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Please read, but I can't bring myself to say enjoy. Peter By Samantha Jay (c) February 2002 Part 1: In the beginning. "Samaritans, I'm Sam. How can I help you?" "You can't, nobody can," a voice said. "I'm willing to try, if you'll let me. What can I call you?" "Peter," the voice replied. "Hello, Peter, I'm Sam," I said. "I'm going to kill myself," Peter said. I pressed a button, which lit a lamp on the supervisor's desk. "Why do you want to kill yourself?" I asked, hearing the sound of sobbing from the other end of the phone line. "I want to die, I want the pain to go away," Peter sobbed. "I mean what I say, I've got a knife." 'Shit, this was really serious,' I thought, in my experience, using a knife was not a cry for help. It was terminal. "How old are you, Peter?" I asked, trying to keep him talking. "Fourteen." I pressed the button again and waved frantically at John, the supervisor. "Peter, I'd like to meet you, can you tell me where you are phoning from?" I gave John a sheet of paper. The colour from his face drained as he read the note. 'Fourteen-year-old boy threatening to kill himself with a knife. I think he's serious and I've got to get to him, be prepared to take over.' John nodded his head in agreement. "I'm not going to tell you. You'll only make me stop," Peter said. "Peter, I only want to meet you, talk with you, face to face. Maybe buy you a coffee or even a coke," I answered. "You won't try and stop me?" "Peter, I only want to have a talk with you. See if we can't work this thing out," I answered. He gave me the location of the phone box, it agreed with the information I had. I could see the phone box's telephone number on my display and I had checked this against the list supplied by British Telecom. But I wanted Peter to trust me and this was the start of that trust the gaining, of which, was vital. "Peter, I'll be there in ten minutes. I'd like you to talk to a friend of mine. He's called John. Promise me you'll talk to him?" "Okay... I promise." I passed the phone to John and ran to my car. John was good, but I had to get there in time. I drove like a bat out of hell, fortunately it was three in the morning and there was no traffic around. The blue lights in my rear view mirror surprised me. "Damn!" I swore. I stopped, got out and dashed to the police car. Showing my ID to the police officer I said, "Sorry, officer. I've got a fourteen-year-old boy who's threatening to kill himself. I'm trying to reach him before he does." Before the officer could answer my mobile rang. "Excuse me. Sam here... yes, John... shit, okay... keep him on the line." "I'm sorry about that, it looks like we are close to losing him, I've got to get to him. Look, can I report to a police station later today and complete any paperwork?" I handed the officer one of my cards. Luck was with Peter that morning. "That won't be necessary, sir. Be careful how you drive and... please save him." The officer was thinking of his own fourteen-year-old child. "I'll try and thanks," I said and sped off into the night. A few minutes later, I arrived at the phone box and saw it still occupied. I phoned the office. "Chris, Sam. Tell John I've arrived and ask him to warn Peter of my approach." I didn't want to scare Peter anymore than he was. I waited thirty seconds and approached the phone box. As I neared, I could see Peter's problem. As soon as I was near enough I called his name, softly. "Peter?" The boy turned and I open my arms in, what I hoped would be, a friendly manner. Sobbing, he dropped the phone, ran to me and cried on my chest. I let him cry, before going to the phone box and picking up the phone. "We're coming in, he'll need a doctor," I said and hung up I picked up the knife and led Peter back to my car. As he got in the front, I put the knife out of harms way, in the boot. Once back at the office, Chris and I took Peter to a private room and he sat in a comfy chair. "Tea, coffee or coke?" Chris asked. "Tea, please," Peter answered and then thought, "I need warming up, this dress is more suited for warm days than chilly nights." Chris went to make the tea, but left the door open; she knew I wouldn't leave Peter alone. Peter was surprised. These people, the one's with him now, were the first ones not to ridicule him, or laugh at him or even hit him. Chris brought the tea and some biscuits and then sat quietly in a corner. We had to protect each other, Peter from me and me from Peter. This way, no one could say that I had molested Peter. "Peter, do you want to tell me about it?" I asked gently. "About what?" Peter asked. "About why you want to kill yourself?" "My parents came back early and caught me. Mom, walked out of the room saying I wasn't her son anymore and dad..." Peter paused, started crying and continued, "Dad just kept hitting me. Why did mom say that? I can put up with dad hitting me, but why did she say that?" Chris went over to Peter and he put his head on her chest and bawled his eyes out. "You poor child," she said softly, almost motheringly. "You have a good cry, it'll will feel better after." We let Peter have a real good cry; Chris mouthed 'I hate his parents' to me. I knew what she was saying; I just could not understand how someone could say that to a vulnerable and impressionable child. But we were professionals and we wouldn't let our feelings cloud the issue... we couldn't afford to. Peter's life was at stake. We may have stopped this attempt, but unless we could help him find a solution, there could be other attempts and it only needs one to succeed. It didn't bear thinking about. That's why I volunteered to be a Samaritan; I couldn't bear the thought of someone needlessly throwing his or her life away. I had to help, needed to help and Peter needed that help more than most. There was a knock on the door, I opened it and John told me the doctor was here. I wanted to be sure there was no obvious injuries, without X-rays and tests we wouldn't be sure, but... "Peter, I'd like our doctor to have a quick look at you, don't worry, she's very nice. Would that be okay? Chris will be with you," I asked. Peter nodded and, after I let the doctor in, I went to find John. "I think we are going to have to get the RSPCC and Social Services involved, John," I said. "He's told us that his dad hit him several times." "I'll contact them now and get someone over right away." "Thanks, let's hope we get a sympathetic social worker, I don't want to lose him," I said. It's not that social workers were unsympathetic, but they did have a very big caseload and this one was awkward. Not everyone, like Peter's parents demonstrated, handled the fact that he was wearing girl's clothes well. There were a lot of prejudiced people about. How did I know? From first hand experience. You see, I'm a transvestite and it happened to me. Okay not as young as Peter, I was too scared to tell anyone until I was over twenty and had left home. But the turmoil inside of me, the constant pressure to appear 'normal', my parents and friends' rejection of me, the pain of not being able to be dress how I wanted, all these factors drove me to the brink of suicide. I knew what Peter was going through, what I didn't know was whether he would survive. It had been touch and go with me. If it hadn't been for my wife, Chris... Part 2: Sam's story. What do you mean, you want to know about my attempt. Look, this is about Peter, not me. Oh all right then, we have a little time while the doctor examines Peter. I was twenty-three, had a well-paid job with a well-known retailer and had loads of friends. I had also been dressing since I was ten. My sister was a year older than me and I had access to her cast offs. Not that she or mom knew of course. Over the years I had managed to keep my little stock of girls clothes hidden and I had gotten very accomplished at girl things. I knew how to apply make up and what styles and colours suited me. It wasn't easy, but I had my sister as a role model. I took note of what she was doing, read her magazines, when everyone was out, and just copied everything she did, surreptitiously of course. I did well at school and got a job as a trainee manager. I still lived at home, but wasn't dating anyone. I completed my training and became a manager at a city centre shop. Things were going well and I had lots of friends, at least I thought I did. Then came that fateful night. Mom and dad were out and sis had already left home. I was alone and decided to get dressed. I hadn't had the opportunity for a while and I was getting tetchy. I got out my meagre stock of female things and had a shower. After drying, I put on my one, and only, bra and knickers, filling the bra cups with foam inserts. Black tights, white blouse and black skirt and I was ready for my make up. I hadn't, couldn't afford, a wig, but I did have some flat heel court shoes. Looking in the mirror only confirmed what I knew I would see, a shorthaired young woman. I spent the evening watching television and I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew was hearing a loud shriek. "Sam, what do you think you are doing?" mom yelled at me. "Are you some sort of faggot?" my father said disgustedly. "We never raised you to be like this, where did we go wrong?" mom said. "Pervert," dad said. I saw the loathing in dad's eyes coupled with a look of horror on his face. Mom eyes had that sad look about them, the look that mothers who have lost their sons in road accidents have. They were dead and lifeless eyes. I ran out of the living room in tears. I'd cried all night and, by morning, had packed my things into my car and drove to work. I looked terrible. I found a small guesthouse to stay in and tried to carry on with my life. One by one, my friends drifted away, found reasons not to be seen with me. The atmosphere at work became increasingly tense and strained. Eventually they told me they had to let me go. No reason was given, but I knew. I knew the reason why. Why I wasn't welcome at home, why I was about as inviting as a four day old corpse. Why I was avoided like the plague, why I had to take to living in my car. Then late one night, I walked to an isolated beauty spot. I had to walk, as I couldn't afford petrol for my car. I had made up my mind; I knew what I was going to do. I noticed the phone box... *** "Samaritans, I'm Chris. How can I help you?" "You can't, nobody can," a voice said. "I'm willing to try, if you'll let me. What can I call you?" "Sam," the voice replied. "Hello, Sam, I'm Chris," she said. "I'm going to kill myself," I said. "Can we talk about it, Sam?" she asked. "So that you can call me a weirdo before you hang up." "I won't do that. Why do you want to kill yourself?" "I have nothing to live for, I've no family, no friends, no job, no life. All I've got is pain, misery and heartache," I replied. "You've got me," she replied. "And what can you do?" "I can be your friend," she said. "Why?" "Because I'd like to," she replied. "You are only saying that to stop me from killing myself," I said. "No I'm not, I can never have enough friends," she said. "You won't want to be my friend," I sobbed. "Why not?" "Because no one does," I answered. "Can I meet you?" she asked. "Why do you want to do that?" "Because I want to be your friend and I can do that better by meeting you." She sounded sincere and really interested in me, so I told her where I was. "See you in fifteen minutes, now I want you to talk with Fred. That okay with you?" she asked. I must have said yes because I was soon talking with Fred about nothing in particular. Less than fifteen minutes had elapsed when Fred told me that Chris would be approaching me. "Hello, Sam," a soft voice said. I turned and saw a beautiful young woman walking towards me. "Chris?" I asked. "Yes," she said. "Can we go somewhere warmer? Do you mind if I talk with Fred?" She motioned me to her car and I handed her the phone. "We're on our way in. Thanks, Fred," she said. She drove back to their office and I was shown into a private room. I dropped wearily into an armchair. "Tea?" she asked. I nodded and relished the comfort; I hadn't sat in anything like this for months. I must have looked a right mess. I hadn't had a proper wash for weeks; hell I hadn't done anything proper for ages. My hair was long and greasy and my clothes, I couldn't remember the last time I'd changed them, could stand up on their own. I wouldn't have recognised me. "I'm sorry I look and smell like this," I said, when Chris came back in. "I live in my car and there is no room for niceties." "Why do you live in your car?" she asked. "It's a long story." "I've got all night," she said. I sighed, took a sip of hot tea, savoured the taste and began my story. "...After I'd lost my job, I couldn't afford anywhere to stay and without an address you can't sign on for unemployment benefit and things just went downhill from there. For the last few months I've been eating what I can find, wherever I could find it, even dustbins," I said, finishing my tale, having left nothing out. "You poor thing," Chris said, tears running down her face. "Look, come back to my place and get cleaned up, then I'll see about finding you somewhere to stay and you can start rebuilding your life." "But you don't know me," I said. "I know you are a human being and that you have the right to a wash and clean clothes. Look, I'm only offering you a bath." "Thank you," I said with real humility. Chris went to check with her supervisor and, after a few minutes, she came back in, carrying her coat. "Okay, Sam. Let's go and get you cleaned up." She lived in a nice part of town and her flat smelled nice, at least it did until I entered. She went into the bathroom and began filling the bath. She then fetched a black bin liner and told me to follow her into the bathroom. "Take off all your clothes and put them in the bin liner. Then have a long soak, don't worry about your hair, we'll deal with that later," she said. She left the bathroom and I got undressed, following her suggestion. I climbed into the bath, the warm water felt good. I lay back and relaxed. Chris made me have two baths and I noticed that the water got progressively cleaner as my body gave up its ingrained dirt. Even my hands looked cleaner. After my second bath, I wrapped a towel around my waist and called for Chris. It was time to get my hair washed. This would also be a long process. It took two or three applications of shampoo and a lot of combing before all of the tangles had been removed, with the worse knots being cut out. "Sam, do you want to become a woman?" she asked. I had told Chris about my dressing. I'd had to; it was the reason I was in this mess. "Chris, I'm not a woman trapped in a man's body, I'm a man trapped in men's clothing," I answered. "At least I think that's what I am." "Very deep," she said. "You know, you really have nice hair, when it's clean." "Thank you," I said. "Did you shave regularly?" she asked. "When?" I said. "When you were living in your car." "No," I said. "So how come you haven't got a beard? Hey you've haven't got any chest hair either." "I never thought about it," I replied. She led me to the guest bedroom. On the bed was a pile of clothes, all women's. "Haven't you got anything else?" I asked. "Sam," she laughed, "I thought you liked wearing our clothes and anyway, in your emaciated state I am bigger than you." "Okay Chris, thanks. Look, do you think I could have a sleep, I don't know when I last slept on a bed?" "Yes, why not. Promise you won't do anything silly," she said. "I promise." "There's some jim-jams on the bed," Chris said, as she left the room. I picked up the cotton top and shorts and put them on. I lay back on the bed and was sound asleep in no time. *** I slowly woke up; I had no idea how long I had been out. I ventured in the living room. "Glad to see you are awake, you must be Sam?" a woman said. "I am, but..." "June," she said. "One of Chris's friends. She's asleep at the moment, but I was asked to keep an eye on you." June saw my puzzled look. "You won't be left alone until we are happy that you have gotten over last night," she added. "Hungry?" "I've been hungry for months," I answered. "You'll have to be careful of how much you eat, at least for a while. Your stomach won't be used to eating large meals," she said. June went into the kitchen. "Tea or coffee?" she called. "Tea, please?" I replied. "Can you make one for me as well?" Chris said, emerging from her bedroom. "Sleep well, Sam?" "Yes I did, thanks," I answered. "And Chris..." "Yes?" Chris said. "I want to thank you for saving my life last night. I had literally reached the end of the road; at least I'd thought so. Then you showed me such kindness. Did you mean what you said last night, about being my friend?" I started to cry. "Yes I did, Sam. I wish I'd known you earlier. Maybe you wouldn't have had to..." Chris didn't finish, she also burst into tears and we hugged each other. June came back into the living room with the tea. "Good, I always feel better after a good cry. Now you are awake, Chris, I'll go and let you two have a good talk. Girl to girl," June said. After June had left I asked, "What did she mean, girl to girl?" "Well Sam, with your long hair, slim body and longish fingernails, you do look like a girl. Even more so wearing my jim-jams." "But I'm a man," I said. "Are you? Why did you want to kill yourself?" she asked. "I told you why." "Tell me again." "Because my family has rejected me, because I've no friends, no job," I said. "That's not the whole reason is it?" "Yes it is." "Sam, if I gave you a choice, now, between wearing male or female clothes, which would you choose?" "I... I'm... er," I stammered. "Sam, I know the answer. You told me last night that you copied your sister, read her magazines. You said you learnt girl things," Chris paused. "So," I said. "Sam, that's the real problem, you don't know who you really are. Your body says male, and even that's confused. Your mind, well I think your mind is unsure. Part of it wants to be female, another part wants to be male and the rest is undecided." "I'm not sure where you are going, Chris." "You need to resolve that conflict, one way or another. If you don't, it will tear you apart and, who knows, the next time you try to kill yourself, you may succeed. And there will be a next time," Chris replied. "How do I do that?" I asked. "Let me make a phone call. You go and get dressed." I went to the guest room and took my top off. Something was nagging me, something I'd forgotten. "Shit, must have a wash," I thought. You forget these simple things when you haven't been able to do them for so long. I went to the bathroom and had a wash. I looked round for a deodorant and, finding a new one, used it. Back in the guest room I started to get dressed. Cotton knickers, pop socks, jeans and a T-shirt, they were a bit loose, but were okay. The shoes, flat heel court shoes, were a little tight, but wearable. "Chris," I said after walking into the living room, "any chance of a bra?" "You want one?" Chris asked, smiling. "Yes. I'd feel happier wearing one." "Do you want padding?" "No, I don't think so," I replied. Chris fetched me one and then went to get dressed. I removed my T-shirt and put the bra on, then put the T-shirt back on. I sat and waited for Chris to emerge from her bedroom. "Just got to brush my hair," Chris said, after finally coming into the living room. "Yours could do with brushing as well." She brushed her hair and then tossed the brush to me. "I used your new deodorant, I hope you don't mind?" I said while I brushed. "Not at all, we girls always share things." I finished brushing and turned to look at Chris. "You look really cute, I could go for you," Chris said. "Yeah, right." "I mean it. You really are cute." "You are embarrassing me," I said. "Come on, we've got to go." "Where?" I asked. "I've arranged for some tests to be done. I want to know if your enforced diet has caused any damage," she answered. She dragged me out of her flat and into the car. We drove to a large private hospital and we reported to the reception desk. Chris spoke to the receptionist and we sat down. We waited for about thirty minutes and Chris's name was called. Following the nurse to a consulting room, where we met a female doctor. The next hour was full of x-rays, blood tests, sight tests and physical exams. We went for lunch while the results were tabulated. Two hours later, we were back in the consulting room. "First of all, there is no physical damage, at least none that a well balanced diet won't fix, but we found something unusual in the blood tests," the doctor told us. "It seems that there is a total lack of testosterone in Sam's blood, there is a small amount of oestrogen, but nothing out of the ordinary." "What does that mean, doctor?" I asked. "We are not sure why you have no testosterone, but your body has not developed any of the secondary characteristics. To correct this, and to start puberty, you will have to take hormones," the doctor said. "Female hormones?" I asked. "If that is what you want. At the moment, your body is a blank canvas. You can go either way. The problem is, we don't know what effect hormones will have on your condition." "Sorry, doctor. I don't understand." I said. "If you start on hormones, any hormones, will that kick your testosterone production in, or are you incapable of producing testosterone?" "Chris, what do you think I should do?" I asked. "Well, you have been unhappy as a male and you almost lost your life," she said. "True," I said, "But will it be any better as a female?" "A good question, but ask yourself this, which sex do you prefer to dress as?" Chris said. "But if I go down the female route, who would go out with me?" "I would for a start, and I know a couple of other girls who would as well," she said. "You'd go out with me, knowing what you know?" I asked. "Clothes do not make the person, they are just body coverings. It's what's inside the person that counts. There is an old saying 'Do not judge a book by its cover' and it's just as valid today. You are the same person whether you are wearing a skirt, trousers, trunks or nothing at all," Chris said. "It's a pity that not all people are like you, Chris. Then maybe this world would be a little better off," the doctor added. "Thanks, Tracey, but most people are blinded by convention and anything out of the ordinary, anything that defies that convention, is labelled as a freak, or gay or both," Chris said. "Sam is outside of that convention and almost killed himself, thanks to humanities' desire for everyone to conform to the 'norm'. But there is no such thing as 'normal' when we are dealing human beings. Everyone is different, everyone is special and everyone deserves to be able to live their life how they want to live it." "Wow, Chris. Where did that come from?" I asked. "Sam, as a Samaritan, I have to deal with people who feel they have nothing to live for, just like you did. It is a waste of a precious life, but in the main they feel hounded, or persecuted or unloved and alone. Some want to die because they have brought shame or dishonour on their family. Their problems just get too much for them," Chris paused. "I haven't got a magic wand, I can't make their problems disappear, but I can help them see that it's not the end of the world they think it is. We win some, we lose some, but we, in the Samaritans, never give up listening and trying to help." "Well, Sam. What is your decision?" Tracey asked. "I've made two, no make that three. First, I'd like to have female hormones, second, I'd like to join the Samaritans, if they'll have me and three, I'd like to take you out, Chris," I said. "In that case, I'd like to monitor your hormone levels over the next year or so, just in case your testosterone production starts," Tracey said. "And I would be happy for you to take me out," Chris said. *** Well I started hormones and puberty (girl was that painful); my body never did produce testosterone. The Samaritans accepted me, Chris had something to do with that, and Chris and I did go out. We married a year later. I thank whoever looks over me everyday for my meeting with Chris. I can honestly say that the worst day of my life was, in actual fact, the best day of my life. Part 3: Back to Peter. The doctor came out of the room, leaving the door open, and spoke to us. Oh, I didn't mention that the doctor was Tracey, the doctor I'd seen. "A few bruises, but otherwise he seems to be okay," Tracey said. "Thanks, Trace," I said and left her with John. "How are you feeling, Peter," I asked. "A bit better," he said. "Can we talk about it?" I asked. "About what?" "About your dressing." "You wouldn't understand," Peter said. "Oh but I do, you see... Sam is short for Samuel." "But you're a girl!" Peter exclaimed. "No, Peter. I'm a boy; okay I look like a girl. I have breasts, long hair and my fingernails are painted red, but I am a boy. Chris over there is my wife." Peter's eyes opened wide. He couldn't believe I was a male. He looked at my T-shirt and saw the outline of my bra, then at my tight fitting jeans and finally at my high heel shoes. I looked like a woman. I didn't tell him about the police officer calling me sir; I was still legally a male. "So, won't you tell me?" I asked, gently. "I have, had a twin sister, she died last year. Anyway ever since I can remember we'd been dressing alike. One day she gave me some of her things and we pretended to be sisters. We never told anyone about it, but from that day our relationship changed. It was as if I became her sister. We became closer than ever, we knew what each other was feeling, thinking even," Peter said. "This went on until she was killed in a road accident, but she didn't die, she lived on... in me. "I started dressing more and more, I suppose I was taking more risks, but it felt natural. Then, today, I was discovered and I ran away from home. Mom didn't want anything to do with me and dad just kept hitting me," Peter broke down and started to cry again. I remembered my parent's rejection, the loss of friends and job and I started to cry. Chris became very concerned. "Sam, you alright?" she asked. I nodded my head. "Yes, I'm okay, love. It just crept up on me. I'll be alright in a minute," I answered. She came over and gave me a kiss on my cheek. "You're doing fine, my darling. Just fine." "Peter, do you know who you want to be?" I asked. He looked at me and thought. "I'm not sure," he said. "Sometimes I want to be Petra, other times, me." "Petra?" I asked. "My sister," Peter said. "You said that being a girl felt natural, which do you prefer?" I was gently probing. "As Petra, I think," Peter paused. "Yes, I prefer to be Petra." There was another knock on the door and I went to see whom it was. "Social Services are here," John said. "Thanks, I'll be right out," I said. I turned to Peter and said, "Peter, I'll be a few minutes. Chris will look after you." I left the room and found John; he was talking to a guy, who I took to be from Social Services. "Sam, this is Joe. Joe, Sam," I shook hands with Joe as John did the introductions. "Pleased to meet you, Sam," Joe said. "What have we got?" "A fourteen-year-old boy who's threatened to kill himself. It appears that his family have rejected him," I said. "Why?" Joe asked. "In simple terms, since the death of his sister he has started to become his sister," I said. "With psychiatric help, he should be able to get over that," Joe said. "NO!" I screamed. "It's not something he has to get over, it's something that people will have to come to terms with. I agree he needs help, but the right kind of help." "I don't think you are qualified enough to be able to say that," Joe said. John held his hand up to silence me. "Joe, I think Sam is more than qualified, she is our transgender specialist," John said. "Thanks, John," I said. "That may be, but Peter is now under the care of Social Services and it will be up to us to decide what help he needs," Joe remarked. I had a very bad feeling and I was starting to dislike Joe. "Where are you going to put him?" I asked. "Initially, in an orphanage until he can be assessed and then into a foster home." "Chris and I will look after him," I told Joe. "I don't think that will be wise," Joe said. "Why?" I asked. "Foster homes are normally run by married couples with stable backgrounds." "Are you saying that Chris and I haven't got a stable background and, Joe... we are married," I spat out. "So Chris is your husband?" Joe asked. "No, Joe. Chris is my wife. The reason I am the groups transgender specialist is that I'm a transvestite; actually I may even be transgendered myself. There is a difference you know." "That makes it impossible then," Joe said. "Just because I am different?" "No, but you may inadvertently influence Peter." "You mean I may turn him gay or into a queen, is that what you are getting at?" I was starting to get angry. "No, that's not... erm..." Joe was struggling. "Look, Peter has already had two traumatic events in his short life and you shoving him into an orphanage will probably be the third. I will not stand by and see you ruin his life," I said. "Peter is now no longer your concern. We will look after him and, if necessary, I will get an order banning you from interfering," Joe said. "If anything happens to Peter, you'll have to answer to me, personally. I will make your life hell, and that's a promise," I said. "Is that a threat?" Joe asked. "No, Joe, just a statement of fact. I will not allow you or your department to ruin Peter's life, it's too precious." I turned and went back into the room. "And Joe, that goes double for me," John added. Back in the room, I started to prepare Peter. "Peter, I'd like you to go with Joe, he'll look after you," I said. My words sounded hollow, even to me and I didn't believe Joe would look after Peter. I gave Peter a card. "If you need to talk or help, ring me, anytime," I said and with a heavy heart, led Peter out of the room. I saw the shock on Joe's face when he first saw Peter and I felt sick. "Peter, this is Joe. He has promised me that he will look after you," I said. As Joe led a sobbing Peter away, I started to cry, so did Chris. I had a bad, bad feeling and there was nothing I could do to protect Peter. *** Joe took Peter to a local orphanage where the staff were kind and found him some male clothes. Peter was shown a bed and soon he was fast asleep. Social Services had a very large caseload and it would be a few days before anyone was assigned to Peter. In the meantime he became more withdrawn and wouldn't talk to anyone. He couldn't dress, which made things even worse, and, somehow, some of the other children found out about his dressing. The staff at the orphanage were kind and did all they could to protect Peter, but they were understaffed and overworked. The taunts Peter had to endure were missed. Peter's parents still refused to have anything to do with him and with the constant taunts and bullying, the pressure was building up. I constantly phoned Social Services for updates and was always fobbed off or left on hold until I cleared down. I had a visit from the Police who told me that Social Services had filed harassment charges against me. I had to back off, unfortunately Peter was just one of the cases I also had to deal with. And yes, I also let Peter down. After five days, Peter couldn't stand it anymore. Late one night, he stole a knife and ran away. It was the last time anyone ever saw him alive. After his body was found, I made good my promise and contacted the press. The resulting publicity would do little to help Peter, but it may help others. There was a public enquiry, which found Social Services wanting and severely criticised their head, who was forced to resign, as was Joe. It wasn't really their fault, they were overworked, but it was still a fourteen-year-old boy who died. He deserved better, from all of us. Peter's parents were also in the spotlight and they moved away and changed their name, I think they became foster parents to problem children, so maybe some good as come out of it. Myself, well Chris and I also came under close scrutiny and I was laughed at and called a freak, but I am old enough not to let it bother me. And anyway, I had Chris and she had me, but it was a very bad time for me and not only because I had 'lost' Peter. I would carry the burden of letting him down forever and I vowed not to let it happen again. I visit Peter's grave three times a week and make sure there is always flowers on his grave and that it is kept clean. I will never forget Peter. *** He had to get away, he just couldn't take anymore. He briefly thought about calling Sam, but he had let him down once and would do so again. No, he would call no one this time. He got hold of a knife and let himself out of the back door, no one saw him. He knew where to go, a place he could be alone. Where no one would stop him, where he could be with Petra. Once he arrived at the secluded spot, he looked round to make sure it was deserted. It was time. She could wait no more and he wanted to be with her. His only regret was that he was dressed as Peter and not as Petra. Sobbing, Peter plunged the knife into his wrist and pulled the blade towards his elbow, he then repeated this action on his other arm. The warm blood gushed out of both wounds. He sank to the ground and rested his back against the wall. He wouldn't make any phone calls this time. This time nobody would stop him. No one cared anyway. "Petra, I'm coming. This time we will never be parted," he said to the night air. Suddenly, he was gripped with panic. As his blood pressure dropped, his brain frantically closed down non-essential organs, liver, stomach, kidneys and the like. It also diverted the remaining blood away from the extremities, trying to keep his heart, lungs and brain alive. But the brain was fighting a losing battle. "Mommy!" he cried. He died, as he had lived his life since his sister's death. Alone, frightened and in pain. *** Authors Note: There is a group in the United Kingdom called The Samaritans; anyone in desperate circumstances can call them all day long, all year round. They do not criticise and they do not judge, they listen and they try to help. There would be a lot of people not alive today if it wasn't for the Samaritans. I have no knowledge of how they work and so the procedures I describe are all from my head, but they have my deepest admiration and respect. I recently read a biography of someone who has become a good friend and parts of it troubled me. I don't know why, the events she described are fairly common for a very large proportion of the transgender community and so, they shouldn't surprise me, but they troubled me. I was sitting in Victoria Station, London, waiting for my train and I was thinking about this. By the time the train had left the station, I had a working plot and was putting pen to paper. This story has not been edited and there are errors and holes throughout, but I did not want the story corrected. It took on a life of it's own and I didn't want to change anything. So please forgive me my mistakes, as it's difficult to type when your eyes are full of tears. I originally planned this to be a short story, and a sad one. I was crying by the time I had written the phone box scene. The original story was just part 1, but some good friends of mine persuaded me that it should continue to its logical conclusion, however hard that conclusion would be for me. There were two main reasons for stopping at the end of part 1. First, this story has two endings, both in real life and here, and, put bluntly, these are life or death. I don't want to write a happy ending because I want to pay homage to those whose problems became too great to bear, but I couldn't bear to write an unhappy ending. Second, even after those brave people transition, some succumb to depression and their new problems become too much to bear, so this reason becomes the same as the first. (I'm sorry, but I've just burst into tears again.)