That first weekend away from Steve was difficult. It was bad enough that he had slapped me and it put me on high alert for days, startling and flinching more easily. It was worse that I wouldn't be able to return to the house to collect my non-clothing items - like my books - without a police escort; as a criminal defence barrister, the police were no friends of mine, especially since I had a very public "All Cops Are Bastards" stance on social media, pointing out the racism and classism in Britain's criminal "justice" system. Years and years of books, vinyl records, and personal mementos were gone unless the police were willing to help me, and I didn't think it was worth the aggravation. That didn't mean it didn't hurt, however.
What made it worse still was my body continuing on its bullshit of cramps and bleeding, after I had to take the morning-after pill on Friday following my drunken one-night-stand with a stranger. I also now had to worry about getting tested for STIs and HIV and hope everything was clear, which was not something I needed.
I still couldn't believe that after checking myself into the hotel in my pyjamas, I'd managed to get dressed, go to the hotel's bar and get plastered and pick up some random bloke who looked like an aging George Clooney. I didn't remember every exact detail of the encounter, but I had hazy memories of the guy being turned on when I pulled him along by his tie like it was a leash, determining from there he liked it a bit rough and I...
...tied him up and beat the shit out of him. Which he agreed to. And I enjoyed. My inhibitions were low enough from the alcohol that I'd finally given into long-suppressed desires to dominate, to control, to give pain as pleasure. My face burned every time I thought about it, feeling ashamed - even though 50 Shades of Grey was currently popular that didn't mean society was suddenly super accepting and what I did was considered "normal".
Especially when I made him call me Sir.
I might have had a vagina, but I fucked him, not the other way around. And if I hadn't been so drunk that night I might have been inclined to visit a nearby sex shop and buy a strap-on for some real fun. I'd certainly fantasized about fucking men with a cock enough times.
I didn't know the guy's name, we'd never exchanged contact info and I never, ever wanted to see the guy again, mind you - I felt dirty that he knew I was drinking away my sorrows in the bar and he took advantage of my vulnerability and he knew I was drunk enough that consent was dubious at best; I struggle to call it rape but it wasn't really something I would have done sober at that stage in my life.
But there was part of me that wanted to find someone, male, and have that kind of power trip with my wits about me. Make him call me Sir while I fucked the daylights out of him. And it bothered me, reinforced that growing rift between mind and body, more and more disconnected from my inner concept of self and my outward reality.
If that wasn't enough to deal with, things at work got... awkward.
I was given a warning about the incident with Ben last week, though he was also given a warning. But now there was also a new problem at Lincoln's Inn. Steve and I were both members of Lincoln's Inn, though we worked in two different specialties of law and belonged to two different chambers. That said, I couldn't avoid running into him at lunch in the Great Hall, and while I tried to avoid him, he finally got in my way on the afternoon of Friday, August third.
"I filed for divorce," Steve said.
I nodded. "Hooray for you." I knew I was being unprofessional with my snark, but he could have e-mailed me instead of getting in my face at work.
"I suppose I should say thank you."
"For..." I tilted my head to one side, wondering if he was going to attempt some sort of half-arsed apology and an "I've seen the error of my ways" speech.
Steve sneered. "For getting out of my life. You're like a dead fish, you just lay there." His sneer became a full, mocking grin. "Trisha's a much better fuck than you."
I didn't know how long they were fucking. I wasn't exactly pristine myself - I hadn't cheated on him while we were together, though I did fantasize and masturbate about other men, and that night I left I ended up having a one-night-stand. But there was a difference between that and the implication that he and Trisha had been fucking since before I walked out on him, and even if he hadn't and this had only started since after I left, it was still something he didn't need to tell me at all, especially not here at Lincoln's Inn.
I thought about responding with a snarky comment, but I decided after what happened with Ben that was a bad idea, even though Steve had taken care to corner me when there were no witnesses. I had to watch my mouth now or risk more severe consequences to my career.
I took a deep breath, heart pounding in my chest again; I reflexively took a step back, having a flashback of when he slapped me last week. "Leave me alone, or I'll report you for sexual harassment," I warned him. "And I'll get an injunction for domestic abuse."
Steve laughed. "You do either or both of those things and you're through. My friends and I will make sure you never practise law again... if you don't do time, I'm sure we can plant drugs on you or something..."
I walked off, not looking back, heart hammering in my ears as I feared that he would follow, drag me off somewhere, and...
He didn't. But now I knew there was going to be trouble with him at work. And I felt like some of that was my own damn fault - I didn't have any friends here, nobody had my back the way Steve's mates had his back. I was an introvert, my idea of a fun time on Friday night was reading a book rather than going out drinking. People called me The Shark because I went for blood in the courtroom; every prosecutor in London hated me, every criminal defence barrister envied me, and the poison spread through their cliques of friends. I had no support system here, and I was fucked if Steve decided he wanted to become a thorn in my side.
I had worked so bloody hard to get where I was in my law career and now this, too, felt like it was about to come crashing down.
In a panic, I took off to the women's bathroom, even as I resented yet another reminder of being in this body. I banged into a stall and fell apart crying. Again. I was so sick of crying. So sick of everything.
I let myself cry, and when I came out to wash my face and try to pull myself together, there was fucking Trisha and a couple of her friends, laughing at me.
That was it. Not thinking, just feeling, I left. For the second time in two weeks, I left work early without telling anyone, but this time I was able to drive myself to Nigel's instead of going through the ordeal of calling a recovery vehicle and a cab. When I arrived at Nigel's, he and Not-Arsehole Steve were out - presumably shopping - and the panic started again, worried that my soon-to-be-ex-husband would follow me here and start trouble while I was home alone.
When Nigel came back, he knew I wasn't OK, but I tried to downplay what happened, even though I had a feeling he knew I was bullshitting. I had concerns he would go beat the shit out of my ex, even though that would be satisfying, I didn't want him getting in legal trouble for me.
And though Nigel restrained himself from driving to my ex's house and sending him a message, I could tell he was angry... and concerned. He kept checking in on me that weekend.
It was a very long weekend. I realised a few hours after I got home on Friday that I was probably in deep shit at work for leaving just days after my warning for what happened with Ben... and even if I wasn't, there was the issue of it being a hostile work environment with Steve and his friends. Including Trisha. I knew my law career was effectively finished throughout the entire UK. The idea of going back to school to become something else was both unappealing and grossly unfair, and there was the question of how I would support myself. Nigel was letting me live with him rent-free, but he was a pensioner and I felt like I would be a burden with meals and...
I just felt like a burden, period. There was no bloody way in hell I could go back to work on Monday, I was too shaken up from the encounter with Steve, and I knew if I didn't show up I could consider myself sacked. I once again felt trapped in this body with parts I didn't want, condemned to spend the rest of my life alone because I didn't want to be someone's wife or girlfriend again, perceived as female.
I tried to distract myself. I really did. I played stupid games on Facebook - yes, I played FarmVille and Candy Crush. I tried to read PDFs of novels, missing my massive book collection left behind at Steve's place. But I couldn't concentrate on anything for very long, my mind kept wandering... to flashbacks of Steve slapping me, then Steve's threat at work...
...my fear of the future, and just feeling so hopeless. Even though I knew Nigel wouldn't throw me out when I lost my job, he and his partner wouldn't live forever. I was going to have to start my life all over again with a new career and it just didn't seem worth it. Didn't seem fair.
Life felt like utterly hopeless bullshit.
I thought about the pregnancy and the abortion, feeling trapped in a body that never felt like mine. Judith's words from before the abortion came floating out from the back of my mind: Do you think you might be transgender?
I opened up Wikipedia.
A transgender person (often abbreviated to trans person) is someone whose gender identity or gender expression does not correspond with the sex they were assigned at birth.
I didn't read farther than that. I immediately closed out the tab and broke down. I had a word that described what was going on with me, and rather than feeling like relief, like an "a-ha" moment of illumination, I could feel my world, my life, breaking apart even more.
I, myself, felt broken. And I felt all I had to look forward to in life was more suffering.
I went to the bathroom, and opened up the medicine cabinet. I still had painkillers left over from my abortion, most of an entire prescription bottle since I'd been sparing with them, not wanting to succumb to my mother's vices. I told myself I would just take one to shut off my mind for awhile, but then I got mad at myself - turning into a drug addict now, are you - and I decided it was time to just... end it.
I swallowed the pills one by one, then I closed my laptop, climbed into bed, and hoped I didn't wake up. I didn't believe in God, or anything, but just fading into oblivion seemed preferable to this.
A little while later the room began to rock back and forth, and spun, until the darkness pulled me under.
chapter 8 | return to A Place Called Home | return to Original Works | return to index