A Word for my Readers

Yep, we've been here before, again and again, but I'm typing this at 9 in the morning, I've ingested more weed than any human should be allowed to, and the room is spinning so Imma make this quick. Dear Rylee was/is a good story but one of the things I emphasized is that I swayed quite a bit from the truth in it. So I got to thinking...what if I didn't? What if I told the honest to goodness story of what happened? My best friend asked me to provide a raw, unsanitized account of what happened to me back in 2004, and I was hesitant, as I hadn't even had lunch yet. But, a true story is still a good story, so let's explore the truth of Dear Rylee, the events that surrounded it, and the type of people we were.

The biggest change you will notice is the perspective - I've chosen to go with first person, present tense as I feel, personally, that it does a better job of conveying emotion. The second change is the lack of Ariel. Ariel was always a fictional character that I used to balance the tone but since then, I've become far more skilled as a writer, and I can really overcome that issue. Okay, let's do it!

“Put it down, and take a step back.”

Her words cut through me like a knife; my hands are gripping the worn canvas straps of a road-weary green knapsack, knuckles white and mouth agape as my eyes go wide with fear. I don’t know her name – I know she owns this house and I know she’s caught me here dead to rights, evidenced by the silver revolver she’s leveled at me. She repeats her command and this time I comply, allowing my fingers to release the strap, and the bag falls to the floor with a light thud. Her eyes flick down to it briefly before returning to me and I cower beneath her gaze. She’s older than me for sure, maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven, and her red hair is resplendent in the evening half-light; it shimmers beneath the rays of dying sunlight as her green eyes evaluate me. Finally, she orders me to sit on the couch, which I do, dropping to the middle cushion and immediately scurrying back, as far away from her as I can until I’m practically cowering in the far corner, legs against my chest, arms wrapped around my legs. Satisfied that I’m not going anywhere, she turns her attention to the bag; I watch her hook the strap with her foot and slide it across the floor to herself. In a moment she’s dumping the contents onto the floor and I can see her expression growing increasingly incredulous as the floor fills with odds and ends that tell a pretty damning story.

“You raided my pantry,” She says – her tone of voice indicates that she does not require a response. “You were hungry?”

It’s all I can do to manage a response and the response is a quick nod that sees me returning to my original position, head pressed against my knees, the woman barely visible from my vantage point as she continues to rifle through my belongings. The next time I look up, she’s holding a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup. She looks in my direction and gives the can a shake.

“What were you going to open this with?” she asks me. I can’t tell if it’s sarcasm or not. I shrug. “You don’t have a can opener.” She sorts through the rest of the belongings, finding a dead cell phone, a cracked flashlight, and other odds and ends that I’ve been carrying around with me. Finally, I watch her turn her attention from the bag and back to me; I’m still cowering at the far end of the couch, my legs are tucked and I’m peering at her over my knees, as if they’re a low wall that will protect me from her wrath.

She’s going to kill me, or call the police, or both. I can’t decide which is worse and my mind is racing at both thoughts.

“If I put this down,” she jerks her head toward the revolver. “Do you promise not to run away?”

I nod.

“I need you to say it out loud, girl,” the woman snaps. “Come on, promise me right now that you’re not going to try anything.”

“I promise,” my voice is raspy, like someone who's spent the last decade smoking cigarettes, a voice that matches the soreness of my throat. It takes her a second more to set the gun down on the surface of the glass coffee table and let go so she can use both hands to repack my bag, minus the food I’d stolen from her kitchen – those she stacks on the coffee table before returning her attention to me.

“Put your legs down,” she orders. “I want to see who I’m talking to.”
My head is still tucked into my knees and I’m peering at her like a child watching their parents from behind a doorway. She’s not holding the gun anymore, but I still feel the instinct to do as she says, which I do. Slowly, painfully, I lower my legs and lay them out in front of me; I keep my hands in my lap upon receiving an indication from her that I should do so, and then she begins to speak to me rather than at me.

“I’m Tori,” she tells me her name and I look at her in surprise. “What’s your name?”

“Rylee,” I say quickly, hoping to get this interaction over with as quickly as possible. Sure she’ll ask me a few questions, she’ll tell me to never come back, and then I’ll be off to…wherever. It’s too bad she took the food; I have no idea how I’m eating tonight.

“Okay, Rylee,” she says my name aloud as if she’s chewing over it in her mind. “You seem to be a woman of few words so let me fill in some blanks here. Alright? Okay, you’re using my kitchen as a grocery store and those are my clothes you’re wearing…they don’t fit, by the way. So with those two things in mind…I’d say you’re on the run. What is it? Police? Drug dealers? Ex boyfriend?”

I shrug. “Just…I just don’t have anywhere to go,” I confess. “I mean, after I leave here I’ll probably find someplace to sleep.”
“Right,” she dismisses my statement with a wave of her hand and steps around the coffee table, towering over me with her arms folded. “Well, Rylee, it goes without saying that you shouldn’t break into houses, and it goes double when you look like…well…you.”

I frown, looking down at myself, then back up to her, startled to see that she’s wearing a twisted grin.

“You’re tiny,” She tells me. “kind of lanky, actually. There are people out there who would eat you for breakfast. So, where did you come from?”

“Just…around,” I mutter; she raises an eyebrow. “I just…kind of move around, from place to place. I’ll be gone as soon as you-”

“Oh you’re not leaving,” she says, and I feel my heart sink. “I could call the police. I mean, that’s what you’re supposed to do when someone breaks into your house, but then they’re either going to turn you loose or put you in a cell and you’ll just disappear into the system. My mom’s a social worker so I know all about it. If I let you go, then you’ll break into someone else’s house. Might end up dead next time, which is bad, unless that’s what you’re going for. So, Rylee, this is what we’re going to do. I’m going to make us dinner, you’re helping, and then we’ll figure out what to do.”

My eyes widen at her statement, what did she mean ‘what to do’? This had all started this morning; I’d seen her leave for work and entered her house through a bathroom window. I guess I’d lost track of time between showering, raiding her closet, and then filling my backpack with odds and ends from her pantry. I’d felt clean for the first time in weeks, and if she hadn’t come home unexpectedly, or if I’d paid attention to the time, then I’d be on my way right now, off to the next place, wherever the hell that was.

I know what she sees when she looks at me; a girl, maybe nineteen, definitely not twenty to her. Sunken eyes, bruised face, brown shoulder-length hair, and thin features that stem from months of malnutrition. It’s a hot mess sitting before her, on her couch, stuffed into her ill-fitting clothes, quivering and shaking. She’s crouching down in front of me now, staring into my eyes; I look away as quickly as I’m able and now she’s reaching for my face. I know what she’s doing; her soft fingertips touch the surface of the black and blue skin – a bruise that runs from the corner of my right eye to the bone of my cheek; the eye itself has a nearly matching bruise. Her hands move down to my arms which are in a similar condition and finally, she looks at my feet.

“You stole my clothes but not my shoes?” She asks, amused. “Of all things Rylee you’d think- wait, did you shower with your shoes on? They’re damp.”
“Um…” I bite my lower lip, trying to come up with a reasonable response to her question but it turns out to be a moot point as she looks up at me, raising an eyebrow.

“Why wouldn’t you take your shoes off to shower?” she asks me. “What’s going on with your feet?”

“C…can I go?” I ask her. No, more like beg her. “Please? I promise not to come back.”

“Let’s get these shoes off,” She says instead. I cringe and then brace myself, pulling my feet up against my body and shaking my head. “Rylee, no,” she says. “Put your legs down, let’s take your shoes off.”

“Mmm!” I murmur, shaking my head and retreating further into the couch. Tori looks at me softly and her expression hardens with resolve as she lays a hand on my knee; I recoil at her touch but there’s nowhere to go – I’m pressed as hard as I can be against the couch, my only hope now is if I can somehow travel through solid objects and to be honest, I think I’m close. Before I can protest, she’s got ahold of my leg and the laces on my left shoe are untied; there’s nothing to do now but sit still and let her finish. As she unties the show, I feel the pressure loosen, and I suck air through gritted teeth; she notices and gives me a quizzical look that quickly shifts to an expression of concern.

“Rylee?” she inquires. I look away.

As she loosens the laces and carefully pulls up the tongue of my sneakers, I can’t help but whimper; there’s a pain now, and a throbbing that I’d mostly been able to mute with bandages and whatever antibiotic creams I could get my hands on. There’s a big of pressure, and then another wave of pain as she pulls the sneaker off to reveal a dirty, putrid sock.

“What is happening here?” I hear her say to no one in particular as tears begin to roll down my cheeks. She peels the sock off, carefully, and then gasps. “Rylee! What the hell?!”

Without even looking, I know what she sees. My foot is wrapped in gauze, or at least as much gauze as I could find, slathered with antibiotic cream, and around that, I’ve wrapped a few layers of cling wrap around the bandages, just to keep them dry and they’d stayed that way for the last few days. I can hear her gasping as she touches the cling wrap, occasionally looking up at me, wide eyed.

“Rylee,” she says intently. “I’m going to take this off, okay? It’s probably going to hurt but I really need to see what you’ve got going on down here.”
I feel like my input is not required, so I say nothing. Instead, I close my eyes and grit my teeth as she begins to peel the layers of saran wrap free. The pain is as expected and I begin to breathe in short, heavy gasps. She stops a few times, checking to see if I’m okay, and then resumes until she’s cleared the cling wrap from my foot, and then lets out a low whistle as she peels away the bandages.

“This…is disgusting,” she says incredulously. “Rylee…what…what happened?”

“I just walk a lot,” I manage to say through the pain; I can feel a pulse in my foot, and I nearly scream as she peels the gauze away from the sores. But, she’s not done yet; now she’s clearing off the other bandages and setting them aside with a look of disgust on her face. She’s dropping them one by one into my right shoe which sits on the floor beside her now, and it seems to take an eternity. Finally, my foot is exposed to the open air and she takes a deep breath while I tremble on the couch. Almost immediately she starts on the other shoe, and a few minutes later, both the shoe, the cling wrap, and the bandages are on the floor, the wound dressing packed into the right shoe. Tori rolls back on her haunches, her brow furrowed and her eyes filling with concern as she takes in the sight of my cut and blistered feet. I feel embarrassed, like she’s seen something she shouldn’t, but there are worse things for her to be seeing than my shitty bandaging job. She looks at me, then tells me not to move as she makes a beeline for the kitchen. I almost laugh – almost, because with my feet unwrapped there’s no way I’m getting off this couch unless I can somehow drag myself across the room. Instead, I sit there with my feet out, careful not to move, careful not to set them down; I don’t want to touch the floor, I don’t want anything touching them. I wince through the pain which comes in waves now; it’s a stinging sensation and I can feel a faint pulse coming from my sole. I know what it looks like down there, the bruises, the open sores, the cuts; I’ve spent time cleaning it, but there’s only so much I can do and I’m sure it’s still pretty dirty.
Tori gives me a stern look just before she goes into the kitchen and mouths ‘Don’t move’ just before she reaches for the cordless phone on the kitchen counter. She’s talking to someone; I crane to listen, but I don’t think she’s talking to the police, or 911, she’s talking about me, but to a friend maybe? A wave of nausea hits me and I suddenly feel profoundly light headed; I collapse onto my side and grip the couch cushion as I wait for it to pass – but it doesn’t. I feel like I’m going to throw up, and there’s no way I’m going to make it to the bathroom. Fortunately, it passes, and I lay there on my side, basically immobile as Tori talks hurriedly on the phone. I hear the click of the receiver and I instinctively force myself into an upright position.

“What are you doing?” Tori asks me. “Lay down if you’re feeling sick.”

“I’m okay,” I try unsuccessfully to reassure her. She folds her arms.

“We have different definitions,” she says icily. “I’m going to make you something to drink, do you want tea or cocoa?”

“What?” I ask her incredulously, nearly falling over again.

“Tea,” she says slowly. “Or cocoa?”

I hate tea with a burning passion, so I simply tell her cocoa, and then, breathlessly, I allow myself to fall sideways, back onto the couch, grabbing a loose throw pillow and pressing it to my chest as she rattles around the kitchen. It’s not long before she returns with a white ceramic ‘Snoopy’ mug, and she’s crouching in front of me again.

“Can you sit up?” she asks me. Without hesitation, I cast the pillow aside and push myself up, returning to the sitting position, my feet throbbing and aching as I do so. She sees the wince and pats me on the shoulder before handing me the mug. “I have a friend coming over in the morning. I told her about your feet, she said it doesn’t sound like they’re infected but…god Rylee, what happened? Is that all from walking?”

“Y…yeah,” I admit; the hand that holds the mug begins to shake. “I’m sorry.”

“W…what are you apologizing for?” she frowns. “Okay whatever, I’m going to bring you some food, and then you’re going straight to bed, young lady.”

My eyes widen. “Bed? What…do you mean? I need to-”

“You need to get some rest,” she snaps. “You need to let those feet heal. You left that gauze on for days and your feet weren’t even clean when you put it on. I don’t know how they’re not infected but you can’t be walking around like this. You’ll sleep in my bed tonight and tomorrow we’ll figure things out.”

“I…I don’t want to sleep here,” I say to an increasingly assertive Tori. The panic in my chest is rising and I find eyes darting around the living room. I glance at the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard, and then I weigh my chances of getting to the front door before she can catch me. “I…I need to leave…”

“Rylee,” she reaches out, her fingertips brushing my right arm for less than half a second before I screech and push myself back; the cocoa sloshes in the cup, nearly spilling as I stare at her, wide-eyed. She frowns. “Do you not like being touched?”

I shake my head and try to draw my legs in, only to whimper again as my feet come in contact with the rough fabric of the couch.

“Okay Rylee,” she concedes. Drink your cocoa, I’m going to heat you up a TV dinner, BUT, I have to touch you to get you into bed, understand?”

“No,” I shake my head fruitlessly, my voice little more than a whine. “Please just let me go.”

“Okay Rylee,” she says, standing up and heading back to the kitchen. “Where would you go, exactly? Do you have friends or family around here? Where are you going to sleep? Do you have money for a motel? How are you going to get anywhere with your feet like that?”

“Tori I…please just-”

“Drink your cocoa,” she snaps. “Drink it and enjoy it. You look like you’ve been through enough shit for a lifetime. She steps back into the kitchen, and I make a futile attempt to stand, but she calls out a warning from the kitchen and I sit back, sipping the cocoa.

I utterly hate this shit; even if I could stand, I’m not sure if I’d have the will to leave the house. Tori told me to sit still, and my history with disobeying authority figures is…flimsy at best. Is Tori an authority figure already? I’ve been here, in her presence for maybe less than two hours and I’m already feeling unable to argue. She’s immovable, and I…well…I’m me. My gut tells me she’s right – I shouldn’t be walking, not with my feet like this, but my brain is telling me to run. My flight or fight instinct is kicking in and I have no way to act on it. Overpower Tori? Not likely. Run from her? Escape from her? I would probably make it halfway to the door before she snatched me up.

My thoughts of escape are squelched as Tori delivers me a TV dinner, I think it’s a ‘Hungry Man’ fried chicken, which is good because, well, who doesn’t like fried chicken. As the scent of the chicken hits me, I realize just how hungry I am, and I begin shoving the food into my mouth. Within a matter of minutes, it’s gone, and Tori is taking the disposable platter, and telling me to finish my cocoa. I do, and as she takes the cup away, I’m screaming internally as this starts to become ‘normal’. Normal is in her telling me what to do, and me complying, and that’s bad. I don’t even know this woman! Oh god, it’s happening again isn’t it?

“Tori,” I try one more time, my voice small. “Please I…I can’t stay here.”
She doesn’t answer; she’s busy washing the mug in the sink, so I try again, calling out her name and I can feel the tears rushing down my cheeks. I have to get out, I have to. I call out to her again, this time my voice inundated with sobs as I choke on my own words. I see her glance up from the sink, peering at me through the gap between the countertop and the cabinet, and then she wordlessly returns to doing the dishes. I shift around on the couch, she tells me to stay still, and so I do. It’s not long before she’s coming back around, this time with a glass of water and two pills. I shake my head.
“I’m not taking that,” I tell her, still crying. “You can’t…you can’t make me take that.”

“It’ll help you relax,” she tells me. “and yes, you’re taking it. The other one is for pain. I’ll get your feet bandaged up and we’ll keep an eye out for infection. Now open your god damn mouth and take the pills.”

“I can’t,” I whine to her. “I need to go, I need-” before I can say anything else, she grabs my nose with one hand and shoves the pills into my open mouth with the other. Clamping my mouth shut, she waits until I involuntarily swallow, and then give her a look that’s half anger and half fear as she holds the water glass out to me. I snatch it from her and take a swallow of water before I can choke on the pills and then I throw myself onto the couch, rolling toward the cushions and burying my face in the material. I feel her hand on my arm and I scream, loudly into the fabric.

“Rylee,” Tori says. “I’m not going to indulge this. In about twenty minutes that pill is going to kick in and I’m going to bandage your feet. I’m going to suggest that you lay still. Do not turn me into the bad guy here. You’re the one who broke in, now deal with the consequences.”

I struggle a bit more, turning away from the cushions and making a concentrated effort to push myself off the couch but the pill is kicking in, both the pain pill and the…other thing she gave me. It doesn’t exactly knock me out but I feel somehow lighter, airy, like my brain is there but my body is sluggish and I don’t seem to have a care in the world. Except I do. Except I know I should, but my mind is calm, serene, and I’m laying here on the couch limp. Tori brings a first aid kit and bandages my feet, sans the saran wrap, and inspects her handiwork. While most of my concerns seem to be locked away, or compartmentalized, there is one thing I’m really worried about. Tori has me dead to rights, if she takes off my pants she’s going to see…no, I can’t let that happen. But she probably won’t let me sleep in my pants, right? Fuck, this is going to happen, isn’t it?

“Are you feeling any better?” she asks me softly, and I nod. “Okay, let’s get you back to the bed. We’ll get you changed into something more comfortable.”

“I can change myself,” I murmur through the fog that’s manifesting around my brain. “Please let me do that.”

“Okay, Rylee,” She tells me. “You can change in the bathroom.”

The trip down the hallway stings, but it’s manageable. Tori stands in front of me, my hands locked in hers to keep me from falling in and direction, and then we’re back in her bedroom. Of course I’ve seen it before – I came back here earlier to swipe these clothes, but I never expected to be back here. I should be on the road by now, making a beeline for a train car or an abandoned building to spend the night. Instead, this…Tori person is walking me into her bedroom, and I allow her to hand me a nightgown. It’s a silky one with sleeves that’ll cover most of me, and that’s going to have to do.

As soon as she lets me into the bathroom, I close the door behind me and walk groggily over to the mirror. I check my face again and again, yep, still feminine as fuck, she probably can’t tell. No, of course she can’t tell! If she could tell she would have called the police or actually shot me, no one wants a tranny in their house! Still, I’m here, I’m not leaving anytime soon, so what the fuck do I do? I pull the jeans and top off, dropping them onto the floor and then I inspect my gaff. Before I put it on, I’d tucked, and it looks like it’s still in place. Okay that’s good, if I’m sleeping in her bed the last thing I want to do is poke her with my dick. She is sleeping with me, right? Probably – after all, she doesn’t want me to leave for god knows what reason. I pull the nightgown on and its surprisingly soft – kind of feels like I’m not wearing anything. Then, after a quick glance at the door, I remove my gaff and sit down on the toilet. After I pee, I repack it and take a deep breath before walking back out into the bedroom where Tori is peeling back the blankets on the bed. Before I can protest, she walks over and guides me to the bed, pushing me to the far side where I settle quickly into the blankets and hold a loose stuffed dog to my chest.

The pills are really taking effect now; my body feels heavy, it’s getting harder to think, and most importantly, it’s hard to process any emotion. I’m exactly where she wants me, and I’m not getting out.

---

Where am I? Hello? It’s…dark.
-Calm down
How?!
-Slow down, think, don’t react. Where were you last?

Where was I last? My eyelids open a crack and the room is bathed in darkness; I’m in a bed, I think there’s someone here with me, and it’s warm, but…but…

The panic starts to rise within me; I don’t know where I am, but I have to get out. I have to get out. Have to get out. Have to get out. Have to. Have…ha-
“Rylee!” A voice pierces the darkness and I can feel hands pressing on my shoulders, holding me still even as I clammer up the bed and press myself against the low headboard. Fingers dig into my arms, the voice continues. “Calm down Rylee, it’s okay! Rylee, you’re safe!”

“S-safe?” I manage to repeat the words, barely believing it, but somehow able to calm down a little. I feel myself relax and the hands release their grip. I hear the thud of footsteps against the floor, and then a ‘click’. Light floods the room and I immediately cover my eyes, curling up on the bed, knees to my chest and hands over my eyes. It’s coming back now, the woman…Tori, right? Yes, Tori. Tori. To-ri. She’s here, sitting on the bed, her face staring intently into mine even as I hide it from her. I feel her fingers touch my shoulder and I instinctively pull away, a shriek escaping my lips as I retreat further up the bed. My head is pressed against the headboard now and my body is compressed as much as it can be. Tori. Yes, now I’m remembering. I broke into her house and she…kept me. My mind replays the events of the day, from the time I crawled through the bathroom window, to me showering, finding a set of clothes in the bedroom. It felt good to shed my filthy, sweaty clothes, and then her.

“Yes Rylee,” she says softly. “You’re safe here, no one’s going to hurt you.”
Safe. What does that mean? I can’t think, my brain is fogging up, my limbs are heavy, I feel like I’m being pressed against the bed, like one of those spinning carnival rides that keeps you plastered to the wall.

“Who…who are you?” I ask weakly, my voice is mostly absorbed by my knees and I wonder if she can even hear me.

-You know who she is.
Tori
-Yes.

“Rylee,” she says my name again. Why does she know my name? “My name is Tori, you broke into my house, and you’re going to be staying here for a while. You’re hurt and you have nowhere to go. Do you remember?”

“No,” I lie, squeezing my eyes shut and rubbing them with my hands. I allow my eyelids to open a crack and I roll my vision to the right to see her hovering over me. Her fingertips brush my forearm and I let out an involuntary sob, jerking away and banging against the headboard. She withdraws her hand.

“Here’s the thermometer," A new voice says. I strain to see, but all I can make out is a faint shape near the bedroom door. Tori reaches her hand out and grabs something, slides it into my mouth. I whimper, and clutch the blanket, which is now a tangled mess wrapped about my legs and the lower half of my torso.

“Temperature’s fine,” Tori says. “I think it’s all trauma.”

“Let’s see the feet,” says the interloper.

“When I found her she had them wrapped up in saran wrap,” Tori explains to the person. “Bandages underneath. I cleaned them the best I could.”

“Is she still asleep?”

“Drugged, actually,” Tori’s voice feels distant again and I can feel myself spiraling in the grip of whatever drug she’s given me.

They continue talking; the drug isn’t letting up and I feel like I’m adrift, their voices only reaching me by chance, and only as faint, shattered echoes. They seem so far away. The room seems so far away. I can feel the bandages coming off, I can feel the sharp pain, but I’m having trouble reacting with anything other than tears.

“Do you want me to straighten her legs out?” Tori asks the person.

“No, fine as is,” The voice says. It’s a woman, that much I can tell, and that realization sets my mind a little more at ease. “Okay, not seeing any infection but…can you keep her off of these tomorrow? A day of no activity would work wonders.”

I feel a tissue dabbing at my face, clearing away freshly fallen tears and then snot. It’s the last thing I feel in the waking world; the drug takes hold again, sending me plummeting back into the sea of my own mind.

“You can’t keep her,” The other woman’s voice drifts across the sea, fragmented and distorted. Were they talking about me? “You can’t just keep people, Tori.”

“She needs help.”

“Take her to a hospital.”

“Please, Fi. Help me with this, I’m begging you. I need this.”

“You’re biting off more than you can chew.”
“Fi…come on…”
“I am trying to be reasonable with you, Tori,” The other girl. Fi? Her name was Fi? “But what if-”
It’s over now, my brain shuts down, my ears stop listening, and darkness envelops me as dreams begin to form at the edge of consciousness. I remember what happened, I remember her. I remember the gun, and Tori. Tori. I need to get away from her. I need-

---

My eyes fly open. Memories from last night flood into my consciousness as my hand flies to my face to shield my eyes from the morning sun. Tori’s bedroom has a window, and she hasn’t bothered to close the drapes.

Tori. Tori. Who the fuck is Tori and why is she so interested in keeping me here? There are only a few things I know, the first is that she won’t let me leave, the second is that she thinks I’m a cis girl, and the third…is that I need to get out of here before she finds out the truth. My eyes dart around the room, from a squat bookshelf near the door, to the open closet filled with dresses, tops, skirts, and a low dresser, back to the window. I can probably get out that way, jump into the backyard and make a run for it. Shit, where are my actual clothes? I sit up quickly, gasping as I still feel a bit drowsy from whatever the fuck she gave me, and I somehow manage to slip from the mattress, thudding against the floor. It doesn’t hurt, not a lot, but I grunt, and it’s enough to alert someone in the living room.

“Rylee!” I hear someone call. It’s not Tori; the voice is different. I find out soon enough when a blonde girl, a bit younger than Tori pokes her head through the open door in time to see me pulling myself off the floor, contemplating my next move. She’s thin, like Tori, but kind of muscular. Soft features, long blonde hair tied up into a ponytail that reaches down to her waist. She says, “Come on, Rylee, Tori went out to get us breakfast. It’s time for you to be up anyway.”

“Wh…who are you?” I ask her breathlessly as I try to regain my feet. She’s in front of me almost immediately, interlocking my arm with hers; I look mournfully at the window I’d hoped to escape though, but settle for letting her lead me to the dining room.

“You can call me Fiona,” she tells me. “My friends call me Fi. You’re not my friend, so don’t get any ideas about that, got it?”

“Okay,” I tell her in a scratchy voice. “I was thinking…actually that I should leave, I have to get to-”

I’m interrupted by what I could almost describe as hysterical laughter from Fiona as she pulls me toward the kitchen table. “You’re like a dog with a bone,” she snorts. “No, you can’t leave. Sit down at the table.”
Screw it. It’s now or never. As soon as she loosens her grip to let me sit down, I turn and bolt. It’s harder than I thought it would be; first I manage to twist out of her grip, and second, the first time I take a step, the pain is excruciating and it almost stops me. And yet, I push through it; I run past her and bolt for the front door. I don’t make it.

Two things happen, the first being that the pain catches up with me; my feet feel like they’re on fire and shortly after I take my first steps toward freedom, I stumble, reaching out to the counter for support. The second thing is Fiona grabbing me. She snatches my forearm and pulls me back toward the living room, leaving me utterly shocked at how strong she is and how weak I must be.

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” Fiona tells me, seemingly unbothered by my ‘escape attempt’. “Come on, sit at the table.”

Next thing I know I’m at the dining room table, situated in a chair and leaning against the flat, glass surface. I can see my feet through the table, they’re bandaged up again, but this time the outer bandage is some kind of a rubber strip that holds the rest of the gauze in place; I can see my toes sticking out the end. I wiggle them and wince as the pain returns in full force.

“Alright let’s see,” Fiona takes a seat at the side of the table nearest me and sets two objects in front of her. My soul leaves my body as I look at a nearly-empty pill bottle and my wallet, which I’d kept inside a hidden pocket in the knapsack. She’d found it, somehow. I watch in horror as she opens the wallet and takes a look at my driver’s license tucked behind that little plastic window just inside. I know what she’s looking at and I feel sick to my stomach – my driver’s license with my birth name, my real gender, and probably my blood type or something. She chews her lower lip, looking from the license, to me, and then back. “You know this is expired, right?”

That’s what she has to say about it? My look of astonishment makes her smirk. She closes the wallet and sets it on the table next to her, picking up the pill bottle and giving it a shake. I hear a single pill rattling around inside, and once it stops she holds it beside her head, angled slightly, and watches me intently for a reaction.

“Premarin, huh?” she asks me. I nod slowly. “Right. I’m in nursing school, so I’ve seen transexuals before, but you…yeah I don’t think I would have known if I hadn’t found this stuff. Ryan, huh? You don’t look like a Ryan.”

“D…does Tori know?” My heart is treading water, and if she answers in the affirmative it’ll sink. I might even start to spiral. Again. Fiona watches me intently, silent for a moment before finally answering.

“Is it that important that she doesn’t?” Fiona asks me quietly. I nod. “Why?”
“Because I…I just…I don’t want people to know.”

“The person taking care of you should know,” Fiona points out. I press my lips together and shake my head.

“She’s not taking care of me,” My words aren’t exactly convincing; I’m not even sure I believe them. Fiona definitely doesn’t believe it, I can see it in her face, in that ever-so-slight smile forming on the edge of her lips.

“Oh, really?” she asks me. “So when you broke into her house looking like a malnourished ‘Little Orphan Annie’, you expected…what, her to ignore that shit and call the police, or send you on your way?”

“You know I can’t be here,” I jab a finger at the wallet. “You know what I am.”
“Why does that make a difference?” she snorts. “so you’re a transexual, doesn’t mean you’re not in trouble. Doesn’t mean you don’t need help. What are you so worried about?”

“You know what I’m worried about,” I press, my voice becomes more urgent with every word. “I can’t…I…I don’t want her to find out!”

“You barely know her,” Fiona says. “Why are you so worried about her opinion? Oh, wait, is it because maybe you’re ashamed?”

“I’m not ashamed!” I hiss. “I just…I…please don’t tell her!”

“Calm your tits, kid,” Fiona laughs. “I’m not going to tell her. But, she’s not stupid, she’ll figure it out.”

“Not if I leave,” I do my best to provide a counter argument, but she laughs again.

“Okay Rylee,” She laughs again, but then her expression grows deadly serious. “Tori is my best friend, don’t forget that. Understand that I don’t like lying to her, but I feel like outing you to her would be kind of a bitch move. Oh no, don’t get me wrong, I’m all about bitch moves, but shit, this is different. You’ve taken this pretty far, and you wouldn’t have, if there wasn’t really something to this.”

“What…are you going to do?” I don’t think I’d normally be that worried but this isn’t normal. Normally I just pass through towns, or cities, or whatever, only talking to the people I have to talk to. Normally I’d be long gone, and normally I’m not being held fucking captive! Anything could happen if she finds out; it’s bad enough that this Fiona person knows! It’s bad enough that I was careless enough to slip up. Why did I make my wallet so easy to find?

Fiona takes my wallet and slides it into her purse, regards the pill bottle again, and then turns to me. “Let’s go to the bathroom.”

The main bathroom is different from the one in Tori’s bedroom. It’s a little bigger, a little more open, though it lacks the piles of cosmetics that I’d seen on the counter in the other one. Fiona has me sitting on the edge of the bathtub as she fiddles around on her phone. Finally, she orders me to stand, and I do it with some difficulty.

“Arms up,” she orders. I look at her questioningly. “Look, Rylee, your feet were kind of a shock to Tori, she’s not used to that kind of shit, so I’m going to make damn sure if you have other secrets, I’m going to find them before you ambush her with them. Come on, arms up.”

Reluctantly, I partially raise my arms, then drop them again. Fiona’s stare doesn’t falter, so I go ahead and raise my arms. Immediately, she’s grabbing the material of my nightgown and pulling it up, over my head, and drops it on the floor. I’m standing there naked except for my gaff, and I immediately wrap my arms around myself. She indicates for me to drop my arms – I do, and she begins to inspect me. She looks at my hands, then tells me to raise my arms again, moves down to my crotch. I leap backward as she touches the gaff, nearly tumbling into the tub. Fortunately, she catches me in time and gives me a stern look.

“Got a question for you,” she says. “Are you…autistic by any chance?”
For the tenth time since I got here, my world falls apart in an instant. First she guessed that I was trans, now she knows I’m autistic. Is there anything she doesn’t know about me? Numbly, I nod, and my mind wanders to the autism diagnosis I’d gotten as a young child. These days it doesn’t affect me all that much; I still have trouble being touched, and talking to people? It’s a serious chore, but for the most part I function as a normal human being.

“Okay,” Fiona nods. “Are you taking any medication for that?”

“Not anymore.”

“What were you taking?”

“Um…” I strain, trying to remember the names of the medications that my parents had me put on. They seemed to change pretty regularly. “My parents…had me on Ritalin, then Concerta and they added Buspar and something called Tennex.”

“Tennex is for blood pressure,” Fiona notes. “Buspar is for generalized anxiety disorder, and Ritalin…well, you know what that is.”

“I do,” I nod. I’m starting to feel incredibly self conscious, being practically naked in front of her.

“Okay, take your underwear off,” she says, waving her hand and turning to the vanity.

“What? Why?” I ask her, eyes wide. She turns around again.

“Do it.”

As with Tori, it’s difficult for me to say no to Fiona; the compulsion to just obey is strong, which, I guess, paints a pretty good picture of my personality. Shaking, even crying a little, I comply and remove the gaff, allowing it to drop down to my ankles before stepping out of it. There’s a momentary pinch and then a brief pain flare up as my testicles drop from inside me. Of course I’d been tucked this entire time, it’s like the only way to hide the bulge, or so I’m pretty sure. Fiona watches the entire thing and then looks at me.
“You have a rash,” she says simply. “You need to change your underwear more often. This is why I had you undress; you’re so worried about hiding your penis that you don’t care what else happens down there. I’ll have you put some cream on that, and then I’ll get you a different pair of underwear.”
“O-…okay,” I manage to utter as she steps over with a white bottle of Desitin. she expertly applies the cream, and then excuses herself to Tori’s bedroom to find some underwear. When she returns, she’s holding a bundle of clothes and the first thing she hands me are a pair of pink spandex shorts.

“Biker shorts,” she explains. “They’ll hold your junk in and keep your legs from rubbing together. I’ll wash your other…thing. Whatever that is.”

“A gaff,” I tell her, she nods.

“A gaff. I’ll have to remember that.”

It’s only a few minutes before she has me dressed in the bike shorts and a blue dress that reaches down to my knees; I quickly lament the fact that my legs are so bare and I ask her if she can do anything about it. She shrugs and goes back to Tori’s room, returning with a pair of black leggings, which I gratefully pull on. Before I know it she’s brushing my hair and when I look at myself in the mirror, I thankfully see more girl than guy standing there.

“Do you want to do your makeup?” She asks me. I shake my head. “Why not?”

“Because Tori’s used to seeing me like this,” I explain. “If I add makeup it’ll confuse her.”

“Fucking pardon?”

“If I look more like a girl to her when I have makeup on, I’ll have to wear it all the time,” I explain. “And…I don’t have any.”

“Your paranoia is just downright amazing,” she says sarcastically. “Fine, no makeup right now, but otherwise, you need to do as you’re told.”

“As I’m told,” I say as I follow her from the bathroom. She’s got my other pair of panties in her hand, and she throws them into the washer along with my…no…Tori’s nightgown before taking me back to the kitchen where I collapse gratefully onto the couch and revel in the feeling of the pressure released from the soles of my feet.

“As you’re told,” Fiona confirms. “You broke into the house of someone who gives a shit and I’m sorry, that sucks for you, but you’re here now.”

“I don’t have to be,” I plead. “You could just-”

“Nope!” Fiona waves a hand in the air, shutting me up. “Tori likes you, she wants you, and I’m not telling the bitch no. Neither are you. Got it?”

“Fiona…” I want to say something, I want to protest. More likely I want to fucking run. I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be stuck here with someone who sees right through me, who knows my secret. I’ve been living as a girl for over a year now and yeah, I pass a quick inspection but how well is it going to hold up if I’m living with someone? No scratch that, not living with, literally imprisoned with.

“Rylee,” she sighs. “Homeless teens are a dime a dozen. Do you know how many would kill to have the opportunity you have right now? Tori wants to give you a place to live, she wants to help you. You’re scared? Yeah, I get it, it’s a new situation, but this is happening.”

“I…I’ll run,” I offer one last weak protest. “She…she can’t watch me all the time!”

“Watch you?” Fiona bursts into laughter. “You even make it sound like you’re a damn child. Look, the more I watch you, the more things I see. You can barely hold eye contact, you’re skittish like a baby deer, and you, are, afraid. You’re afraid of being trapped here, you’re afraid of Tori finding out, afraid of your own god damn shadow! Now Rylee, look around you, really look. For the first time in who-knows-how-long, you don’t have to be afraid. You can be yourself and you don’t have to watch your back. You know where your next meal is coming from, and your medical needs are taken care of. Now, in about ten minutes, Tori’s going to be here and she’s bringing breakfast. So, you’re going to sit at the table, and you’re going to thank her when she gives you your food. The next thing I want to hear out of your mouth is ‘yes Fiona’.”

“Yes…Fiona.”

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