Costume Gun: Michelle free porn video

(Author's note: My thanks to Blot for allowing me to be the first 'outside' author in the Costume Gun universe. I have done my best to be faithful to all particulars of the gun's workings, but if I've erred in any aspect, please consider this to be 'non-canon.') Costume Gun: Michelle By Heather St. Claire Hi. My name is Michelle Guptill, I'm 44 years old, and I'm dying of lung cancer. I don't have an ounce of self-pity, because I brought all of this on myself. I do feel terrible guilt, though, about the four teenagers I'm leaving behind, as my death will leave them orphans. It's been nine years since we lost their father, my husband Bert. What beautiful children they are. Grace is 17, Abigail is 15, Jacob is 14 and Emma is 12, and they are the greatest of the many undeserved blessings I've received in my life. It's a warm fall day, and I feel strong enough to unhook myself from my oxygen to go out on the porch to smoke. Yes, I'm still smoking. Quitting now would really be like closing the barn gate after the horse was gone, so why put myself through the agony? I don't look in the mirror; I don't need to be reminded of what's happened to me over the past nine months since my diagnosis. Radiation cost me my hair, and a cheap red wig sits atop my head. I weighed 150 pounds before I became ill, probably 25 more than I should have; but I dropped all of that weight and about 15 pounds more, leaving me on the skeletal side. Some days, like today, you'll find me in sweats that are three sizes too big; other days, I'm in clothes my daughters have outgrown, presenting an odd spectacle of a middle-aged teen. When I think about the gorgeous clothes I once owned, I could cry. But I won't cry, because I don't deserve an ounce of pity. You see, even though I've tried to deny it to myself for decades, I'm a murderer. Who did I kill? The original Michelle Guptill, though she was a 17-year-old named Michelle Marshall back then. Who was I? A 48-year-old man. Yes, a man. My name was Roger Hansen. I was a successful lawyer, mainly handling wills and estates, but in every important sense, I was drifting through life. I had been married twice and divorced twice. Both of my wives left me for the same reason?a lack of passion in our relationships. But that shouldn't have surprised them, for I lacked a basic passion for life, because I thought the life I was living was a lie. I thought I should have been born female. How I hated my male body. It wasn't handsome, but it wasn't particularly ugly either. It just seemed so big, so clunky, so...foreign to how I felt inside. I longed to be graceful, elegant, beautiful, to float down the sidewalk in a lovely dress, feeling the skirt being gently lifted by the breeze....but I knew that it was impossible, except in my dreams. Or at least it was impossible until I made a fateful visit to one of my favorite transgender fiction websites. I came to the home page and was greeted by a popup. I find popups to be highly annoying and click out of them as quickly as I can, but I stopped to look at this one. I had never seen a popup on this site before, which was enough to pique my curiosity. I saw the usual flashing words: You are the 1,000,000th visitor to this site! You have won a free Acme Costume Gun. Click to Receive!" I stared for a long moment at the picture. It looked like a prop from a 1950s science fiction movie, or maybe an elaborate child's toy. The text said one zap from the gun would transform the person struck into the perfect costume, which could be worn by a person of any size. You would retain your own memories, but also acquire the memories of the person you had zapped. You had the option of making it a short-term or permanent change. Of course, I thought the whole thing was absolutely ridiculous. I was going to simply exit out of the popup, but something told me to click the "yes" button. The worst thing that could happen was the introduction of spyware to my laptop, which my anti-virus program could catch. At that point, the whole thing vanished, and I was sure it was a joke. Imagine my surprise about a week later when I came home to find a cardboard box sitting outside of my door. There was no return address and no sign of its point of origin; the postmark was blurred. I took the box inside, slit it open, and found the costume gun and a thick instruction manual. I wondered how they had been able to find out who I was and where I lived. I wondered if it would actually, work. I had a strange feeling of certainty that it would. I sat down to think about a plan. I could just zap the first good- looking woman that I saw, but that could entail all kinds of complications. I finally developed a strategy. I would look for a single young woman with no immediate relatives living. My connections with the court system would be helpful. I came up with a plausible cover story. I told people I was handling the estate of a moderately wealthy woman who had recently passed on and was looking to financially assist orphaned children; it was my job to find worthy candidates. I got plenty of useless leads, but finally learned about Michelle Marshall. I found out that Michelle was 17 years old. She had been an only child, and had lived a mostly happy and ordinary life until age eight, when her parents were both killed in an automobile accident. She had spent the next eight years being passed around, first from relative to relative, then from foster home to foster home, before finally winning legal emancipation at age 16. She was working full-time at a local McDonalds in addition to attending high school. She lived in a dingy studio apartment not far from her school. I started going to the McDonalds where she worked and observing her from a distance. There were some things about her I liked: the oval face, the clear complexion, the long, swan-like neck, and at about five-foot-six, an ideal height, neither too tall or too short. There were things I didn't care for. Her breasts were a little small, her chin was weak, and her teeth appeared to be in pretty bad shape. I also saw her smoking with her co-workers at breaks. It had been tough for me to quit tobacco as a male, and I didn't relish having to do it again. But all of these things were correctable, with enough money and effort. It wasn't until many years later that I admitted to myself I was sizing this poor girl up with the same detachment that someone buying a horse might have. Money was not a problem. I had accumulated an estate of well over a million dollars, despite having to settle with two ex-wives. Fortunately, I never fathered any children, which considerably lessened any potential complications. When I was getting closer to putting my plan into action, I started cashing out my investments and putting the money in a series of safe-deposit boxes around the city. Gradually, I started getting to know Michelle, usually showing up about half an hour before closing time. I let her know I was a lawyer with an office nearby, and often found myself working late, and enjoyed a late night snack before heading home. She told me a bit about her life; it was clear she was determined to make something of herself, despite the odds she faced. But I was going to deny her that opportunity. One night, a few minutes before closing time, I put my plan into action. I had readied the gun earlier in the evening, placing the three nine-volt batteries in the clips. I came in very late, just a couple of minutes before closing time, and ordered a meal. As soon as I had my food, I stepped out the back door of the McDonalds and headed for the ten-year-old Dodge Neon Michelle drove. I opened the hood and disconnected a battery cable, then headed back inside. I picked at my chicken sandwhich, waiting for Michelle to leave. I headed out at the same time she did, and watched her climb into her car. When it wouldn't start, she stepped out and turned to me. "Do you know anything about cars, Mr. Hansen?" she asked. I walked over to the Neon and opened the hood. "Why look, somehow your battery cable became disconnected. I can fix it; I've got a wrench in my trunk." I tried to ignore my heart pounding in my chest and calm my breathing. I opened the trunk of my Cadillac, took out the costume gun, and pointed it at Michelle. Before I could squeeze the trigger, I heard her say, "Mr. Marshall! What?" The rest of her sentence was cut off as the ray struck her. There was a brief beam of white light; then the empty skin and clothing of Michelle Marshall fell to the ground, along with the purse she had carried. "Oh my God, it actually worked," I said softly. I stood there stunned for a few moments, but realized I better move ahead with my plan I quickly gathered up the Michelle costume and her purse and put them in the trunk of my Caddy. I drove home, doing my best to remain calm and focused, and headed into my bedroom where I would begin my new life. I put the Michelle costume on the bed and quickly stripped out of male clothing for what I knew would be the last time. I didn't understand how my six foot, three inch frame was going to fit into this five foot, six inch costume, but fit it did. I was so thrilled to see my big, ugly male right leg disappear inside of one of Michelle's small, shapely ones, I wasn't sure if I would be able to find the concentration to continue. But continue I did; the left leg came next, and I pulled the costume up just far enough to watch my manhood disappear into Michelle's womanhood. I was so tempted to start playing with myself at that instant, but the sight of my still-male hands stopped me. I realized I was a strange half-man, half-woman; I had better finish the transformation. I pulled the "zipper" on the front of the costume's torso closed and suddenly had a nice pair of young, firm breasts. Pulling the costume's head over my own and closing the zipper beneath my chin completed the transformation. I couldn't believe that my ungainly male body had really fit into this compact female form, but somehow it had. ...Hey, what's going on? Why am I naked, and why am I in this strange bedroom? Last thing I remember, I was outside in the parking lot, asking Mr. Hansen if he could help me start my car.... For a few moments after putting the costume on, I thought I was Michelle. Then my head cleared and I realized I was in fact Roger, wearing the Michelle costume. God, it felt wonderful, even more so than I could have ever imagined. I had a thousand things I wanted to do all at once, but stuck to my plan. The first thing I did was jump in the shower. I figured this was the best way to get to know my new body, and I was right. Running hot water and a soapy washcloth over every square inch of this body felt so amazing; it was so young, so alive, so female. Yes, it had it faults, but these were all correctable. I had breasts. I actually had breasts. Just the slightest touch of a nipple sent shock waves of pleasure up and down the inside of my thighs. I fingered myself just a bit inside my new womanhood, but this was more to get the feel of the territory than to bring myself to a climax; I still had things that needed to be taken care of tonight. I climbed out of the shower, wrapped my damp head of long hair in a towel, then dried myself off with another towel. I looked myself over in my bathroom mirror. I'm afraid the moment of ecstasy had passed and I almost immediately fell into the female trait of maximizing my flaws and minimizing my attributes. All I could focus on were my weak chin, smallish breasts and bad teeth. I became obsessed with fixing myself as quickly as possible. I got back into Michelle's McDonald's uniform. I still felt jumpy; something more than the excitement of the transformation. I glanced over at Michelle's purse and saw a pack of Marlboro Lights sitting there; I realized I was craving a cigarette. I gave in to the craving. Since I didn't have an ashtray, having quit the habit years before, I opened the bedroom window and blew the smoke out the window. I felt like a naughty teenager, and I absolutely loved it?too much, as it turned out later. When I was finished, I flushed the butt down the toilet, did my best to wipe off any fingerprints I may have left as Michelle, then left that apartment behind forever. I doubted that there would be an extensive investigation into the disappearance of my male self, but if there was, I didn't want to leave behind evidence that Michelle had been in this apartment. Roger's two ex-wives wouldn't mourn his passing, and he didn't have any other immediate family or close friends. I felt a pang of guilt over the work I'd be leaving behind for my legal secretary, but I was confident she would make sure all clients and records were taken care of. I drove back to the McDonald's and parked my Cadillac, locking the keys in the trunk. I then reconnected the battery cable on Michelle's Neon, started it up, and drove to her apartment. To this point, I had been so consumed by the excitement of the moment that I hadn't given any thought to the larger implications of what I was doing. It was murder, of course, thought I tried my best to convince myself that it wasn't. It was at this point I began spinning the elaborate lie to myself that would only grow stronger as the years wore on. When I accessed the real Michelle's memories, I was almost overwhelmed by the sense of loss and pain. The terror of being eight years old, learning your parents are dead....the turmoil of being passed from home to home...the loneliness of being alone in the world at 16. I told myself I was sparing her any more pain and would live a far happier life than she would have ever been capable of living. I never could have shot the girl at point-blank range, stabbed her to death or clubbed her; so, in my mind, I wasn't a killer, but of course I really was. But it would be years before I could admit that to myself; right now, I was totally consumed by getting my new life as a female started. I was brought up short when I reached Michelle's apartment. I knew that it was in a poor section of the city, but I couldn't believe just how bad the complex looked from the outside?peeling paint, tarps on the roof that probably covered leaks, drooping gutters, junk strewn all over the grassy areas. It looked like a haven for prostitution and drug dealing?which I soon learned that it was. I would have to sleep here for a few nights, but resolved to get out as quickly as possible. Although the bed was lumpy and the room smelled musty, I quickly fell asleep. I didn't bother getting up for school the next day; I didn't need a high school diploma for the life I planned to live. When it came time for my shift at McDonald's, however, I did go to work; it was necessary for the next step in my plan. Fortunately, I had spent a year or so working at Mickey D's in my late teens; although the menu had changed a bit, the basics were still familiar, and I also had Michelle's memories to draw on. I went through the motions until closing time. I knew that the manager Brad and I would be the only ones left in the store. Right before we started the cleanup routine, I told him I needed to go to my car for a minute. Of course, I came back with the costume gun. The manual that comes with the gun warns you not to wear a second costume over the first; your original identity will be lost and you will be sealed into the first costume forever. Of course, that's exactly what I wanted. I crept up on Brad from behind; I am sure he never even knew what hit him. Like Michelle, he was instantaneously transformed into a costume. I quickly gathered up his empty form, carried him into the men's room, and put him on.... ....What happened? I was getting ready to clean the grill, Michelle went to her car, and now I'm standing in the men's room all of a sudden?.... Yes, for a few seconds, I thought I was Brad, then my thoughts cleared, and I realized I was simply wearing the Brad costume. When I realized the lustful feelings Brad had for Michelle, I wanted to slap myself. Then I was hit by a more general feeling of revulsion. After almost 24 hours as a female, I loathed being male again, even for a few moments. I found the hidden "zipper" under Brad's chin as quickly as possible, worked it free, and removed the costume. I zipped it back up to restore Brad, and then ran out of the McDonald's, never to return. I spent one more night at Michelle's apartment, then spent the next day hunting for a new place to live. I found the place I wanted early that afternoon, an upscale condo with a view of the river. The fact that it was already furnished made it perfect. I took a few personal effects from the old place, paid a junk man to haul off the rest, and closed another chapter of Michelle's old life. My next step was to get a proper ride. The Cadillac had been the one indulgence of my male life, but it had been expected of a moderately successful attorney, and it was an old man's car, besides. I strode into the local GM dealership and soon drove out with the car I had always coveted, a yellow Corvette. I had been carrying the costume gun in the Neon, and had transferred it to the trunk of the 'Vette. Now I parked by the riverside, walked to the water's edge, opened the trunk and tossed the gun into the water. I was living the life I had always dreamed of, and I saw no need to hold onto the instrument of my transformation. Methodically, I continued to work my way down the list. My physical self was next. It all came together more quickly than I expected. I found a dental clinic that could pull all my decaying teeth and give me a full set of implants in a single day. I was also pursuing implants of a different sort. I found a plastic surgeon who came with good recommendations; he was willing to give me a new chin, bigger boobs and a tummy tuck, all at the same time. I figured if Heidi Montag could have ten procedures in a day, I could handle three. I spent several days in my new place healing, then the butterfly was ready to leave the cocoon. I did just that, with a vengeance. I shopped 'til I dropped, and then some. I was soon on a first-name basis with the personal shoppers at Neiman-Marcus, Macy's and Nordstrom. By this point, I had withdrawn most of the cash I had hidden away in banks, and opened investment accounts in a couple of brokerages. I had no trouble securing generous lines of credit at the stores. I went for anything that was glitzy; I loved silk and sequins and metallics; the shorter and more body-hugging the outfit was, the better. And of course everything had to have a designer label. I didn't blink twice before spending a thousand dollars on a party dress; heck, I didn't blink once before spending five hundred for a pair of jeans. I didn't have a bad tush in those days, but do you realize how good five hundred dollar jeans can make you look? Believe me, if you can afford them, they're worth it. And if you can't afford them...well, let's not go there now. Finding a nice, expensive salon and spa was the last thing I had to do before unleashing the new Michelle on an unsuspecting world. I had my mousy brown locks dyed the platinum blonde shade I had always dreamed of, because blondes have more fun, right? My new anthem was "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun," and that became my main, and just about my only, purpose in life. I began frequenting the local club scene, and wasn't surprised to find the bouncers and doormen quickly hustling me to the front of the line. I was a bit chagrined to realize that I actually needed to get a good fake ID, since this body was still only 18 years old. But money can take care of a lot of things. I felt young, vibrant, sexy, alive. I knew I was an object of desire among men, and a subject of jealousy among most women. I reveled in each and every second of it. It wasn't long before I was drawn into the city's party scene as well. I was becoming a creature of the night, rarely up before 3 p.m., rarely in bed before 3 a.m., and often not in my own bed. Sex as a female might have rated as my greatest disappointment at this stage. Intercourse had never brought me great satisfaction as a male, and I'm afraid the same turned out to be true in my female incarnation. I went from one night stand to one night stand, hoping that something would click with a guy someday. That wasn't my only self-destructive behavior. I was drinking in moderation; I tried coke a couple of times, but was scared to indulge regularly. What I couldn't give up were the cigarettes. At first, I justified it to myself as a short-term crutch to help me deal with the stress of my transition. When that wouldn't hold water any longer, I fell back on the excuse so many women use: every time I tried to quit, I started to gain weight (not to mention becoming cranky as hell). And finally, the dumbest excuse of all, everyone else was doing it. Although smoking has now gained a reputation as a lower-class habit, there are still lots of young, hip and beautiful types who indulge. It's easy when all the damage you're doing to yourself is on the inside. Whenever I got bored, I'd book a trip. Sometimes it was a Carribean resort; sometimes it was a New York shopping spree. If I wanted to, I did it. It was as simple as that. Did it get old? To be honest, not really. I think I could have gone on with that life for a long time, if I had been able to do so. After a lifetime of self-denial as a male, I wasn't going to let this second chance at life, first chance at the life I really wanted, pass me by. It all came crashing down because of a man. But then, how many women will say that? Almost five years since my transition had gone by in a whirl. It was a simple phone call that started me on the path toward an ending. His name was Daniel Harmon, and he was a new investment adviser at the firm where I had the majority of my funds. He wanted to talk to me about my portfolio and get to know my goals and desires. I told him I'd be glad to do so?over dinner at the most expensive restaurant in the city. "If you're trying to scare me off, it's going to take more than that," he said with a laugh. "I like clients with expensive tastes. I plead guilty to the same crime." We hadn't even met face to face, but I already found myself being charmed by his easygoing humor. When he picked me up that evening (driving a Porsche, of course), I was even more drawn to him. He was handsome; no, he was drop dead gorgeous. Wavy hair, piercing brown eyes, a strong jaw, six-pack abs....he was one gorgeous hunk of man, besides being a master charmer. By the end of the evening, he had me agreeing to move all my money to his firm...and to a second date. No, I didn't sleep with him that first night; a girl has to play at least a little hard to get if she's serious about a potential relationship. Did I sleep with him on the second date? Of course. And it was wonderful. Not only was he well-equipped, he had staying power, and he actually seemed to care about my end of things. For weeks, Daniel and I were the newest hip couple around town. When things started to go bad, it was very slow and subtle first; so subtle I didn't really notice it at all. The phone calls and texts asking about my whereabouts. The references to me being "his" girl. Maybe it felt a little possessive, but when the gifts started showing up?diamonds and furs, just the things to make a girl feel special?I decided being a kept woman wasn't so bad at all. We had our first real argument over a night when he ended up having to work late on a deal and I went clubbing by myself. The next day he was screaming at me over the phone and warning that any other man who laid a finger on me, or even looked at me, would regret the day he was born. By the end of the conversation I was in tears. But half an hour later, my doorbell rang; it was a florist with two dozen red roses and an apology note. I was more than willing to forgive and forget. It actually felt nice to be the subject of that much desire. But soon things were veering into scary and dangerous territory. He grabbed me roughly and shouted at me one night outside of a dance club after I had exchanged a few words with the bartender before we left. All I had done was answer his question about whether I was out of circulation. "Sure looks like it," I told him with a smile. Once again, I wound up in tears; once again came a heartfelt apology and a promise never to do it again. That encounter left bruises on my arms. But it wasn't until the next time that he actually hit me. The same destructive cycle played itself out too many more times, until he left me with a black eye, a bloodied lip, and knocked out a couple of my fake teeth. That was when I called the battered women's crisis line, but even then, I had managed to convince myself that I somehow deserved this treatment. Hadn't Daniel treated me wonderfully for the most part, showering me with attention and gifts? Wasn't I a fraud, and even though I hadn't admitted it to myself at a conscious level, a murderer? Didn't I deserve everything I got? No, I didn't deserve it, and it took a patient, gentle counselor several sessions to convince me that I didn't deserve it. She finally persuaded me to seek a restraining order against Daniel and press criminal charges; I thought the nightmare would be over once the case moved through the legal system. I was wrong. Oh, was I wrong. One of the detectives working the case called me one day around 11 a.m. Of course, he woke me up. Once my teeth were fixed and the worst of my injuries had healed (and the residual effects could be covered by makeup) I resumed my place in the club scene. She asked me to come to the police station. When I asked her why, she said it was something I needed to hear in person. I didn't need feminine intuition to know that it was something bad. The investigation of Daniel's affairs had uncovered all kinds of problems with his business affairs. Basically, he was running a Bernie Madoff-style ponzi scheme; the only differences were that it wasn't nearly as big, and he wasn't nearly as smart as Madoff. He was showing me with more almost $1 million on paper; in fact, I was wiped out, with little to no hope of ever recovering a cent. I contemplated suicide at that point. I could not believe my stupidity. Had I really traded in my brains at the same time I traded in my balls? I would have seen a con man like Daniel from a mile away if I had still been my former self, but I had been too blinded by his charms to pay attention to the obvious warning signs. I took little pleasure in seeing Daniel sent off to prison for five years after accepting a plea deal. By that the life I had been living was already pretty far unraveled. I sold off my furs and jewels to buy a little more time; but within weeks, I was forced to give up the condo for a much more modest apartment, and soon after, I had to sell the Corvette. God, I cried when I had to do that. I simply couldn't afford the insurance any longer. When I went car shopping for something within my means, I only made myself one promise: anything but a Neon. I finally settled on a six-year old Honda Civic. Within six months I was bordering on destitute. I had to face reality: I would have to get a job if I didn't want to starve. But as far as the world knew, I was a 24-year-old high school dropout. To say my options were limited was an understatement. By now you've probably guessed. I went back to McDonald's....which in retrospect was the best thing that ever happened to me. Because that's where I met my future husband, Bert Guptill. Bert was everything Daniel wasn't. Daniel was handsome and sophisticated. Bert was a somewhat homely longshoreman of simple tastes. Daniel was a self-centered liar. Bert was honest and loving. I was now wearing drug store makeup, a Supercuts haircut and Walmart clothes, and I had allowed my hair to revert to its natural brown, but somehow, he convinced me I was still beautiful, outside and inside. I didn't deserve anyone as good as him, but for reasons I will never understand, he fell in love with me, and after we dated for six months, he proposed marriage. I accepted before he could change his mind. I was just shy of my 26th birthday when we tied the knot. My gown came from David's Bridal and our reception was in a church parish hall, but it couldn't have been more romantic and wonderful to me if I had been marrying a king. The children came in rapid succession?four of them over the next six years. Bert's salary on the docks allowed me to devote all my time and energies to the most difficult and rewarding job on earth?being a mother and homemaker. I wasn't blessed with easy childbirths?hours of labor and pain were the norm, but when I held the new life that had been growing inside of me for nine months, it made it all worth it. I was so happy that Bert wanted a big family; after all my lonely male years, and the wild indulgence of my first female years, I finally understood what true happiness was. Even though Bert was bringing home a good paycheck, I developed lots of thrifty habits?after all, I was the woman who had let almost a million dollars slip through her fingers. I learned to knit and sew. I became an avid gardener and home canner. And I clipped coupons by the hundreds. I also made friends, true friends, for the first time in my life. Most of them were fellow members of the mom club in the neighborhood. We traded war stories about childbirth, and I have to admit we might have looked down a bit on those lucky souls who had an easy time of it. I finally understood what it meant to be there for someone in good times and bad, and to feel that unconditional support would always be there. The Guptills were a completely middle class family in our tastes and interests. We went camping together. Bert became a Boy Scout leader and I volunteered at school. Bert watched the NFL and NASCAR. I lost myself in trashy romance novels and reality TV. It was a thoroughly conventional life, and I loved every moment of it. We almost never argued. One of the few things we did exchange angry words over was my continued smoking habit. Even when I was pregnant, I didn't quit entirely, though I did cut way back. He kept telling me I was going to kill myself and he didn't want to be left to raise four kids by himself. He said he could never learn to cook like me. I told him that fixing Hamburger Helper really isn't that difficult. I continually asked myself what I had done to deserve such goodness and I feared it couldn't last. I was right. They say life changes in an instant; Grace, my oldest, was only eight when I received the phone call telling me that her daddy had been killed in an accident on the docks. A forklift backing up had run over him, killing him instantly. I remember nothing of the call or its aftermath. She tells me I fell to the floor, screaming and sobbing. Thank God for Bert's mother. Without that dear woman, deep in the throes of grief herself, I would have never made it through those first difficult weeks. This was, of course a far more difficult time than after Daniel attacked and robbed me. But unlike then, I never entertained even the most fleeting thought of taking my own life. I had four other lives dependent on me, and I swore to myself I would do everything I could to continue to protect and nurture them. Not that it was easy. I should have had a quick settlement from the port authority on Daniel's life insurance; instead, they went to court to try to prove the accident could be blamed on his negligence. It took me months to find an attorney who was even willing to look at the case for me. In the meantime, we lost our home, and wound up moving into a battered single-wide in one of the city's seedier mobile home parks. Of course, I had to get a job, although this time, I traded the McDonald's red and yellow for Burger King's brown and orange. Before my fall, I had shopped at Neiman-Marcus and Macy's; in the years of my marriage, it was Walmart and K-Mart; now I was lucky to afford a trip to the Goodwill. My attorney finally prevailed, almost two years later. The settlement, after her fees were deducted, allowed me to purchase a nice double-wide in one of the city's better parks. I know the crowd I used to run with would have looked down their noses at me and every one of our neighbors, but to me, it was like moving from the outhouse to the penthouse. The five of us were no longer tripping over each other. I didn't have to listen for the sound of gunfire any more when I let the kids go outside to play. Life finally settled into a comfortable rut once again. My fortieth birthday passed, for the second time. The kids became teenagers. My first grey hairs appeared, and, being the mother of four teens, they quickly multiplied. As I moved into my forties, I felt myself becoming more fatigued and short of breath and catching colds more easily; it also seemed to take longer to shake them. I attributed it to age and tried not to think about it. I had felt run down for a long, long time. It just came with being a single mother of four. Grace started asking me to go to a doctor, but I ignored her. Then one day I fell to the floor at work, suffering from a gran mal seizure. I awoke in the hospital to learn of my diagnosis: lung cancer that had already metastasized to the brain. I cursed my selfishness, weakness and stupidity one more time. Then I resolved to do everything I could to fight the disease for as long as I could?for the sake of my children, if not for myself. Of course, I understood that I was fighting a losing battle. I know now that end is near. Like I said up front, I can't muster any real self-pity; I don't deserve it. Not after what I did to the real Michelle. Not after the self-indulgent way I lived for those first years afterward. I am sad that I won't get to see my children grow up, but I have faith they are going to make it. Dear little Emma. She's only 12, but she's brilliant, smarter than all the rest of us. I predict she's going to be a famous scientist one day. I cry when she tells me she wants to cure cancer so she can save me. I hug her tightly and try not to cry. I don't have the heart to tell her I probably only have weeks left, yet somehow I think she knows. Jacob is 14, and I see so much of his father in him; the same easygoing good humor, the same inner strength. He is going to be wonderful husband, father and provider. I see a career in the trades for him?probably a plumber or carpenter. He still loves to build models, and I see him putting that skill and creativity to use professionally. Abigail's the jock of our clan. She's only a sophomore, but already a varsity starter in both volleyball and softball. Of course, I'm prejudiced?I'm her mother, after all?but I really think she's going to be sorting through multiple college scholarship offers in a couple of years. I'm betting she grows up to be a teacher and coach. And then there's Grace...who is truly amazing (she still cringes every time I make that pun, but there is so much truth in it). She is more mature than most 40-year-olds I know, including yours truly. She has promised me that she will look after her little brother and sisters after I'm gone, and I know she's good for her word. They will still be a family, and that's what matters most. I can't help but think of my life as a play, with three very different acts. First came my male life, so dull, tedious and painful. Then a wild second act, full of empty good times. Finally, the third act, where I hope I came close to getting things right, though I realize I can never atone for my sins of commission and omission in acts one and two. I don't know what lies ahead. I do find myself looking back and wondering: when the gun dropped into my life, was it a gift from Heaven? A temptation from Hell? Or just random fate? I hope I can find out when the third act ends and the curtain falls.