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The Journey Beautiful spring sunlight bears down upon the street outside my window, through the trees, and refracting through pink blossoms. My neighbour waves at me as she saunters out for her newspaper, an elderly lady with too-big glasses and a wicked grin. I do not wave back. I feel sick inside, as if the air itself is pressing down upon me, thick and heavy. I want to scream, to vomit, to run, but I know nothing will do any good. Instead, I stare out the window. A gleaming black car drives along the street and stops outside my front door. * Twenty-eight days earlier, life was very different. I was eating my breakfast at the dawn of another ordinary school-day, and my mother was opening the mail. She sliced open a manila envelope, squinted at the letter therein, and bit her lip. "Chris..." she said, as she handed me the letter. "Dear Mrs. Morton, I am writing to inform you that your son, Christopher Morton, has been recommended for gender reassignment. He will attend a fourteen day residential programme at the West Lothian Feminisation Centre. Attendance is mandatory. Failure to comply with this order could result in a prison sentence of up to three years. If you feel that this recommendation has been made in error, please contact the helpline listed overleaf. A Gender Compliance officer will arrive on the 8th May to collect him. Yours Sincerely, Geraldine Butler (Signed on behalf of the Home Secretary) I lowered the sheet of paper to the table, and neither of us spoke for a long time. * The doorbell rang, and I dragged myself to my feet to answer it. The Gender Compliance Officer stood smiling on my doorstep, her black cap and jacket a vision of ruthless efficiency. She couldn't have been out of her twenties, her hair was blonde, but tied back tightly, and she wore no makeup. "Christopher Morton?" "Yes." "Have you purchased and packed all the items required on the D404 form?" "Yes... they're right here..." I gestured towards a small brown holdall. "Come with me please." She led me to the car, opened the back door, and I got in. * Neither of us could understand why I had been nominated. Of course, the gender-reassignment system was a notoriously complex piece of social engineering, and many commentators argued that the lack of transparency was a not a bug, but a design feature. All we knew was that the government believed it was in society's interest that the male to female ratio be rebalanced in favour of women. The government had made no information publicly available about how candidates were chosen, other than they were picked from males aged between fifteen and eighteen. Some said it was done as a punishment; those men who displayed 'toxic masculinity' were feminised to ensure they would behave better. Others suggested candidates were chosen who would be best able to cope with their new lives as women. Some suggested they were chosen at random, or based on the whims of local authorities, or some combination of the above. My mother rang the helpline; she spent nearly an hour on hold, listening to Greensleeves, only to be told they were unable to disclose confidential data such as the reason I had been chosen. She asked how to initiate the appeal process. The operator took our details, and said an appeal application form would arrive in fourteen days. Only twenty-eight days remained until I was to be sent to the Feminisation Centre. My mother said she was sure they would delay my appointment if I had an appeal pending. I wasn't at all convinced. * The Gender Compliance Officer remained silent as she drove us to the Feminisation Centre. As we drove, we went past the park where I used to play as a child. I still visited it from time to time. I used to go there all the time with my father, before he died. Why can't he be here now?! He would do something to save me! I watch a five year old boy on the seesaw with his father; they laugh and smile and I think how similar my father and I must have been, ten years ago. We drive past my school, and I see a hundred familiar faces in the yard, playing football, eating, talking. I know many of them must have been talking about me. Desperately, I stare at them, hoping for just one last glimpse of my old life. Suddenly, everything becomes real. My body starts to shake and shudder as tears pour from my face. I realise this is the end. In fifteen days time, I will be a completely different person. I will no longer exist. Not as Christopher, at any rate. I start to lose control of my body, pounding my fists into my legs, wailing and screaming, begging the Gender Compliance Officer to please, please let me go. She says nothing. * My mother wrote a letter to our MP to complain about the way we had been treated. She asked for an explanation, begged for more transparency in the system and told her how this situation was affecting our family. Dear Mrs. Morton, I appreciate the concerns you raised regarding the government's gender rebalancing programme, and I understand this may have caused disharmony within your family. However, the benefits of the programme speak for themselves: crime has halved under our government since the programme was introduced; unemployment is down twenty-three percent, and exam results have improved dramatically as well. When society is female- dominated, female values (hard work, caring for others) become more commonplace, and supersede male values (showing off, competing with others), which works for the good of society as a whole. As such, I cannot share your condemnation of what has been a very successful programme. However, I do understand your qualms about the lack of transparency, though we feel it is only by maintaining complete secrecy regarding the means by which gender reassignment orders are allocated can we prevent the system from being gamed. Let me reassure you that the decision to convert your son has been made in an entirely fair and impartial manner. I do sympathise with your situation, however, and I do understand this must be very difficult for young Christopher. As such, I shall write to the gender reassignment policy committee recommending that measures be taken to ease the transition period. There has been some discussion of this previously; and it has been suggested that we set up support groups, provide counselling, and provide better documentation for those boys about to undergo reassignation. Yours Sincerely Joan Roberts MP When my mother showed me the letter I started to weep. "I don't want a support group!" I sobbed. "I don't want to be made into a girl!" My mother hugged me, and screwed the letter up into a ball. * After ten more minutes I stopped sobbing. Everything became unreal again; it was as if the volume had been turned down on all my thoughts, and all the colours outside had become more intense. We drove along a country road; there were some sheep in a field opposite. How nice, I thought. The sheer blandness of the thought made me want to laugh. Everything seemed absurd; nothing mattered. I was worthless- the government had established their opinion on that matter quite firmly. Christopher Morton was to be destroyed: his most basic desire to maintain his identity as a male human being did not merit their respect. I didn't matter, my mother didn't matter- all that mattered was that the government's policies be implemented with a minimum of fuss. There was something oddly liberating about the knowledge of the meaninglessness of one's own existence. Even though I was a prisoner, in another sense I was completely free- I was free from responsibility for the consequences of my actions because the government had proven my actions were demonstrably inconsequential. I lay back in the seat and started to giggle hysterically. * Fourteen days after I received the first letter, another one came from the Ministry of Gender. My mum opened it as I stared at her over my Cheerios. Dear Mrs Morton, Two weeks previously, you received a letter informing you that your son is to undergo mandatory gender reassignment, as part of an ongoing programme to adjust gender ratios. In light of this, please find enclosed a D404 form listing a number of required purchases that your son must have upon attending the Feminisation Centre. Failure to provide the required items may result in a fine of up to ?1000. If you are on benefits or are otherwise unable to afford these items, you may request a Feminine Articles Purchase Grant form from the number overleaf. Yours Sincerely, Geraldine Butler (Signed on behalf of the Home Secretary) She handed me the enclosed sheet, the D404 form, and I read the list of items. Attendees of the Feminisation Centre are required to bring: 1. Fourteen pairs of girls' underwear: briefs, or bikini style. Boyshorts and thongs are not acceptable. 2. Four bras, A-cup, any style. 3. Fourteen pairs of tights or stockings. 4. Three skirts. 5. Two dresses. 6. Four tops or t-shirts in a feminine style. 7. One pair of trousers in a feminine style (optional). 8. Toothbrush, toothpaste, as well as any medicine or other equipment (such as contact lenses). 9. A make-up kit containing lipstick, eyeliner, mascara, foundation, and nail polish (red or pink only). 10. One pack of sanitary towels. 11. A good quality hairbrush. "Sanitary towels?" I howled, throwing the list down onto the dining-room table. "This just gets worse!" "Yes, Chris, I'm sorry. But the feminisation process is... it's not just cosmetic. They can make a fully functional vagina now; it's all done with stem cells. I'm afraid that yes, you're going to end up menstruating." I ran away to the bathroom. I needed to be alone. * The car's clock told me we had been driving for one hour and twenty minutes; in half an hour we would be arriving. Only thirty minutes left as a boy. Time was running out. My heart was racing, and there was a strange squirming sensation in my stomach and in my genitals. I had to do something, but what could I do? Nothing! I couldn't breathe. Gasping, I tried to suck more air into my lungs but it seemed to do nothing, and before I could exhale again my body struggled to draw more air in. I was hyperventilating, and starting to panic. The Gender Compliance Officer turned round and spoke. "Stop being so silly." * The next Saturday afternoon, mum took me shopping for my new clothes. The drive to the shopping centre was hellish: I stared out of the window while she tried to cheer me up by playing all my favourite music. I wanted to tell her to stop - she was ruining my favourite songs, because now they would be forever tainted with the memory of this afternoon. But I didn't. Instead I stared silently out the window. We went to Top Shop first, straight to the lingerie section. She was trying to throw me in at the deep end, knowing it would all get easier from here. I have never been so humiliated; the last time I had been anywhere near as embarrassed was the time my friends told me that Lucy Wright, generally held to be the third hottest girl in our year, fancied me. Even though I knew it wasn't true, my friends kept on about it until Lucy came up to me in Geography class to issue a denial. This was at least three times as bad. We stood in the lingerie section as my mum picked out panties, holding them up for me and asking if I liked them. The first pair were purple briefs with lace edging and a flower on the front. I grunted blankly. "Well, what about this pair?" she replied. They were white, with two black roses curving round on each side of the front. They had a black trim to them. Deep down, I knew they were sexy; I would have loved to see a girl wearing them for me. I didn't want to wear them myself. "They're alright," I mumbled. "Okay. We'll take them, then. I know it's hard, Chris, but honestly, it will get easier." She held up a green pair, followed by a pair with rainbow horizontal stripes. I gave my muted approval. "What about those ones?" I pointed at a black pair. They almost looked like boxer shorts. "No, dear. They're boyshorts. You're not allowed them, remember?" "Oh," I said, my face turning crimson at my own ignorance and at my foolish attempt to try and exert any control over my fate. She offered another pair. They were pink. Just as my sense of shame was subsiding to almost tolerable levels, two girls I knew appeared. They were both in my Maths class - Alison McBain and Lucy Wright. They stopped and stared at me and my mother, and looked at each other in shock. They walked up to a rack of bras just beside us, and continued their shopping, comparing and discussing their underwear, but still watching us. "How about this pair, dear?" asked my mother, waving a pair of black and white polka-dot panties at me. The two girls started to giggle in shock. I wanted to weep, or to run, but there was nothing I could do. "Okay", I replied, my voice barely more than a whisper. "Just ignore them, dear," said my mother. "Now, let's look at the skirts." * There were twenty minutes to go before we arrived at the Feminisation Centre. My breathing was back under control, and I was fucking angry. I had been experiencing a genuine medical emergency, and my captor didn't even care. She just ignored me. It was time to take this bitch down a peg or two. "So, what's your name?" No response. "Do you enjoy your work, then?" No response. "You enjoy ruining people's lives? No response. "Treating people like dirt?" No response. "I bet it gives you a real thrill, doesn't it?" No response. "How many kids do you think you've driven to suicide? Or who've run away and gotten into crime, or been forced into prostitution because of what you people do?" No response. "Wow. Nothing to say for yourself, huh? I guess that must be shame. You're too ashamed of your behaviour to say anything. You're not even going to try and justify it. And you know why? Because you can't." No response. "You're not going say anything, are you? You really ought to learn some fucking manners. It's polite to speak back when someone's talking to you. That way, people can get a dialogue going, and understand one another." No response. "You know, you people go on about how feminine ways are better, and all men do is start wars and crime and all that bullshit, but when someone actually tries to open a dialogue- suddenly you come over all John Wayne! You fucking hypocrite!" No response. "You know, I'm doing this for you, in a way. Someday, maybe not today, maybe in a year, maybe in five, you're going to look back and realise what you're doing right now, today, makes you a monster. Maybe not quite as bad as those bastards who ran those concentration camps, but a monster nonetheless. Someone who destroyed people's lives just because you were told to. Because you were either too stupid or too cowardly to think for yourself, that you decided to let someone else decide what was right and wrong." The Gender Compliance Officer snorted with contempt. * By Monday, the news was all around school, varying from the relatively accurate, to altered versions distorted through ignorance, repetition, and malevolence. "Morton's getting reassigned!" "Lucy saw him buying knickers with his mum!" "They're gonna cut his willy off, make him wear bras!" "I heard he volunteered! He's wanted to be a girl since he was six!" Of course, not everybody engaged in tawdry rumour-mongering. Some of my friends - Jack, and Keith, particularly - were sympathetic. They asked what had happened, and if there was anything they could do. They offered moral support; Bryan offered to write to his MP, but I told him we'd tried that already. Other friends of mine were a lot less friendly; a couple stopped speaking to me altogether. John was the worst; I considered him amongst my best mates. He'd been round to my house, and we lent each other science fiction DVDs. Not only did he stop speaking to me, he even stopped acknowledging my humanity. I came up to him at break-time while he was talking to Jack, and asked if he'd seen the new Green Lantern trailer. He scowled at me, and turned to Jack, and said, "Tell it never to speak to me again." I wasn't even a person any more. I was just a thing. There was one reaction I didn't expect, though. That came from Laura; a girl in my biology class. We had been lab partners the previous year, and we still spoke to each other from time to time. She was a shy girl, but kind, and thoughtful. When I came into class that day she looked at me, gasped, and ran out of the room crying. Her pal Claire told me she liked me. I never even realised. However, the worst part - or the most annoying, at any rate - was dealing with the know-it-alls. Some people- boys, mostly, but some girls as well -wanted to tell me all about the feminisation centres. Now, let's be clear about one thing here: there is no information whatsoever about what happens in those places. There's a lot of speculation, and a lot of rumour, but nothing solid. Every statement, no matter how well- sourced, is countered by an equally reliable statement saying the exact opposite. The best source of information was the graduates of the Feminisation Centres, but they all simply say "I don't like to talk about the time before I was a woman. I'm a lot happier now." A lot of people point out how they all seem to use almost exactly the same phrase: it's creepy, and a lot of people have concluded there must be an element of mind control at work. I did as much research as I could- I googled, and I went to every library in town, and even ordered books online or searched for them in torrent format, so I can say it with quite a degree of authority that nobody can really say anything for certain about what happens in Feminisation Centres, except the people who work there, and they remain silent. However according to my schoolchums, it was an entirely different story. I had been picked because I was a sissy - the change would be easier for me. I had been picked because I was a trouble-maker who needed to be punished. I would be forced through every humiliating ordeal under the sun until I became compliant. I would spend most of my days in drag punching beanbags and talking about my feelings. The surgery would hurt more than anything I have ever experienced. There was no surgery: the effect was achieved purely through the use of drugs. I would be brainwashed until I ceased to exist. I would remember everything from before my feminisation; I would be almost exactly the same person. "S'what you fuckin' deserve, you poofy bastard," said Bomber Martin, as he punched me in the stomach. "Fucking poof. You'd better not come near me once you've been girled. I only shag real girls." His reaction was not unexpected, and only slightly more extreme than that of many others. * "You really are a nasty piece of work, aren't you?" "Oh! She speaks!" I proclaimed. "Glad I finally managed to get through to you, even if it is only to make out I'm the bad guy, when you're the one who makes people miserable for money." "I know all about you, Morton. I've read you're recommendation letter, so don't try to kid on you're all innocent. I know about that girl you tried to rape. Barely a week goes by without you ending up in the headmistress's office for beating up some kid. You are no angel, and you have no right to try and make out I'm the bad guy here, so shut up or I will personally see to it that things become very unpleasant for you." I stopped speaking, not just because the tone of her voice was so threatening, but because I was genuinely baffled by her response. I had never done any of those things. What was she talking about? * Sunday morning, 11 o'clock, I was watching television. I felt numb; the anger and desperation had faded into a dull haze of apathy and despair. My mum sauntered in, and stood in front of me expectantly. "I've been doing some reading about... well, how to make all this easier for you. One article said it'd help to sort of ease you in to being a girl." "What do you mean?" Although intended as a simple request for information, my tone made the question sound suspicious and hostile. "Well, I think you ought to try on your new clothes. To check they fit okay as much as anything else..." "No." "I think it'll make it easier... you won't be doing all this for the first time when you get there..." "You'd like that, wouldn't you? I'll get all dressed up in frilly knickers and a dress, and you'll be all 'Oh, you're so pretty!' and 'it's just like having a daughter!' Sometimes I think you want this!" "Chris, don't be like this! This isn't easy for me either..." "Oh, sure, I'm sorry. I forgot - you're the one who the government want to take away and mutilate, right? Oh no, wait, that's me!" "Well, you know, being a girl isn't the worst thing in the world! I actually enjoyed being a girl, as do literally billions of other people out there! It's not like they're taking to away to cut off a leg or something. It's...." she stopped. "What?" "Forget it." "No, what were you going to say?" "Nothing." "'It's only a penis.' Right? That's what you were going to say. Isn't it?" She said nothing. I turned and ran out the door, and ran for the park down the street, where I used to go and play as a child, where I would go with my dad to kick the football and go on the swings. I sat there for an hour, sulking mostly, watching children playing. I simply wanted to be alone, but before long, a most unwelcome face appeared. Bomber Martin, wearing black jeans and a "No Fear" t-shirt. "Hey, ya sissy!" he shouted at me. "Looking forward to your trip to get your balls cut off?" "Fuck off, Paul," I said, refusing to use his ridiculous, self- aggrandising nickname to his face. "You been crying? Just like a little girly girl?" he asked. "They really did pick the right one - you'll fit right in with all the other sissies!" I've never been a believer in violence, and he knew it. That's why he knew he could do whatever he liked to me. It's also why he didn't see it coming when I kicked him in the balls. He fell to his knees gasping, and I ran. He was in too much pain even to shout after me. I'm not proud of what I did, but I had been stretched to my absolute limit, and something had to give. I ran back home, and into the house. Mum was sitting in kitchen waiting for me. "Hello," she said. Her tone was precise and neutral. "Hi," I replied. "How are you feeling?" "Okay." I didn't want to tell her about the fight with Bomber. "I didn't mean to upset you earlier." "I know." "I mean, I hate this too. But there's nothing we can do. And I just want to try and make this easier for you. And I think... I mean... I know this is difficult, but there are worse things in life than being a girl. I mean, you can do everything you ever could as a boy. Seriously, name one thing girls can't do that boys can!" "Pee standing up," I said, my voice heavy with bitterness. "Okay, apart from that," she said, exasperated. I couldn't think of any. "I mean, once you get used to it, maybe that much won't actually change. You can still study physics, if you still want to, still play all those computer games and stuff..." "Hmm." "I mean, all the stuff like bras and periods and dresses and makeup - it's just the surface. You'll still be the same person inside. It's not as big a change as you think it might be." I wasn't convinced. Who knows what they do to your mind at the feminisation centres? "But the thing is, you can either let this thing beat you, or you can beat it. You can overcome this thing. I mean, it's like say, losing a limb. Plenty of disabled people live full and exciting lives. You wouldn't say a disabled person should just give up. So why are you?" "I'm not." "Good! Come on; let's try on your new clothes, yeah? We'll try and make a day of it. We can go out somewhere, get a nice meal, or..." "I am NOT going out dressed in... those things." "Okay... okay. We'll get a pizza in, watch a movie - anything you like, yeah?" I said nothing. "Okay, great. Now, the first thing is... I think you should shave your legs." "No." "I've read a lot about this. I think it'll help. When... they've changed you, you'll see a pretty, non-hairy girl in front of you and you'll feel more comfortable." "I don't care. People will think... they'll think I want this!" We argued some more, but eventually I just gave in. In the end, there comes a time when you just don't have the will to fight any more. The bath slowly filled up as I took off my clothes and smeared my legs with shaving gel. Taking the razor my mother had bought me in my trembling hand, I sat on the edge of the bath, stroking the sharp metal up my leg. There was something indefinably sad about the fact that I would be learning to shave on my legs, rather than my face. The whole process took an age, and I must have cut myself at least a half-dozen times, but in the end, the ordeal was over. I washed myself off, shampooed my hair, and dried myself, and looked forlornly at the pile of girl's clothes. My clothes. My hands were shaking as I picked up the pair of panties. They were a cheery pink pair of briefs, with a pink trim. I held them out in front of me, and as I stepped into them, I knew something had changed now; there was no going back. "One small step for man..." I thought, "and one giant leap towards becoming a woman." I pulled them up, they were too tight around my genitals, but I realised that wouldn't be a problem much longer. Then it was time for the bra; it took me a few minutes to get it the right way round, but eventually I managed to clip it round my front and swivel it round to the front. Even from the front, I found the clips difficult. I wonder if you can get left-handed bras? I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror; a pathetic wreck in ill-fitting women's clothes. The sheer enormity of what I was doing overwhelmed me, and I fell to the floor, sobbing. Before it had seemed a strange, abstract terror - an assault on my identity and my body that loomed on the horizon, but now the prospect of my feminisation was real; it was a process which had only just begun. As I wept, I was constantly aware of the pressure of the bra strap around my back; the strange fabric pressed against my chest, like the harness a slave might wear in a bad fantasy movie. And in a way, it was - it was a constant reminder I was no longer free to be who I chose. "Are you alright in there, love?" "Yes!" I choked out, a sob suppressed with a snarl. "Okay, sorry!" she replied. Wiping my face in a vain effort to hide the fact I had been crying, I picked up the tights, and sat down on the toilet to put them on. At first I thought they were too small; I didn't realise how much the material would stretch, and it must have taken me five minutes to work them all the way up my legs. Like the bra, they too felt unnatural, a constant feminising pressure around my legs to remind me I was no longer a boy. Then I pulled the dress on over my head - it was my mum's choice - a nice summery dress which she said she would love to wear if she was twenty years younger. I stared at myself in the mirror, unsure if I was looking at a boy or a girl. I hated it. I hated myself, and I hated the government for doing this to me, and I hated my mum for going along with it. I hated everything, and my rage was like a white-heat ready to explode and devour everything around me except, I knew, the source of my pain. I unlocked the bathroom door, and stepped outside. "You look lovely, dear!" said my smiling mother. She was lying. "I'm so proud of you, honey!" I stared at her, and I realised she had started calling me Honey, and Love, and Dear a lot more than she ever had before. She had already started to think of me as a girl. In her mind, she was seeing shopping trips, long talks about boys, and girly trips to spas, and wedding dresses and... I didn't even want to think about it. The sense of betrayal ate at me, but I didn't want to say anything to her, so instead I just said "let's order this pizza." The afternoon passed in a silent mockery of a fun afternoon. We ate pizza and watched the film - I forget what it was, a comedy with Adam Sandler or Will Ferrell or one of those guys. As I watched it, I realised how few comedy films there were with female leads. From now on, if I wanted to watch a comedy - and assuming it wasn't a ghastly rom-com or something about buying shoes - I would be unable to watch one with a person of my gender in the lead role. I would be marginalised: my role, in life, as in film, would be as the love interest, and later on, the mother figure. My life and my wishes would become secondary. However, all through the film, my mum kept offering titbits of advice - to flatten the bottom of my dress as I sat down, to keep my legs together so nobody could see my pants - it was a constant reminder of everything I was about to lose. Eventually the film ended. I knew my mother wanted to continue the day's girly antics - she would want to make me wear makeup. They would almost certainly teach me that sort of nonsense at the Centre, but I knew she would want to help me with herself. In fact, she probably saw it as a minor violation of her right as a parent - the right to be the one to teach her new daughter about the world of lip-gloss and mascara. I decided I would put an end to all this right now. "Well, that was fun," said my mother. "...Yeah. Can I take these things off now?" * I sat back in my seat, confused by the Officer's comment. I had never started a fight with anyone since I was nine, and I was frankly more than a bit scared of even speaking to a girl. There was no way I could attempt to rape someone! - even if the thought didn't sicken and repel me, I lacked the self-confidence to ever try something like that. What had happened? Had there been some kind of mix-up? Perhaps the names had been exchanged on our files. Perhaps they wanted someone else. But then, perhaps this was all part of the process. Perhaps they were playing mind-games with me. They would accuse me of being a macho thug, and urge me to accept feminisation by way of proof. Or perhaps it was an effort to convince me men are inherently awful, to make me want to be a woman. Perhaps they were simply offering me false hope so as to crush my spirits even more thoroughly. Perhaps I had really been selected to be feminised, and she was simply confusing my report with that of the person she would be collecting tomorrow. But then I remembered something. * It was my second last night as a boy, and everything had become increasingly, obscenely real. Before, after the initial shock, there were times when I could forget about what was going to happen to me, if only for half an hour. Now, everything takes on an ominous significance. I did not eat breakfast this morning. I ate my Third Last Breakfast As A Boy. I didn't watch The Big Bang Theory last night. I watched The Big Bang Theory For The Last Time As A Boy. I watched it thinking about how next time I would feel somehow compelled to relate more to Penny and Amy and their antics, rather than the boys' capers. The thought made me feel cold inside. We still hadn't received the appeal application form. I had long since given up any hope of receiving it, and concluded it was just something they said to give us false hope, to ease us into the notion of becoming girled. I lay in bed for my second last night as a boy, unable to sleep. It had been nearly a month since I got the news, and my mind had been a mess ever since. Even though I was scared and angry, it was more than that. Fear and rage had long since passed me by, and I was now in a deep depression, where everything was upside-down and every single thing I valued had become worthless or absurd. I knew that even if, through some miracle, I was granted a reprieve, I would never be the same again. I've gazed into the darkness of the human soul in this past week - pretentious, I know, but true - and I know I can never unsee it. I have seen humanity for what we truly are: cruel, apathetic, bureaucratic, dishonest, shallow, and self-serving. The hardest part of all this is how it affected me sexually. I mean, this is difficult to talk about - what teenage boy wants to talk openly and honestly about wanking, right? But before I got the letter, I would fantasise about girls in what I imagine is the standard way. I would imagine that at some point in the near future, Alison McBain somehow sees the Real Me through all the shallow teenage bullshit and falls hopelessly in love with me. We go back to hers - her parents are out, of course - and sex ensues. Unrealistic, I know - in at least a half-dozen different ways, but I could imagine a future in which I'm sexually active. Now? Well, I'm never going to get to use this penis except for pissing with. The depression is depleting my sex drive but I still have the urge to masturbate, at least occasionally, but when I try to I just can't get around the fact that all my fantasies have been rendered null and void. Add to this the fact I'm not going to have a penis any more, and I feel this incredible - self-imposed, I know -pressure to make the most of it while I still have it. Three nights ago I tried fantasising about having sex as a girl. I tried imagining it with a girl - with Alison, in fact - and with a guy, but it just didn't work. I hated myself; I was giving in. That was when I realised I could never be happy again. I decided it was time to run away. I could go to London, buy myself a fake passport, and fly to Canada. The Canadian Government have resisted pressure to impose their own gender rebalancing laws, and I know there have been couple of cases where they refused to extradite gender exiles. I snuck down to the kitchen, and loaded my bag with food. I packed my bag with as many clothes as I could, put on my warmest coat and headed out the door. I would never come back; I would be free. The police found me in forty-five minutes. They had been warned to keep an eye out for me- the Gender Compliance Board issue a lookout for potential runaways by default. They took me home in the police car, while the policewoman lectured me on how silly I was being. "Really? You'd rather be homeless than a girl? Do you really hate women that much? You find us so disgusting you'd rather be out on the streets - begging, facing perverts and all sorts of psychos - just because you don't want to have to wear a fucking bra? Are you a fucking idiot, kid? Do you know what happens to homeless people? Odds are you'd end up on smack or an alcoholic! But hey, better to spend your nights looking for a fresh vein to shoot into than having to use a goddamn sanitary towel every month, right!" "I mean, Jesus! - A few decades ago the American Government tried to draft people to go fight in Vietnam. Compared to being shot by Viet Cong snipers, being expected to shave your legs is hardly the biggest ordeal in the world, is it? Okay, maybe you'd have preferred to stay a guy forever, but so what? Lots of people go through far worse things than you, and they don't try and run away! You're such a coward, you know that? You have to take the cards you're dealt in life, and play them as best you can..." In the end I just ignored her. She delivered me to my front door, where my mother greeted me with an exasperated sigh, and a huge hug. * "Stop the car!" I shouted. "You're making a mistake!" "Shut up, you little brat!" she snarled. "No -you've got the wrong guy! I never did those things you said - I never would! There's this guy at school - Paul Martin. But that's not his name! Paul's his middle name! It's Christopher! Not Morton! Martin! He's the one you want - he's a total thug. Please! You're making a mistake! You've got to let me go!" She shook her head. "Is that the best you can come up with? After all this time? I'm disappointed! You're pathetic, kid. Now, there's only ten minutes of this journey left, and I want you to be silent for all of them, otherwise, there'll be consequences, right?" * My last night as a boy was... weird, to say the least. My mum wanted to throw a going away party, but I had kind of fallen out with most of my friends. Even though some still tried to be supportive, I just wanted to be alone. They could never understand what I was going through unless they had to face it too, and I hoped they never would. In the end we just had a quiet night together, just me and my mum. We had bought a couple of DVDs, and she was making pasta - my favourite - and we were going to play Scrabble. It was nothing special; just a simple, pleasant evening where a mother and her son enjoyed each other's company. Then the doorbell rang. Laura stood on my doorstep, looking nervous as all hell, her eyes wide with fear - fear of embarrassment, and fear of doing the wrong thing and upsetting me. "Hey. I knew it was your last night, and I didn't think you should spend it alone. If I'm interrupting anything, I can go..." I invited her in, and introduced her to my mother - it was the first time I'd ever introduced my mum to a girl I knew, but it wasn't embarrassing. Under the circumstances, being embarrassed about something like that seemed completely outlandish. She joined us for the meal and the movies, and we talked about a million-and-one neutral subjects. There was a simple joy to the meal- the pleasure of family and friends spending time together, despite the horror lurking just below the surface, the barely acknowledged context. And yet, even that surface was bittersweet: it was like a scene from how my life should have been, if only I had been brave enough to ask Laura out, if only the government had picked someone else for the treatment. In some alternate world, this scene was playing out as a meal between a young man, his mother, and his girlfriend. At nine o'clock Laura said she ought to go home, and we went out to the doorstep. "Whatever happens, Chris... remember that... that people love you, yeah? And that it will get better." I nodded. I didn't believe a word she said, but I wanted her to believe I did. At that moment, that mattered more than anything else in the world. That was when she kissed me - my first kiss, and hers too, I suspect - a beautiful, awkward moment, nervous and strange and tragic with the knowledge that this whole new world was finally starting to open up just as it was to be denied me forever. And yet I knew she was kissing me goodbye. Worse than that, she was kissing goodbye to a dream. She was saying goodbye to her stupid, adolescent fantasy where I somehow see the Real Laura through all the shallow teenage bullshit and fall hopelessly in love with her. I went inside, and I drank hot chocolate with my mother, and we played Scrabble until eleven. My mind wasn't on the game, however; it flitted between Laura and the horror that awaited me the next day, but I no longer felt the gnawing terror that had defined my life for the past month. Her anaesthetic kiss had worked its magic and allowed me to go to bed in relative peace, and I will always be grateful to her for that one small but so-important act of mercy. * My final minutes as a boy passed in an agonised blur, knowing that my remaining time had halved, and halved again, growing exponentially closer to the end. I tried to savour my final moments; I tried to cling to my dignity; I tried to suppress all those flickering images in my head of the humiliations I would suffer, of dorm-room brutality, forced surgery, and of waking up screaming at the aching absence between my legs and the new weight on my chest. The car pulled in through a black iron gate, and across a paved courtyard. A sandstone building stood in front of me, with six sturdy pillars marking its front entrance. Even in the stark reality of the moment, I thought of the irony of that design, given the function of the building. My heart was racing, and my knees were weak; I felt sick again. The Gender Compliance Officer got out of the car, and opened my door. I stepped outside, trying my best simply to remain upright. She led me up the front stairs and opened the door, and I stepped forward into a whole new world with my head held high and my heart defiant.