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Hurt. By Tanya H. I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel, I focus on the pain, the only thing that's real. (Trent Reznor) I ran. Swearing and vile words followed, but couldn't catch or slow me. Cloaking myself in night I escaped the fat slob; his stench, sneers and urgency for my mouth and body. The phone I'd snatched from the cab I threw, no use to me, though clearly expensive. When it splashed I laughed. The bastard probably used it most for porn, for leering at pictures of girls like me and wanking while his bloated lips drooled with lust. Around me the night ran with wet - hissing through the air, splashing the path, dripping and tapping from bushes and trees surrounding me. Rain soaked my hair, drenched my jumper and made my skirt so heavy it clung needily to my legs. Away from the road, and the lay-by where the trucker had tried it on, the darkness wrapped me, full and heavy. When a branch slashed my cheek and tangled my hair I slowed to a walk - cheeks blowing, lungs aching - waving arms blindly before me, protecting my eyes. The cold edged up, hungrily sucking at my heat. I tried walking faster, as though I had any place to go, but still the shivers took me; ice stole sensation from my fingers and toes, then my teeth chattered together. Shelter, I needed shelter and fast. But where? Was that the glow of streetlights maybe a mile or two away, though nobody who knew me lived there. As if anybody would care to help the likes of me anyway - dirty and bedraggled, moody with hunger and the sure knowledge that everybody would fuck me over or leave me behind. Perhaps I should have stayed in the lorry, where it was warm, among the radio's jolly tunes and under a roof. I would have had to suck his cock - probably let him fuck me too. More cum in my mouth? It wasn't like he'd have been the first, nor the first man to force himself inside me - though the rotten onion stench of his armpits had practically choked me and his cock would have likely tasted retching foul. Like that care worker. All bastards. Better to die than do that again. When I'd run away I'd promised myself I'd never let a man use me again, never do anything for a man I hadn't invited. Better to freeze into a chill, blue corpse some bored copper would nudge with his boot and shrug his shoulders over. Nobody cared what happened to a girl like me. Tiring of the woods, of stumbling over roots and into wet branches, my freezing feet found a tarmac road. Not much of a road - certainly not big enough for that fat pervert to haul his great truck along, even if he were angry enough to hunt the girl who'd refused his ride for a ride and stolen his phone. (Dirty bastard.) Just a lane really, but a lane going from one place to another and perhaps there'd be a barn or a shed or something where I could curl around my hunger and doze hoping morning might bring something better. With scuffing, heavy footsteps I trudged along; rain blind, teeth chattering, numbness spreading up my arms and shins. When it got to my chest and my belly my thoughts would go to mush, I'd stumble to the ground and die. Nobody would miss me; not Mum who was dead or Dad who'd killed them both; not her brother who said he couldn't manage me, or the relatives who'd turned their backs; not any of the social workers who'd ignored the abuse of me and the other disowned and abandoned in their care. Maybe the headlines coming from my lonely passing would inspire somebody to do their fucking job for a change, but I doubted it. Sudden glare hit me with a wall of stark light my weeping eyes couldn't penetrate. I cried out in scared surprise - the lorry! He'd found me. So sluggish with cold I hadn't heard it, hadn't even seen the oncoming headlights until they were on top of me. Gathering the last of my life I turned to run; I even lurched a couple of steps before a woman spoke. "Hello. Don't go, it's okay." Okay lay a long way distant, but cold had robbed the run from my stiff legs and she easily caught me. Blinking away the rain I saw a tall woman, slender but shapeless in a heavy coat I'd have given a kidney for. In her car's headlights I saw her pleasant, middle-aged features softened with concern. "Where are you going?" I made a vague gesture along the road. "You were going the other way before I stopped. Are you lost?" So I turned and went past her car, welcoming the dark that would swallow my shit life and leave little behind. She'd left the driver's door open - music spilled out, heat from the busy fans brushed my skin. "What's your name?" She followed me. "I'm Hazel, there's nobody else in the car. Can I give you a lift somewhere? The village isn't far, if that's where you're going." Shaking my head, though not enough to lift my bedraggled hair, I took another step, one more. A touch on my arm, I shrugged it off. Her taillights glowed red over the puddled road. Why should I get in the car with her? She'd only use me, they always did. But, why should I give them the satisfaction of stumbling off to freeze to death? Just a ride in the car, just to feel warmth again - a minute or two without the rain pummelling my skull. This Hazel wasn't going to rape me, was she? "Kitty." What I called myself - another pretence. My last resistance was a mumbled protest about dripping all over the car, but she wouldn't hear it and spread a picnic blanket over the passenger seat. Dad had kept one in his car too - before - for when we'd drive out and picnic. I dripped and squelched while the fans blew hot air over my face and toes, while the wide seat swallowed me and heat made my eyes so heavy. "Where can I take you, Kitty?" 'Just drive,' I should have said. I wished she'd turn the music back on, then drive so I could let my eyes close and... Wake up in some nightmare she'd drawn me to, a silken trap where the same old same old would happen. With stiff, claw fingers, already aching with hot, I pulled at the door handle so the lock disengaged and the interior light pinpointed my fear. "You haven't anywhere to go, have you? You're running." The chill draught through the cracked door touched my legs, bare under my skirt's drowned hem. I'd stolen it and the jumper from a washing line when I'd run from the care home - I had nothing to call my own and Hazel's trap couldn't be worse than the night? I'd kill myself before I let another man touch me. "Do you want me to call someone?" I flinched. The police, social services? They'd never done anything beyond returning me to my torment. "No then, not yet. Not this late. Come with me, you can have a bath, some dry clothes. When was the last time you ate? Here..." Staring at the bony outlines of my knees I heard rummaging. A touch to my shoulder invited a look; Dairy Milk chocolate - the bar unwrapped and one segment missing. Hazel placed it on my death-white hand. Veins showed through my skin, almost as purple as the chocolate's wrapping. Mum had loved Dairy Milk, her favourite - smooth and no-frills, she'd say. I shook again, sobs not chills, and tears ran salt through the rain on my cheeks. Hazel gave a wounded sound and a moment later she'd wrapped herself around me. Against all the voices of my experience I let her. After only five or ten silent minutes in the car, we left the lane for a sweeping gravel drive leading to a hotel. It stood amongst rain-drenched gardens, a rising stone place of sturdy doors and tall windows with soft lighting behind them. I saw an orderly dining room, a bar with a few people still at their leisure - even now. Cars were scattered in the car park to one side, but Hazel took us around the back, past a Staff Only sign into a secluded courtyard with bins and kitchen vents and a big back door. "This is my hotel," she said, as if my fears lay open to her. "You'll be safe here." Safe? I needed a promise of that from her, but myths of safety came as thin as adult's promises. Instead I sat and waited to see what variety of shit this current would spin me into. "Kitty. Who are you running from?" "Everyone." "How old are you?" "Sixteen." "What's happened?" "Things. I won't say them." Inside the lights made me blink, carpets came treacherously soft underfoot while rich scents of warmth and dinner crowded so forcefully I swayed, reaching blindly for the wall. Until she caught me. "Joe!" she called, leading me further into her lair where Joe would push himself inside me. "What's up?" said a man, from ahead of us. "Wow, Hazel. Where'd you find her!" "Out in the rain, poor thing's frozen. Get me some tea, and a blanket. Something warm. I'm going to take her upstairs, she can have Lizzie's old room." Lizzie must have been the last girl they'd abused here. I tried to pull away, but with so little left my legs switched off and thumped me to the carpet. *** At some point I dreamt. Mum came to me, as she sometimes did. She brushed my hair, giggled and painted my fingernails, even though I'd been too little for such things. Still a girl herself, they'd said; they thought she'd been too young for a child of her own. I taught her to bake fairy cakes, after a cookery lesson at school. She'd been delighted with them, presented them to Dad, when he'd come home from the factory, like they were something grand and fancy. I'd learnt you couldn't hide in dreams though. Mum and Dad went back to being dead when you woke, opened your eyes and saw whatever place you'd been taken to. But this room was new to me, with a steep, pitched ceiling and a dorma window through which glowed a sky so summer-blue the drenching rain last night must have been a dream itself. I saw a sturdy, old-fashioned dresser beside a matching wardrobe, a carved rocking chair was loaded with plump cushions and a soft, grey donkey with sad eyes. The room's door was cracked open a few centimetres, so they hadn't locked me in. Subdued voices came to me through the opening - a man and a woman. "You'll have to phone Social Services, Hazel." The man, his voice deep and soaked with the Caribbean. For all the heat under the layers of quilt and blankets, shivers ran over my skin. Time to run. I pushed out an arm from under the covers, though it seemed so much heavier than I remembered while the bed felt so soft, the covers so cosy. Pyjamas! I wore a red pyjama top, made of snug fleece and decorated with woolly, friendly looking sheep. Another shiver, a groan - not for my sheep pyjamas, I quite liked them; somebody had dressed me in them. "Not yet, Paul." That was Hazel, voice low, but insistent. "I need to talk to her, you saw her bruises - the scars. Something's happened to her. You've seen the news, what if Social Services are the problem?" "The police will be looking. What if there's a prison missing a prisoner, Hazel? You could be in danger." "It's complicated." He snorted. "Complicated! There's a runaway boy in there wearing girl's pyjamas. He needs help. It's a massive safeguarding issue, you know that. I'm duty bound to report this, you know that too. If you wanted to keep him a secret you shouldn't have called me." I sat up quickly, too quickly, and scanned for my stolen clothes. No sign of them. But the sudden movement lifted a cough from me, then another - more came, as though my lungs were full of feathers. Grey seeped into the edges of my vision and I slumped back onto the pillow. Hazel's face, pinched with concern, appeared around the edge of the door. A man came in behind her; tall, gangling and a luxurious deep brown. He carried a bag in one hand and wore a worried look. "Kitty?" said Hazel. "I'm not a boy," I choked out between coughs. She sat on the edge of the bed, laid a cool hand on my forehead. "I didn't say you were." Paul tutted. "He'll have pneumonia if you're not careful." "She," said Hazel, firmly - so firmly I stared from under a frown. He sighed, shook his head. "No good will come of this. 48 hours, Hazel. If you haven't done something by then, I'll have to call it in myself. I'm only doing this because..." "Thank you, Paul." "... because it's probably right! Give him... her paracetamol, keep her warm, dry. Feed her up. Okay? Call me if she gets worse." Then he looked at me, really looked at me as though his soft, brown eyes could see everything. "And you. Whoever you are, wherever you've run from, do not hurt this lady; Doctor's orders. Good luck, both of you." "You've caught a chill," she said, when his footsteps had receded, still sitting on the edge of the bed. She wore a skirt suit whose hem had ridden up to expose her knees criss-crossed with a fine, nylon weave. A brown net kept her dark hair in a tidy bun, small hoops glittered in her ears and her smile glistened with subdued lipstick. Sudden anger at all of her contrasting with all of me made clubs of my fists. "I'm not a boy." More a challenge, that statement came easier the second time, for the coughs subsided as I lay still. She must have dressed me in these soft pyjamas, she would have seen me in all my ugliness - been shocked perhaps - but now she knew my two biggest secrets. My fingers relaxed. She held power over me, but had called me, 'she, her'. "I haven't said you were." She sighed. "Oh, Kitty. What am I going to do with you?" I thought it would be easier for both of us, give us both time to plan, if I closed my eyes and pretended sleep. The pretence didn't last very long, when I woke again a comfortable twilight filled the room. The bedroom door remained ajar and a soft light from the landing gave the room a gentle glow. When I swung out my legs into the cool they felt rubbery and insubstantial; my soles protested from the miles I had trudged the last few days. Tottering to the mirror, I looked rough; blue eyes hanging with dark bags and bloodshot, my fair hair straggled and unloved. Who was I trying to convince? My skinny cluster of bones and skin wouldn't fool anyone; I was no more a girl than the stuffed donkey on the chair. These red pyjamas, happily decorated with the friendly sheep, looked ridiculous. Faint bristles showed on my chin and top lip, I needed to shave for all my fair hair and light skin. Best if I just threw myself from the window and spattered my problems on the ground below. Only a small, metal catch held the window shut. I could tell from the chimney tops, just visible on a roofline below, the ground was quite a long way away. "Hello, Kitty." Startled, I twisted to see Hazel at the door. She smiled, but a weariness hung from her. "That's not really my name. It's Andrew, Andrew Carson. Dad called me, Kit - from Kit Carson. Have you heard of him?" "I have, vaguely. I prefer Kitty." "So did Mum, she called me that." Biting back a sob I wiped at more useless, hot tears. Mum had seen into me, loved me as I was. 'No good will come of this,' Dad had said, when he'd seen my glossed fingernails. And he'd been right. "Where is your Dad?" "Dead. And Mum. He killed them, in his car. Driving too fast the coppers said. He did love to drive fast." "Oh, Kitty. I am so sorry." You could hear it too, weighting her voice. Lots of people had been so sorry though - the teacher at school when the police came to tell me, the first social workers, even the court when I'd been formally placed into care. Sorry didn't mean shit when they rented you out. "I've run away from care. Not prison. They didn't care for me very well." Slowly, casually I turned my back and walked to the window. Picture book clouds drifted over the remains of the sunset, a perfect evening. I tested the sill with both hands - when I moved it would have to be an explosion of energy; no cries for help, no begging for intervention, no opportunity for anybody to offer the chance to talk. I promised I wouldn't even scream when I dived for the flagstones down there. "Kitty, I know." She remained by the door as I measured the movement from windowsill to the window catch. Examining the window's structure I mentally rehearsed the action of throwing it open and clambering through. Tired and weak as I felt, I would dig deep and be through and flying, before she could cross the room to scream after me. "I know, Kitty. I have stared into mirrors and told myself over and over 'I'm not a boy'. I know." Which stopped me. The imagined view of those stone flags rushing up to switch me off vanished and I turned, without thinking. Hazel hadn't moved from the door, her eyes shone - wide and pleading, but I saw nothing of a boy, only a woman - tall in heels and elegant in her skirt. Another liar. "You know nothing." "I know you're not a boy." "Then don't force me to live as one." "I won't call them. Not today. Give me a day, just one. Please." I showed her my back, rested a hand on the window catch. "What difference will a day make?" "Aren't you even a little bit curious?" A warm, spring laden draught flowed through the window when I pushed it open, I leaned out, examining the stones of the service yard behind the hotel. A woman in a chef's uniform sat on a step beside a door reading a book and smoking. I caught a sniff of her cigarette and memories of smoke layered rooms filled with naked, sweating men steeled my intent. Hazel didn't move. Even when I found enough strength to boost myself up to sit on the windowsill with my back to the open window. The breeze stirred my hair. I could just roll back now, like a scuba diver rolling off the side of a boat. "Please don't." "Why do you care?" "I could show you, help you. To be a girl." "They'll take me away, send me back so you won't get the chance. Answer my question." "Because I've been you." I laughed, bitterly. You could see from the curve of her hips and waist, outlined by her tailored pencil skirt, from her full breasts and slender neck, that her womanhood came from her chromosomes. "You're a woman. I'll never be like you." "You never will if you jump." That held my attention - coupled with the intensity in her eyes, the way her lips parted. Without physically reaching for me, her body quivered as though desperate to run over and hug me. And her words... When I'd sat on the edge of the carehome roof the social worker had coaxed me down with promises of talking, getting help, of the empty shadows that filled tomorrows. Not Hazel. I replayed her words - 'you never will if you jump'. "Just one day. Please." "If you call them I'll run." "Before I call them I'll help you run. If that's what you want, but tomorrow." Curiosity overcame self-destruction - nobody had ever talked to me like this, and I thought I'd heard all the angles. With heart pounding, as though it knew how close it had been to beating its last, I hopped down from the window sill and stumbled on wobbly legs. Hazel sagged with relief, squeezed her eyes shut and I saw tears on her cheeks. Crying for me? "I found you a dressing gown, slippers," she said. Fleecy, girl's things; her daughter's maybe? The dressing gown smelt clean and fresh as I wrapped it around me, leaving it loose so it wouldn't highlight my disgusting flat chest. "Where are we going?" "Dinner. Joe's made lasagne, do you like lasagne? First I want to show you something." I let her hold my hand and lead me from the spartan wing containing my room into the more comfortable, public areas of the hotel; their style and luxury way beyond my experience. Holidays for me, Mum and Dad had been static caravans beside East Coast beaches; there would never have been the money for plush places like this. "In here," she said. "Room thirteen, my favourite. Wonders happen here." Her voice caught as she spoke and my trust in her quivered. A trap, honeyed by her words, her tears and the promises written between them? She bit her lip as she unlocked the door. "I never did this before, not like this. I hope it works, it will - it will work. Come on, Kitty." Inside, I found nothing more sinister than a hotel room, spacious and comfortable - the kind of room I had only ever seen on the TV, with a wide canopied bed, heavily carved furniture from a different age and there, beside the wardrobe, a long mirror angled on a carved stand. Nothing threatening at all. "I came here one day, years ago," said Hazel. "I was the same kind of girl as you, don't look like that - really I was." She stood me before the mirror while the intensity in her voice and emotion she struggled to contain made me wonder for her mind. "Have a look, what do you see?" I looked, frowning. What was I supposed to see? A trick, a trap? Nothing at all? "A girl who looks like a boy." It was hard to keep the bitterness from my voice. Not much of a girl by anybody's standards - skinny in her pyjamas and flat chest; a girl only in her fucked up, deluded, twisted... "Keep looking," Hazel urged. Then she faded from my awareness as the mirror fogged over - as if it had just been brought in from a freezing cellar. And cleared. And... There, a reflection. A pained cry burst from me. I turned away and despite everything it was Hazel's shoulder I buried my face in, shaking with hurt. "Stop it! Stop it!" I wailed into her blouse. She laughed, I thought her mean, that she didn't care about my distress, but when she spoke again she sounded only Christmas morning excited. "There, I told you, oh Kitty... Look, have a look!" It had to have been a trick of the light, could I make myself look again? I peeped, with just one eye - like a TV monster loomed to make Mum and me squeal with fright. Just a peep. Then I would run. A peep then, to see that cruel reflection; a girl who looked like me, but couldn't be. My face, my hair; my cheeks and lips and crooked nose. A stranger though, some trickery to somehow produce an image showing breasts pushing out my top, where my trousers draped from curved, beautiful hips - where nothing hateful deformed the trouser's front. Anger rose, my fingers made claws, I turned my back and strode for the door. Hazel's hand snagged my sleeve. I shrugged it clear. "Leave me alone, let me go." "Kitty, wait." I waited, hand on the door, though I couldn't tell you why. I didn't have much else I suppose - only a flight from the window, a step in front of a train. "Who is it?" I felt dull with disappointment, that Hazel should do something like this. Hazel wept, but when I lifted my eyes to her face I saw it split by a wide, lovely smile. Crying with happiness? Was there even such a thing for real? "It's you," she sobbed taking my shoulders and turning me to the mirror. I didn't want to look, I shouldn't have looked - I should just have screamed bitch at her and run. But I had to have one more look, at the girl I should have been. "It's you, Kitty. Don't you see? I can see her, see you." "Stop it!" I yelled and my voice cracked, suddenly shrill. Yanking at the door I pulled it hard into my foot, yelped with pain and jumped back. Some alien shift on my chest washed everything else from my awareness. Looking down, my body remained hidden by the voluminous dressing gown. I jumped on the spot again, just a little bit, and felt my chest bounce. It had never moved like that before; I'd always been so skinny. Hazel watched me, expectantly - like she knew. My heart thudded, my belly squirmed; my hands shook, but not so much I couldn't undo the dressing gown's belt and let it fall open. "Can you feel it?" Hazel whispered. Feel it! I could see the points pushing the pyjama top away from my chest, but sensations crowded me too. A wonderful, glowing warmth in my chest - as though I were laid in the sun, or the sun was laid in me. Every time I took a breath those points got bigger, tenting the top, making me conscious of their increasing weight. Without really thinking I lifted my hands to my chest, cupping the round resiliences growing there. Nipples pushed into my palms. "Breasts?" I murmured, voice tight. "I knew it would work." She beamed her joy, baring her teeth in a wide smile. Still I shook my head, an unbeliever even as those growing breasts filled my hands and threatened to spill over. A dream, it must be. Or death - had I pushed myself from that window and smashed my life over Hazel's yard. Was this some heaven, or a construct made by the last flickering of my dying mind? Those hated bits of me twitched, it felt like my balls tumbled over each other inside their ugly sack. My chin dropped as I felt the slow, but sure retraction as something pulled them up and inside me. Warm and gentle invisible fingers rearranged my insides. I needed to pee, desperately - suddenly; gasping from the utterly alien tugs and nudges inside my abdomen as space was created for... Releasing my breasts I grabbed at my crotch with both hands, a very unladylike gesture, though there was nothing to grasp now - nothing dangling. Under my fingers, through the pyjamas, a groove - a vulva. A creak in my pelvis, sensed rather than heard. A sway as my hips spread; I had to steady myself on the door. "What's so funny?" I asked, my voice came smooth and light. A thousand butterfly wings tickled my skin as my thighs and my bum filled out. "The wonder on your face." "I'm a girl!" All the times I had spoken those words, made wishes of them as though my own determination could make them true. "You've always been a girl." "But now..." "Do you like it?" She led me from the door, back to the mirror and I started to pull back, as though what had been done could be reversed if I saw the old, skinny, boy me there. "I love it, is it real?" "Of course it is. Look at me, I've been the woman you see for years. I've been married, had children. You won't ever go back to what you were." So I put my arm around her waist, stepped in front of the mirror and smiled. "Hello, Kitty," I said. There wasn't much else I could say, my throat closed up with joy. Hazel cried and laughed as she hugged me. What else could I do but weep with her, then laugh aloud at the wonder of what had been done to us both. *** The next day, two social workers came for me. Though my feet were light on Hazel's carpet, I didn't run. My running days over I faced forward into my proper life as Katherine 'Kitty' Carson - that was the name on the papers the social workers brought with them - my name. More magic: the state made to recognise the truth of my gender. Katherine Carson - I loved saying it to myself, looking like a diva in any mirror I could find and whispering, "Hello, Katherine." It was a good name, a strong name - a woman's name full of potential. And Kitty always to my friends, only one at the moment, but more would come. Maxine and Clara were everything I'd come to expect from social services - weary, slightly shabby and perplexed to find a runaway girl from a Nottingham care home washed up in a Cotswolds hotel. Maybe they were a little surprised to find me in a smart blouse, a stretchy black skirt and opaque tights - I felt amazing, gossamer light - unreal, but wonderfully female. Hazel had put up my hair into a neat bun, just like hers, and I kept touching it, to smile and remember how the solid, netted mass up there was all mine. As she'd painted my fingernails, a lovely raspberry pink, she'd told me of varnishing her daughter's nails when she'd been little and I told her of Mum doing mine. She'd shown me how to apply mascara and eye liner, donated a little make-up kit with the bag of clothes she'd made up for me. Taking tea with the social workers in Hazel's office I crossed my legs with a sensual nylon swish, tweaked my hem and felt every bit the lady. Each time some movement of my breasts, sight of my legs under the skirt or any of the million differences between now and then caught my attention, I smiled to myself - couldn't help it. Clara and Maxine weren't expecting me to be smiling so much. I wasn't so rose-tinted by my wonderful body to imagine everything that had been done to me was boxed away, never to be seen again. I'd been drugged and abused - those darknesses didn't go easily - but I felt tougher as the certainty of my gender flowed through me. I was a girl, I'd be a woman. One day I'd be a woman like Hazel - I faced forward, never going back. Then came the time when I had to leave and the fear bubbled back. Maxine and Clara would abandon me into an uncaring care system; those who exploited the vulnerable would find this new body to their taste. "I'll call you," said Hazel wrapping me again, out on the front of the hotel with the breeze wonderfully cool through my tights. "Every day. And I'll message you, come and see you." "I'm coming back." This directed to Maxine, who I had decided bossed the pair. "There's paperwork." "Always paperwork," sighed Clara. "And checks, but we should be able to sort it," Maxine agreed. "And Katherine will be safe this time?" That was Hazel, steel in her voice. "Have you seen the news this morning?" Clara asked. She dug into her massive shoulder bag, produced a tablet then prodded and scrolled at before letting me see a headline over three grim faces. Three faces I knew - who would probably haunt me for the rest of my life - arrested as part of a Nottinghamshire Police child abuse investigation. "It's not all like that," said Clara. "None of it should be," said Hazel, and Clara coloured, looked at the floor. She squeezed me one last time, then I kissed her cheek and walked - head high - to their car and swung myself into the back with knees together. I waved and waved and waved until she and her amazing hotel were out of sight. "Not many big-hearted people like her left in the world," said Clara. "She saved my life." "I didn't really expect to find a squared away girl like you," Maxine said warmly as we pulled onto the lane where once I'd been a freezing stray. "Neither did I," I said, and wouldn't explain further. That magic lay between Hazel and me.