes to meander through the
local villages. Times like these I can really despise
myself.
***
Who am I?
What am I?
And why?
***
Nearly home now. There's the turn into my village, and
it's time for the great debate. Do I spend another twenty
minutes on the path through the woods, coming out at the
end of the estate, or do I just go down the main road? Of
course, if I do that then I'll have to pass the Bench.
The bench outside the shop.
It's amazing how such an innocuous item can acquire such a
veneer of loathsomeness. It's taken me over an hour to get
here from the school; ample time for the dumb Neanderthals
to get home, get changed, grab their skateboards - and
whatever else they feel they need to appear in public sans
ripped uniform - and congregate around the damn thing. I
feel certain (although I know this is stupid) that they go
there just to torment me, to shout at me, and then go home
when I've rounded the corner.
Today, like most days, I opt for the path, despite the
rain. As I squelch home through the loosening mud I cannot
help but reflect on my life.
***
The entire purpose of my existence is to make others feel
big, or to amuse them, or to brighten up their lives in
some minuscule way they'll forget in ten minutes' time and
I will remember for years. What do I do? Okay, so I mope,
I don't talk to anyone and I constantly look as if I'm on
the verge of tears, but why does this offend them? They
use any excuse to - and thanks a lot, guys, by the way -
make my life just that little bit more miserable than it
already is. And they laugh about it with their mates: the
short, wimpy bloke with the straggly hair and bad clothes -
shit, isn't he funny!
***
Damn. My mum's home; her car is on the drive. I sigh, and
put the key in the lock.
No sooner am I through the door than, "Hi! How was your
day?" emanates from the kitchen.
"Fine," I reply, trying to sound as if I'm smiling. She
asks me if I want a cup of tea. I decline and make my way
up the stairs to my room. I set down my bag, unpack the
contents and put them away, and grab my dressing gown and
the bag I keep behind my chest of drawers, all with the
automated feel you get when your mind is on something else.
"I'm going to have a bath," I yell down the stairs, and
without waiting for an answer, go into the bathroom and
lock the door.
The very fact that you can lock it makes the bathroom my
favourite room in the house. I could be doing anything in
here: snorting drugs, dissecting the cat, anything, and so
long as I was quiet, no one would know. I go to the
toilet, wash my hands, and then start the bath running. I
strip, weigh myself (eight and a half stone) and climb into
the bath. I let the scorching water blister my feet as I
hold them under the hot tap, until the water level rises
enough to submerge them. I turn off the taps, lay my head
against the side of the bath, and cry.
***
Today had been a particularly bad day. I mean much worse
than usual. My days normally consist of some teasing, some
name-calling, and maybe having my bag nicked or the
contents thrown around, all set against the 'background-
noise' of self-hatred. Today was worse than that. Much
worse.
I had been crouched behind the geography hut, reading my
book, a safe distance away from everyone else in the entire
school, when I was ambushed.
It helps to think of it as an ambush (or maybe it doesn't),
to think that these people had planned it all. It was much
worse to believe the truth, which was that it just
happened. Some tenth-years had come up behind the hut to
have a smoke away from teachers' eyes, and had spotted me
there. Of course, as soon as I noticed them I got up and
started to walk somewhere else. Of course, they assumed I
was going to tell a teacher.
Five of them, one of me.
And the added humiliation of walking around school that
afternoon, everyone knowing that here was a sixth-former
who'd been beaten up by a bunch of people barely into
GCSEs, was horrible. I had to walk with a limp, which made
me even funnier to look at.
***
I reach down beside the bath, groping around for the bag
I'd brought in with me. I find it and raise it to my eyes.
(somehow, dramatising the situation seems to make it
easier; always imagine you're in a film, and the experience
becomes less real)
I pull out the blade inside - from my dad's box of
disposable razors, with the handle removed. With my body
naked, visible through the clear water, I can see each and
every bruise; each and every one a dark, hideous purple:
the mark of a punch of hatred. No, not hatred. That
implies a personal stake. I was just there.
I cast my eyes to my right arm (I'd made sure to keep it
out of the water; wet skin doesn't cut so easily). The old
scars and the newer cuts, yet to completely heal; raised
welts on the skin. My head spinning, the tears spilling
down my cheeks, I cut crossways, clean and methodical, a
perfect 90? angle. Again. Again.
I lie back and watch the blood mingle with the water.
***
And that was my day; a Thursday. Only one more day to go
until the weekend, and two days of freedom.
***
So who am I? What am I? And why?
I'm just getting to grips with these questions myself, but
I suppose I have to come clean sometime (Christ, I feel
like I'm at an AA meeting). Hi, my name is Chris, and I'm
a transsexual (gasps from the back).
Nobody understands what a transsexual is, unless they are
one or they have prior experience of our kind. We're not
exactly well-publicised in the media, except as the
obligatory 'joke stories' in certain supposedly upmarket
tabloids. I can't describe how it is for every
transsexual, but this is how it feels for me.
I was born as nothing. As a blank slate, an open canvas
upon which the world painted its idea of manliness. I was
christened Christopher. I preferred the nothing.
I am a girl. I'm seventeen. I am a fraud and my life is a
lie. Hell, it's not even mine; I'm living somebody else's
life (whoever they are I hope to God they're happier than
me).
I hate college (school, sixth form, whatever you want to
call it - it all just means bullying and humiliation to me;
have anxiety, will travel). It crushes me. At least at
home I can be some vague shadow of the person I believe
myself to be, but I cannot be me at college. All I want to
do is go there, stand in the middle of the field and shout,
"I am a girl! My name is not Christopher!"
and for everyone to go, "so that's what was wrong," and
rally round me. Of course, it's not going to happen.
I lie awake at night, planning the speech I would make to
the masses in assembly. I dream of transition, of surgery,
of hormones, of just being me, of life. My life at the
moment is hell; my body is a twisted, mangled wreck. I
hate it.
I get depressed, a lot; in fact, it makes more sense to say
that I occasionally feel okay, because my natural state is
of self-hatred. I've started carrying a razor round with
me now, in the pocket of my coat. It's not like the big
fucker I keep in the bag behind my chest of drawers, or the
knife I keep in my desk, but a little one, still in the
casing. It's enough to cause pain and to draw blood, and
it will do for when I just can't wait until I get home.
It's impossible to describe how it feels to hate yourself
so much. To loathe and despise every inch of your hideous,
malformed body; to live every day in a prison constructed
from your own flesh and blood.
***
Friday: more of the same, really. I don't get beaten up,
and I don't get taunted that much. My day finishes at two,
so I get home quite early. I go and shut myself in my
room, and put on some music (the Manics; natch). I lie
there for a bit, on my sofa, thinking. I get a sudden
flash of inspiration, and reach for my pad and pen.
I've been scratching out this particular poem for a while
now; it's not coming very easily. Writing about my self-
harm always seems to be much more of an effort than writing
about my transsexuality, or my depression. It's difficult
to get the words out, and there are special skills involved
in the process.
For instance: it is vital that you DO NOT read what you
have written straight after you have written it. Since
writing about it requires me to be depressed in the first
place, I've found that if I re-read the thing I get even
more depressed and have to do something horrible to myself.
Usually cutting, biting or burning; although I've been
punching bits until they go numb lately (slightly strange;
you'd think I could just walk into the street and say "Hi"
to save myself the effort, but it's... different when I do
it). The disadvantage is that you walk around with a limp,
or you can't use both bits of cutlery, or some such thing.
I manage to get another three or four lines down before I
break off. Shit, I can feel myself slipping, got to occupy
myself. All I can think about is how much I hate myself,
my body, my life. I shouldn't have started writing; it's
brought all the feelings out again.
All I can do is think these days, and when a thought starts
going round in my head it's difficult to stop it and it's
not fair its not fairitsnotfair I HATE this shell - this
useless body that insults my every waking thought - this
pathetic diseased hideous covering that when I cut it
exposes nothing but the diseased core of myself. I've been
poisoned by God (sorry who?) the god who loves us and cares
for us and died for us FUCK HIM I dont understand why i'm
stuck here why me what did i do what did i say I DONT NEED
THIS I DONT NEED ANY OF IT
i could have been so normal so liked so wanted so desired
lusted after needed drooled over taken away parties pubs
crowds i could have been so popular fuckit id be a
millionaire by now (a fucking millionaire dyou hear me) if
it wasnt for this hateful thing im trapped inside this
malaise of the body that surrounds me
i cant bear it i cant bear it i cant bear anything parties
pubs crowds none of it take it away popularity (how can i
be popular im afraid to go out to leave the fucking house
to be human be sociable be alive and out there teenager
goes missing in own road found lying under a car desperate
to stay away from the crowds that terrify him (HER))
her? youre pathetic youre no girl youre a boy and a bloody
ugly one at that you cant live your life wishing you were
something youll never be (i will be please believe me)
bullshit bullcrap horseshit all of its fucking bollocks you
know exactly what you are you dont need a doctor to take
samples pull blood tap knees to say YES YOU ARE A
TRANSSEXUAL you know you know so why haven't you done it
you know so do something about it
i cant
im scared
because im so insular so lonely so unsupported and whys
that yes why is that because im a transsexual im warped its
killed me stone dead no interaction no dealings no moving
and shaking so im saying the reason i cant do anything
about it is because ITs stopped me from interacting gaining
confidence listening learning listening listening to
anything other than my own head its not fucking fair
i hate my body this stinking tarred shell i want to see it
hurt i want to see it cry and i want to see it bleed ha!
look at me look at it look at me at me im gonna do it im
gonna do it I CANT DO IT i cant do it to myself i hate it
hate me hate everything circling cant stop it hate hate
hate hatehatehate must make it bleed pay for it pay for
everything with pain get its just desserts free myself with
the pain the blood the scar the breaking of the skin
justifies existence and the little death takes its toll
there we go there it is ha! whos laughing now whos broken
bent twisted not me
i hate this i hate you i hate me i hate my body my mind my
spirit my life i love my death i long for the silence i
long for the silence the silence take me away
... and when I wake up later on in the night - woken by the
light I left on - my sheets are bloodstained and my arm is
bleeding again.
***
It's difficult to think clearly about my condition.
Sometimes I can manage it, but the whole thing often
completely overwhelms me. It's just such a massive
complication to what would otherwise be a nice, simple,
boring life. I suppose it brings a bit of interest and
excitement, but not of the sort I'd really like.
It's hard, knowing you'll never be normal. Never be happy.
I'm going to live my entire life inside this cage, and I'm
starting to wonder if it's worth it at all.
***
I don't go out Friday night (where would I go?), so I stay
in and watch the television. After about an hour I switch
it off in anger; I can't stop feeling jealous towards the
women on TV.
***
I wake up Saturday morning feeling a little better. I
check the cuts on my right arm (on the upper arm, from
Thursday - I'd cut high up to avoid detection - and on the
forearm, from last night - stupid, deep cuts) realising
belatedly that last night was not a good idea if I want to
keep everyone in the dark about my cutting. I slip on my
dressing gown and go to the bathroom to wash the cuts. I
vaguely hear the phone ringing.
It turns out it's for me. This is by way of being a
calendar event anyway. Wondering who the hell it could be
I trot down the stairs to where my mum is holding the
handset. I take it and say hello.
"You fucking gay twat. Do you like knickers?"
I'm stunned. I vaguely hear the sound of a few people
laughing in the background before the line goes dead. I
stand there for a moment, listening to the 'call ended'
tone, before hanging up and trudging upstairs. I hear my
mum asking who it was but I ignore her and go straight back
to bed.
***
I get two more calls like that in the evening. There's
obviously a party going on; I can hear music and a lot of
voices in the background. My parents are out; some sort of
dinner party a bunch of people my mum exercises with are
throwing. The phone rang again after that, but I just let
it ring, watching television, trying not to cry.
***
At first I thought: how can they know? But then I realised
that they probably don't. I'm just a target. Hah.
***
I don't cut myself that night, although I really want to.
Unless I'm completely out of it, like I was the yesterday,
I only cut for control. I've come to the conclusion that
if I cut every time I want to I'll be scarred from tip to
toe within a fortnight. I rake some keys up my arm
instead, until the skin is scraped away and the blood
starts to clot underneath, and then turn out the light. I
get no sleep.
***
Nothing much happens on a Sunday. I sit around, I read, I
try to think sane thoughts.
***
I don't know what I did to annoy them - well, I never know
THAT - but Monday's been the worst day in a long time.
Why?
I got attacked again, but this time it was in the fucking
form-room! The teacher's up at the front, just like usual,
taking the register, and that fucking Jeremy bastard starts
throwing things at me. He's got this box of erasers out of
a cupboard and is throwing them across the classroom.
They're hitting me, very hard, on the head.
Of course, his mates think this is highly amusing and join
in, so within about ten seconds I'm drowning in this
fucking sea of stationary, and they're singing, "Chris is a
wanker!" over and over and over a-fucking-gain!
Mr Hythe looks up and just tells them to calm down.
Doesn't bollock them or anything, just tells them to calm
down because he's trying to take the register.
So I'm being insulted and attacked, and no-one - no-one out
of a class of thirty kids - defends me. I just take it.
I just fucking take it.
I hate all of this.
Everything seems to mount up, after a while. You think you
can cope - with being depressed, being bullied, being a
fucking tranny - but you can't. In the end, they always
win. They wear you down. You can resist - *I* can resist
as much as I like, but it doesn't make a scrap of
difference.
I just want to crawl under a rock and never emerge.
***
That night, I don't sleep at all. I just lie there, all
night, thinking. I don't cut myself; something tells me
it's got a bit beyond that now.
***
In the morning I pack my bag in a daze, not really
concentrating on what I'm doing. Everything suddenly seems
so simple; for the first time in my entire life, I am
totally calm. For the first time in months, I don't
secrete a razor inside my coat. It'd just be pointless.
If the events of the past few days - fuck it! The events
of my entire fucking life - have taught me anything, it's
that there's no point standing up to Them. They're always
bigger than you, always stronger than you, and certainly
always more numerous. Entropy.
Today, however, I feel curiously strong. What a strange
experience.
***
Odd: I never noticed there were pigeons in the trees
outside. I was always too busy staring at my books.
Miss Knowles barks at me to pay attention; I ignore her.
I'm far too busy watching the birds outside: they look so
peaceful.
"Christopher Leach!" Miss Knowles shouts. Again, I ignore
her. I've never looked at the trees around the school
before. Well, maybe as hiding places, but never as
entities in their own-
She's apparently marched towards me, because the next thing
I know she's banging her fist on my desk. "Chris Leach,"
she says. "Are you paying attention?"
What the hell. "No." I turn at last to look at her, and she
looks pleasingly astonished by my response. Nerdy kid does
good! She rallies well, though.
"Why not?"
I can't come up with a good answer to that; at least, not
one that won't alarm her. So I just shrug.
"Well, are you going to pay attention to the rest of the
lesson?"
"Probably not," I admit, and I shrug again. Another
flabbergasted moment passes, and then she sends me to see
the head teacher. I don't bother, and go outside to sit in
the shade of the trees instead.
***
I get the bus home. I get teased, but I don't listen.
***
"You fucking gay twat."
I don't want this.
"Chris is a wanker! Chris is a wanker!"
I don't need this.
"Get 'im!"
I can't stand this.
The punches, the kicks, the name-calling, the abuse, the
stealing, the shouting, the screaming.
The tears.
I don't have to put up with this.
***
I stare out of the window for what I know will be the last
time. The tears are spent; the recriminations, gone. This
is it.
For a while I just sit, watching the occasional car drive
past, flanking the parked vans at the side of the road. I
watch the rain collecting on the branches of the trees,
weighing down on the new leaves of springtime and finally
dropping to the ground, scattering small clouds of dirt.
I see the men outside the hardware shop up the road,
arguing over some new item or another. I was never
anything like them. I see the young mother walk her child
by the railway track, and I have a terrible moment of
clarity. I'll never be like her, no matter how hard I
might try. Never.
My eyes start to mist over, and it feels like the tears are
coming back. But no. It's too late for that now.
Not taking my eyes off the view from the window, I reach
behind me and open up the top drawer of my desk. I remove
the blade and hold it up to the light. Considering all
it's done to me, it seems surprisingly clean.
I look away from the outside world, closing the curtains as
I step down off my chair. I arrange myself in the middle
of the floor, sitting cross-legged. It occurs to me that
I've never seen things in so much detail before. The world
looks so beautiful, and so tragic at the same time. Never
mind.
Slowly, steadily, I pass the blade across each of my
wrists, watching the blood well up in the new wounds. I
carefully place the knife on the desk, and close my eyes.
And then, finally, I lie back on the floor, and quietly
fade away.
*
Arisha
- 02.02.2021
- 7
- 0
