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Getting Away With It. By Tanya H. "Bad one, Chelsea?" Purity asked, washing up her breakfast pots as I shuffled into our kitchen, pulling a dressing gown's belt tight around my waist. "They're all bad. Isn't that the point?" "I'll get some arnica." The blacked eye would be gone by lunchtime, the cut lip and hand prints on my breasts and thighs would have faded by mid-morning, while my sore, abused vulva would be fine in an hour or so, but the injuries never faded from memory. Purity dabbed on some arnica anyway; her touch soft, soothing. "Wanna talk about it?" I shook my head. What was there to say? Every time was depressingly different and horrifically the same. Last night I'd been a girl with stick limbs and sheer, brown skin, her hair like a shining black curtain that was never allowed to be touched by sunlight, and a vulva whose lips and clitoris had been carved away when she'd been too little to know why. And me, a passenger as she was raped (again) living all the hurt, betrayal, indignation, rage, incomprehension, agony and sorrow, but without the means to steer or influence or console. At least after last night her father would never do it again. He'd have other things on his mind - the unstoppable growth of his very own vagina being a highlight amongst his enforced sex change, then a new life far far away where he couldn't hurt her anymore. Corn flakes and skimmed milk sat on the table before me, a cup of peppermint tea steamed close by - it helped with the mild indigestion I invariably got during the morning after - but didn't excite my appetite. "I fancy steak and eggs," I said pushing away the bowl. "Looking like that?" "I deserve them. I earned them. We both deserve them." "I already ate. Besides, we're poor until Monday." Tears patterned the table. I hardly saw them - aftershocks and flashes of last night swamped my awareness, mixed with all the nights that had gone before. Purity handed me a tissue and I snorted into it. Her hands rested on my shoulders, massaging them gently; her thumbs caressed the back of my neck and she didn't pause until I'd wiped my eyes a few minutes later. During my first week in this hell I'd intimately experienced the sexual abuse of a wife one night, a sister-in-law the next and finally a granddaughter. Finding no consolation from the certainty that the men who'd done it would never abuse another woman I'd hung myself with a belt from the upstairs landing bannister. Three hours later Purity found me and helped me down, I was bored stupid by then, but of course hadn't been able to call for help - the noose had seen to that. The second time I tried to kill myself I resolved to do it so publicly, so messily that there would be no hope of resurrection. I stepped in front of a truck, a big red one. It must have been doing thirty, on the inner ring road near a row if shops, and that should have made the job final. It happened very quickly, too quick for human senses, but I never lost consciousness for a moment and the strobe-quick experiences stuck with me; the thud as my skull fractured against the truck's radiator grill, the really sickening, thunderclap crack when my pelvis went (and it's impossible to break one of those in just one place) and the splintering when my rib cage was caved in by something brutally solid hanging low under the lorry. That wailing noise made by the woman who found me, the most unearthly noise I have ever heard outside a horror movie, then the despair on the grey faced paramedic who sat with me during the helicopter ride to the big infirmary. "Stop watching me," he'd pleaded in a whisper that wouldn't carry through the aircraft's intercom to the other crew, but I couldn't. "Stop that awful whining. Why don't you die." The pain was enormous; vast. World sized. I should have burst from it and expired, but couldn't. Words don't come close enough. If 1 is no pain and 10 the worst you've ever felt, how does the pain feel now? Seventeen fucking billion and climbing. I felt everything they did, every injection, every intervention, every way they tried to make my crumpled body more comfortable when any other person should already be dead. When the helicopter landed I finally passed out to wake an instant later, so it seemed, back in the bed in the bedroom beside Purity's. I ached and creaked and groaned when I moved, my pee was streaked with claret and there was a tag tied around the toe of my left foot. Jane Doe, it said, in handwritten, uncaring scrawl. RTC DOA. A girl called Poppy drove me to that second, futile suicide attempt; actually it was her boyfriend, Russell. She was my seventh job; 23, fat and short, with greasy skin and badly coloured hair. All my life my body had been lean and fit, it had never let me down and even when I'd asked the most from it, run my hardest, given the most commitment, when I was breathing hard and hanging out it always recovered quickly and was ready for me. And if I had felt some twinge, had some complaint, then there were the best physios and medics to make sure I was soon mended. Walking down the street as Poppy, to buy smokes for her boyfriend with the last of our money, left me breathless and I hated the way she shook and clumped every step. Russell - my target - fried burgers from a concession stand by an Eastbourne nightclub and sold marijuana for a living. He wore dirty clothes, never combed his beard and did his own tattoos. He'd done one on Poppy's arm - it said slut. Russell said he loved Poppy and she was desperate to believe him, but I didn't think anybody had ever loved her so she couldn't really tell what was love? "Don't you love me?" "Course I do, c'mere babydoll. Course I love you. Stop crying now." For forty-eight hours I was her. In that time I was punched seven times, though never in the face, I had my tits slapped and pinched, he kicked me, pushed me down some steps in the town park and tipped hot coffee over my feet. He made me wear a dress that was too small then laughed and called me fat, made me stuff my poor feet into heels that Beyonce couldn't have walked in and then had me limp and stumble around town in them. And nothing happened to him until he pushed me down onto the squalid sofa in our bedsit, lifted up my skirt and with my cries for him to stop muffled by the cushions he called me the vilest names and raped me. Anally and vaginally. The last thing I saw, through Poppy's tear and mascara sticky eyes, was the way Russell's face looked like it was melting as he screamed and bellowed and clawed between his legs as his cock shrivelled then turned vagina. Even with the way I'd felt about him at that moment I still hoped his insides would never feel the way he'd made mine feel. With suicide no longer an option I'd tried running away. With no money, hardly any possessions to my name I'd had no more of a plan than getting away from Purity and the house, the city and the men who thought it was right and proper to force unspeakable things on women. Within two hours, as I was hurrying alongside a duel carriageway trying to thumb a lift, an old, brown taxi with a dark, sweating man at the wheel drew up. Not liking the look of him, I kept walking, but he squirted something from a perfume bottle into my face and as I staggered and swayed, unable to steer my feet or tell which way was up, he bundled me into the back seat where I passed out. By the time I finally came to in my bed a week had passed in which I experienced the world of a Congolese dental nurse who had been trafficked to the UK on the promise of work for the NHS. I never ran again. "I warned you about running after I warned you about suicide," Purity had said. "I didn't believe you." She'd laughed, hollowly. "Didn't believe me. After everything that's been done that to you?" Her hands had waved to encompass my changed body. "Which part of all this... this nightmare did you believe? When you started growing those big boobs or when you lost your cock?" I'd closed my eyes and seen again the accusing pencil strokes on that post-it note that came under the door in that awful white room where I'd last been a man. 'We're going to make you understand what it is to be raped.' Nobody can ever know what rape really feels like until it's done to them. It's easy to be dismissive about consent or 'leading-on' or instinct or any of that internal justification shit when it isn't happening to you. After my arrest, and didn't the media bastards love that, I'd been dismissive, dispassionate, scornful when the two detectives who'd interviewed me had read aloud from the statement they'd taken from the girl who'd claimed I'd raped her. Internal justification: she'd been a willing partner; she'd been drinking and giving me the come-ons all night; she'd only cried rape next morning when she'd told her slutty mate who she'd spent the night with. So what if she'd been drunk? Half asleep? She should have been grateful that somebody like me, a star - do you know how many followers I've got on Instagram - noticed her and took her that hotel. Loads of girls, and I mean loads, would have begged me for the chance. I told the police she'd been enthusiastic and fully engaged in the acts. They didn't believe me; my legal team, worth their weight in gold the lot of them, found a procedural technicality so the judge had to. I got away with it. After breakfast I helped Purity clear up and, despite the fading aches and sore spot between my legs, I pulled on some running kit and made myself jog a couple of miles down the road, around the park and over the common. It didn't make any difference to me physically, but was some link to my old life when being match fit was everything. I panted and sweated like anybody out jogging would, my legs ached from the exercise and my tits ached from the bouncing, even with a very supportive sports bra, but no matter what I did I was always an overweight, hourglass shaped girl with heavy breasts. I was almost the exact opposite of what I'd been before; my thighs rubbed together with every step I took, for God's sake! Before, if I'd have seen a chubby girl like me out running I'd have laughed. Before, I was like an anatomy lesson - you could identify every muscle - and not a bit of excess fat either. Now, with bland, mousy hair that fell down to the level of my shoulder blades and a plain, unremarkable face you'd never have looked twice at me - unless you had a thing for chubby girls. After my run I showered, pulled on leggings and a baggy t-shirt then passed the time with some housework - if the house wasn't kept tidy we didn't get any money. Nobody came and checked, we never had any visitors, but if the house wasn't tidy and clean we didn't get paid. Of course, Purity and I didn't have bank accounts or anything like that; we had a biscuit barrel shaped like a gingerbread man on the worktop in the kitchen and if we did what needed to be done cash appeared in it every Monday evening. Not a lot of cash, but we didn't go hungry and we had enough for clothes and maybe once in a while some wine and chocolate. With the housework done I made a sandwich and went to look for Purity. She was stretched out on her bed, wearing just her pyjama bottoms - fast asleep. At least she looked fast asleep. She wasn't be really. She was working. You could tell from the rapid eye movements, her lips smacking and the bruise already blooming over her left cheek. For a moment I stood and watched her. She was lithe and willowy, her skin glowed with the bronze-orange tint of the artificial tan while her long, golden hair had a brittle, overworked look. She had a lipfiller pout and slightly angular, overproportioned breasts that gave her the air of a D-list reality show contestant. Her body was part of her sentence, like mine. Then, with a long sigh, I covered her with a blanket, stooped to kiss her brow and closed the curtains. Getting away with it. The press attention had been ridiculous, throngs of the bastards outside my house, my parents' house, the training ground - everywhere. Just a silly bloody woman crying rape the morning after when her boyfriend found out where she'd been! Obviously I didn't say that. On advice I maintained a dignified silence, but, Jesus! Have a sense of proportion please! It wasn't like I'd dragged her into a dark alley or something. She'd been up for it. What a stupid, arrogant, immature, self-centred cunt I'd been. Sometimes, when I felt particularly miserable, I'd go to the public library and book half and hour on one of their computers to look at my press coverage. Most of it came from the rape allegation and subsequent acquittal by the court; there was some about my return to the club to try and pick up my playing career and then more about my disappearance. One year, three months and six days since I'd been taken and speculation was still rife, conspiracy theories still festered. Match fixing had been alleged, dirty Russian money was rumoured, backers and powerful people in the FA I'd upset - somehow. You could view the media pictures of my Range River where it had been found, crumpled on the side of that road. If you knew where to search you'd find stolen images of the blood spattering around the left-open driver's door and the bulls eye my face had made against the windscreen. Neither me, nor any other trace of me or my body had ever been found. I had seen it once more. Waking amongst a clean smell and a clinical, white light I had thought I was laid in a hospital room. That had seemed to fit with my last memory of a hedgerow spinning up in place of the sky as my Range Rover flew. I'd lain there a moment, pleased to feel the smooth airflow through my nose and the encouraging thud thud thud in my chest. While I couldn't remember what had caused my big, powerful, luxurious, well-deserved truck to have been rolling towards the hedgerow, memory gaps were common after an accident; even before the legal team advised them. But when I'd felt confident enough to open my eyes, just a little at a time as that clean glare was overwhelming at first, I was not in any kind of a hospital room I might have expected. It was square in plan, dazzling bland and furnished only with the thin, plastic mattress I was laid upon. There was no single source of the light and the door had no visible handle. Was I dead? The afterlife? Hell on Earth of course, but I didn't know that then. I was uninjured, surprising from what I had been through and the arrogance that meant I never wore a seatbelt. The couple of times some over-zealous, football hating cops had pulled me and given me a ticket I'd accepted and paid it without a murmur. All of us had known that I would have been paid more than that fine's worth in the time it took for the cop to process the ticket. Uninjured and naked, with the elite, athletic lines of my perfectly engineered and maintained body there for all to see. I tried the door. I pounded on the door. Nobody came. I shouted for help. Nothing. I cajoled, appealed to their sense of humour - you've had your fun now - but I heard nothing through the door. So I sat on the mattress and wondered what to do. A slight scuffing noise pulled at my attention and I looked up in time to see a photograph pushed under the door. I moaned in the back of my throat to see a familiar face - the woman who'd accused me of rape. She was weeping. On the back of the picture was the post-it note, and in pencil somebody had written, 'We're going to make you understand what it is to be raped.' That's when I realised I was probably in trouble. Nobody with any kind of legally approved structure could be doing this. Vigilantes? Some rabidly radicalised feminist group? Another picture came through an hour later - Andrea Roberts, a graduation photograph in her school uniform. How the hell had they known about her? She must have talked, told somebody indiscreet. I hadn't meant to hurt her, I thought I was doing her a favour; doing both of us a favour - after all, I'd been one of the most popular boys in the school, everybody loved me. She should have been grateful I'd been the one to take her virginity, not cried about it like that. I did my best with her! If she'd made more of an effort to get involved she'd probably have enjoyed it. Worry set in a bit after that. Then anger. How dare they, didn't they know who I was? (Course they did.) The police across four counties would be hunting for me, the club would have hired private detectives and all sorts of shit like that and when they found me... Then arrogance; I offered the unseen captors behind that door money, my wealth, my future earnings - anything! When I slept I dreamt of tumbling Range Rovers and woke to a floral bundle by the door and another post-it note. 'When you put the dress on you can leave.' Like I was going to put on a flowery fat girl's dress! I told them too, if they were listening, told them what they could do with their dress. I tried to rip it up, but I was tired having had nothing to eat or drink for ages and couldn't make a mark on the dress and had to satisfy myself with screwing it up and shoving it under the mattress. Course I put the dress on, they knew I would. With trembling hands I'd unzipped it, stepped into it and pulled it up around my body that was already changed, because I'd made myself believe that it would stop if I wore the dress. I'd been crying, weeping and my perfect body ballooned into something grotesque. I'd already absently scratched at my itching nipples, stared with disbelief at the layer of podge that grew to obscure my immaculate abs. And the screams I'd made to wake from another nightmare broken sleep to find my balls gone, sucked up into my abdomen to leave a tight closed slit behind them and my proud cock dwindled to a drooping accessory above this horrific slash between my thickening thighs. And taking the weight of my ever bloating chest and wailing to the uncaring, still unseen audience, "When will they stop growing!" When I'd twisted my arms, which had lost any suggestion of any kind of muscle definition, almost out of their sockets to zip the dress around me the door finally opened. With my cheeks burning with shame, pushing my new, lank hair from my face, that door opened without even a click and I took a step from the room where I'd been made a woman. There was a corridor beyond, brick lined, concrete roofed and lit by blue-white fluorescent tubes. It was clean but smelt old. To my right was a steel door, which made me think I was underground somewhere designed to be bomb proof. There was a post-it on the door which instructed me to go the other way. So I did. My body wobbled and shivered with every step I took. Folding my arms under those impossible, disgusting breasts helped a little, but couldn't take away all the movement. The hateful dress swished and swirled about my thighs and I whimpered, pathetically, at what I'd been made to look like. Made into a woman! At least nobody I knew could have recognised me. Around a corner was some kind of junction, passages went away in three new directions and in an alcove to one side was a bright red easy chair. Another post it note commanded me to sit. So I sat, trying to pull the dress over my dimpled knees. Silence stretched from every direction, I trembled, but it wasn't cold. And then I woke, mostly, into noise and flashing lights. Drowsy and confused, sitting in a low chair, my body felt heavy and long way away from my head. Boom boom boom - dance music! A nightclub. I sprawled in a booth, legs spreadeagled, dress ridden up to bare nude lace stocking tops around my thighs, a curve of black panties over my sex. Fingers felt loose and tingly as I tried to cover myself, the club spun and slipped as I reached froward for my hem. Pissed. I giggled. A face loomed, familiar somehow, his lips moved but the noise was to much for it. Something cool pressed into my hand, a shot glass. I giggled again, his hand rested on my thigh, above my stocking top, and a finger tip brushed very casually over my panties. Another giggle, I pushed his hand away, closed my legs on his fingers, but he didn't move them. The shot was cool and harsh and velvet all at the same time. Sensation, lights, movement, stumbling. Too pissed for my stiletto heels. I slipped them off, almost fell from the club and a puddle soaked my stockinged feet. Bumping along in a taxi, I'd lost a shoe but nobody cared enough to help me find it. Another's tongue in my mouth, another's hand between my thighs. One of my breasts flipped from my dress. They were laughing at me, a couple of men. Looking at the pavement while my belly emptied itself. They laughed as I heaved and heaved, hand up my dress. Cool air across my pussy as they wrenched my knickers down. Confusion, movement, laughter. On a bed, soft under my back. Weight pinned me to it. Him, his face twisted in concentration and fire burnt inside me where he moved fast and hard. He was fucking me and I couldn't get him off and when I tried he laughed and then I realised he was me and I was her. And woke next in a bed alone in a house with Purity sitting beside me. "Hello," she said. "Where am I?" For a moment I thought it had all been some kind of nightmare, but then I felt that disgusting fatness over my body, the weight on my chest and the awful nothing between my fat thighs. "I'm Purity and you're Chelsea and I'm going to look after you, but you need to listen and listen hard." Purity and I didn't talk about before - maybe we should have, perhaps it would have helped to put our current misery into some kind of context. She knows what I did, and who I was, after we saw a feature about my disappearance on TV one evening. In some strange need to be recognised I pointed at the quite good picture they were using at that moment and told her it was me. She stared for a few moments then pulled a rueful face. "I never saw the point in football," she said apologetically. I turned off the telly. I'd had enough of myself, as I'd been. "What an arsehole." She looked like I'd slapped her. "Me." I waved at the TV. "Him." A sigh. "Too much money, to many people telling me, him how amazing he was. Too young for it all. What a stupid waste." Purity didn't say anything to that, but she reached over and squeezed my hand. Holding hands felt good, we did it quite a lot - when we got the chance - after that. "Do you think we'll ever be forgiven?" she'd asked one morning. There was a feature on the radio news about a prominent priest who had been abusing boys in his flock for many years. I had only just woken up from my last job, where I had been in a care home as a skinny girl of an age when she should have been worrying about boy bands and exams and her first period, not the kind of things she was being rented out for. I felt like I'd been repeatedly punched on the breasts and vulva. "Forgiven by who?" I murmured. "God?" Whatever we had been taken into was not about forgiveness, this was all punishment - of us and the men we were sent to as bait. "Anybody." "The people who run this whole thing." We had a word for those people, the ones we had never seen, the ones who had abducted and morphed us, the ones who put us into other women's minds and made their abusers women too. "Them." Purity snorted. "They must be so angry, they must hate us so much to be able to watch us going through this week after week." The day went on, Purity's body lay in her bed, twitching, lips smacking, as she worked. With the house tidy I went to the Spa Shop around the corner and ticked off the shopping list we had agreed upon. Our part of the city had once been home to factory workers and the like, rows of sturdy terraces, corner pubs and community spaces. Now it was a mix of student housing and immigrants, sometimes rowdy, but generally an okay place to live. Not that anybody noticed us, I had been going into that particular shop for almost two years and not a flicker of recognition animated the regular staff's faces. Even Purity, with her apparently artificially eye-catching looks didn't catch any eyes. We were ghosts. Sometimes I wondered if we were actually dead. Though we still got hungry, needed to piss, caught colds - you'd have thought the dead would have been above such earthly nonsense. Later, television passed some time, but when ten o' clock came with the news I decided my world was horrible enough without seeing what others were going through and went up for a shower. Sometimes I dreaded the nights, switching off the lights and closing my eyes meant I might come to in some other woman's awful life, but I had long since learnt that I might be called upon to work at ay time of the day or night. It didn't look like Purity had moved when I went to check on her. About to close the door and tiptoe away to my own room something of the night's chill must have seeped into me and craving warmth, and maybe something more human, I lifted the covers and, as stealthily as a plump lass like me could, I lay down beside her. Too long had passed since I shared a bed with another. Kissing her cheek softly, I turned and closed my eyes. Sunlight was streaming around the edges of the curtains when I woke. Disorientation had me screwing my face up with concentration before I remembered whose bedroom I was in. "Hello, sleepyhead," she said. "How long have you been there?" "Elevenish." "Thank you." She took a deep breath. "After..., you know, it was nice to wake up next to you." "Bad one?" She actually shuddered, I felt it distinctly. "Old folks' home... Can you imagine, one of the staff... with one of the residents. She had dementia..." She turned to the ceiling. "Sometimes I think that what happens to those men, you know... Sometimes I think that being made into a woman is too good for them." I'd often thought that too, but the ones we get sent after don't just become women; they become the women who were trafficked, they become the dehumanised sex-slaves quietly forgotten about by law-enforcement agencies across the world. No respite for them, like Purity and I got - just a living hell. Then I wondered what happened to the men who forced themselves on women like that - I sincerely hoped there was some, worse level of punishment for them. I stared at the ceiling too, there wasn't much else to say. Until I felt her shoulders shaking and saw her eyes squeezed shut with tears streaming down the side of her face. Brushing back my hair, I slid an arm under her neck and pulled her close, wrapping her in my arms and legs as though I could still her sobbing with my body's softness. We could have lain there together for hours, I stroked her cheeks, the orbits of her eyes, line of her nose, ran my fingers through her hair and felt glad when the tension flowed from her and she moved to return my embrace. It occurred to me that in the god-knows-how-long since I'd been taken, this was probably the warmest human contact I'd had. Probably Purity's too, for after several minutes she edged forwards every so slightly and kissed my lips. It seemed natural to kiss her back. For several minutes I would imagine the only noises you would have heard, as I lost myself in the warm, smooth intimacy of her mouth, were the slight rustlings of the bed clothes as we moves our faces around each other, our slightly heavier breathing, and the little, wet noises our increasingly passionate kissing produced. Then I realised, as her breasts pushed insistently into mine, that her nipples were as stiff and aroused as mine. Her fingers teased under the hem of my pyjama top. She broke away from the kiss and looked at me; her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone. "Should we?" she murmured, her voice thick with arousal. I couldn't think of anything I wanted more and told her so by sitting up and stripping away my pyjama top. She stared openly at my full breasts and swollen nipples - I think that was first time I'd ever been pleased with them. Purity lifted herself onto one elbow as she looked at me. "Oh my, Chelsea. I have never really noticed before, but you really are beautiful." A strange, satisfied warmth rose in my cheeks that she thought so, though I was more pleased when she leant forward and briefly kissed first one, then the other of my nipples. There followed a rapid flurry of movement as we both stripped away our night wear before I fell to my back and pulled her down on top of me. Her loose hair made a screen around us as we kissed harder, more urgently. I parted my legs for her, felt her mound press against mine and rocked my hips and she pushed back against me. Our lovemaking was wonderful; hot, intense, incredibly wet. She tasted gorgeous when she sat, legs spread straddling my face and gripping the bed's headboard while I explored her pussy with my lips and tongue and mouth. I fingered and licked and teased her until her head was thrown back and her back arched and she cried out, over and over until we were both limp, trembling and glowing. I daresay I might have felt the same, that certainly seemed to be her intent, right up until the moment when the first digit of her finger parted my very slick lips and headed deeper into me. As though her touch inside my vagina tripped a switch in the darker corner of my mind I was flooded with images, sensations and aftershocks of every other kind of penetration I'd had, by mouth, anus or vagina, since I had been sentenced to this life. So I did scream, but in the opposite of ecstasy. Overwhelmed by a staccato rush of faces, stenches, pissing-myself terror and agony, my skin went icy and I clamped my thighs shut so she was forced to snatch away her hand. Purity tried to comfort me, she really did, but I was too far gone. I curled up tight on her bed, oblivious to her words or her touch, sobbing and sobbing and wishing I could die. Over and over Purity apologised, for trying to finger me. I tired to shush her, how could an act of love like that warrant regret? The problem had been my response, not her intent. I suppose she might have been having her own flashbacks - to whatever she'd done in a previous life to warrant being in bed with me. More perfectly, uniquely individual punishments for us. "Do you think we're doing good, even as horrid as it is for us?" she asked. "Bad men get made into women to be abused by bad men who, I hope, in turn are made into women to be abused and so on and so on. How many of the bastards are there?" Too many. Purity went down to make coffee while I was tying up my hair ready for a shower when I heard her calling my name. An edge of urgency in her voice I'd never heard before had me hurrying down to see what the emergency could be. I found her alone in the kitchen, back pressed to the cooker while she nodded to a plain, manila envelope on the table. A yellow post-it note was stark upon it and even from the doorway I could see Chelsea Holland was written on it in pencil. "I keep hoping for one with my name on," she said. Her voice was fragile, brimming with tears. "What?" I couldn't bring myself to touch it, never mind open it. "It's over, Chelsea. For you at least. Have a look." I tipped out the contents, stared open mouthed at the forms, identifications, documents, letters and certificates that created a life, an existence. Chelsea Karla Holland, aged 17, orphaned and troubled, was leaving local authority care and starting work as a checkout operator in the Swindon branch of Sainsbury's on Monday morning at 0900. It was Saturday. I had never been to Swindon, never worked a supermarket checkout, never been a 17 year old girl. I saw keys to a flat on a street I didn't know how to find, tickets for a train that was leaving the city in two hours. "I don't understand." It was a dream, surely. A trap. "We need to get you to the station. If you don't get on that train..." The threat hung in the air between us. "But..." I kept staring at the papers, the life on the table before me. "You've been here longer than I have. This should..." "I think I was getting away with it for longer than you." Over the next thirty minutes my body changed again, though as I watched and felt my trousers, bra and top grow baggy around me I couldn't help but wonder if this were just some new torment, another layer of punishment to hurt me more and enhance the satisfaction for whoever was behind this. I stripped and stood before the bathroom mirror wondering what I might morph into this time, and as my breasts shrunk I dared to hope, completely unreasonably, that they might vanish completely - that I might grow into a man again. I stared at my body with the same intensity I had when I'd first become a woman. I wished and wished and promised whatever might be listening that I would be a better man, I would work in some selfless capacity to make the world a better place for women, but in the end, when Purity was worrying that I might miss that all important train I was a girl version, still plump and full breasted, of the woman I had lived as since they had taken me. We took the tram to the station, holding hands and wrapped in silence. I wore leggings and sneakers, a hoodie and t-shirt. I didn't have much else for when I'd gone upstairs to pack the room had been bare, but for a holdall with a couple of changes of underwear, a change of jeans and a top and some toiletries. In a cheap purse in a discount store handbag was a single twenty pound note. "I'll miss you," I said through the station's hubub; it was busy even before the evening commuters came to fill the concourse. I'd miss her body next to mine as we slept, brushing her hair, washing her back - her company, solidarity. She waved as my train drew out, but only once and I pushed my face into the window to see her as long as I could, then I held my hand to the opposite cheek as though I could seal her kiss there. I wept for the first few miles, staring from the window as the city where I had risen up then been brought down low. I never wanted to see it again. Some old guy sitting opposite offered me a tissue, which I took, but I wouldn't respond to his conversational openings in case this was an elaborate means to lure him into touching me. Then I felt callous when he didn't; he just smiled and wished me well when our journeys parted in London. My flat, when I found it, was in a terrace in a shabby street that had once housed railway workers. It was musty, dim and furnished only with very worn, mismatched items. Once I had unpacked my few belongings there was still nothing to make it seem anybody lived there. I had no television, not even a phone to give me a view of the world. I wondered about killing myself again, imagining that would indicate one way or the other that I really was living again. But I lacked the conviction, or I was too full of curiosity about what I could do. Sunday I walked, explored Swindon, bland and run down, and found the place where I was going to work. My twenty pounds bought enough food staples from a discount store to keep me from starving even if was going to be beans on toast and Corn Flakes until I got paid. I thought of the mansion I had once lived in and didn't miss it. That person hadn't deserved it. Neither did I. I'd had what I deserved and ended up here. I was determined to make something of it.