Short Story: I Am Him

Sweat streams down Bethany’s face, like rain droplets on a windshield. She increases the speed on the stair-stepper, then fiddles with her earphones while she continues to ignore me. Five-years later, and she still harasses me about stupid shit that doesn’t even matter. Since our beginning, time after time, I would fall for her drama. But this month’s conflict has become the final straw.

I step down from the treadmill that’s facing my lover and best friend. Her smooth mahogany skin wrinkles into the stare that I can’t stand. I give her my own death stare, but she just rolls her eyes so damn hard at me that I’m surprised them things are still in her head! With a quick shoulder sweep, I brush her death-stare off and pimp-walk my muscular self to the wall of mirrors and hand weights.

Confidence in my life-changing decision excites me when I notice that my chest transitional-surgery scars have practically healed. It’s almost as if I never had tits nor a vag. Now, my reflection finally reveals my true self. The male who has always lived within, finally stares back at me: Vaughn Rauter. I’m a well-known transgender male and social media celebrity. My cyber-shared transition has made me a local celebrity and created my multi-million following.

One quick swipe of my ebony, flat-ironed, pretty-boy hair causes nearby gym groupies to snap quick photos. I mouth at one mesmerized Ginger to tag me before I hear Bethany smacking her lips with annoyance. She can stay mad; it’s business not pleasure.

My chiseled jaw and bushy brows match well with my newbie beard. Just because I can, I reposition my brand new dick and balls. Then I flinch with pain because it’s all still new and tender. But it’s mine. Paid for, but mine. I’m no longer a displaced mind in a foreign body. At last, my exterior is me—not a strange reflection that I’ve never connected with. Before my transition, I felt lost and misunderstood. Now, my mind and body are one. I’m no longer a mismatched abnormality. I. Am. Him. The male that I’ve always felt to be on the inside now smiles back at me from the gym mirror.

I sit then shift and adjust on the bench until I find a comfortable lifting spot. With caution, I slowly drop the hand weight behind my back, making sure to focus on my triceps and pecks.

“Stop it. Stop pushin’ yo’self so damn hard, V,” Bethany shouts as she flings herself off of the stair stepper and hustles toward me. She’s quick to snatch the thirty-pound weight from my hands.

“Let’s go … I’m over that stalker being too flirty with you.” Lies. Her pouty lips tell me otherwise.

Anytime Fitness is packed with its usual Friday night crowd, and most give us nosey stares while Bethany takes my hand, pulling me toward our gym bags. I’m not a public drama type of dude, so I just squash that shit and let her drag me out the gym. It’d be too much chick drama if I had clung to our explosive fight that almost caused my car to rear end an effin’ family-filled van.

But then, there’s that side of my mind that tells me that she shouldn’t get to be a drama queen—that I shouldn’t put up with her jealous drama. The fact is, Bethany doesn’t trust me and she probably never will. It’s not my fault that the ladies want me. I’ve told her too many damn times that my everything is hers, as long as she’s true to me too.

She pushes open the gym doors, and a dew-like rain smell lingers in the night air. As I unlock my Highlander, Bethany gives me her notorious pouty-lip stare and holds her hand out for me to surrender my keys. Her lips pucker and a hint of a frown begins to spread.

“I’m sorry. I want to trust you, V. I do. But it’s hard when every bi-a-otch that comes near you is all over you like a dick-thirsty hoe.” She’s younger than me. But at thirty, and in this social-media fame game—most in this pretty-face, hot-bod community—are younger than me. At twenty-five-years old, Bethany can be a dramatic child. Thankfully, she’s maturing each day more than the last. And that’s what keeps me with her, since she’s learning when to set her feelings aside and recognize that she’s in the wrong.

Her grey contacts blink when she tries to shake her tears away. “I love you—only you, always you.” My lips search for her ear through her thick, curly hair. Her small 5’0 frame relaxes into my 5’11 build. She smells of Cucumber-scented Dove soap mixed with her sweet-sweat smell. We enjoy our loving moment until nearby smartphone flashing along with ohhs and aws start. #Groupies

Austin, Texas in March is warm like perfect for outside day play, but Austin’s March nights are cool enough to make anyone reach for a hoodie.

“Let’s go home,” Bethany says before she gives me her spoon-me-now look. Her hands are smooth but cold against my semi-bearded face and her lips taste like passion fruit. We’re connected and lost in our embrace, until our PDA draws more groupies’ attention. In a rush, we quickly hustle into my car, but smartphone flashes practically blind me as Bethany pulls out from the gym’s parking lot.

After several unfamiliar turns, we’re cruisin’ with a slight hum of music in the background. The fresh spring air feels great against my gym-hot skin. It’s dark, and the light pollution from Austin no longer illuminates our way. It’s only Bethany and me on a long, country road. I don’t question her detour; I just lean forward to turn-up the radio.

The peace of this moment stirs my memories of the day that Bethany forced her way into my life. She and I crossed paths continuously. But at that time, I had been more of a sporty spice chick than the dude I am today. Unlike Bethany, who will always be a diehard lipstick lesbian with a venomous mouth. For over a month, we would see each other but we had been nothing more than strangers at a Starbucks. Then one day, while we waited for our morning caffeine fix, the barista gave me my order before Bethany’s. What a mistake. Bethany flipped her shit, and made the biggest scene. Out of embarrassment, I felt obligated to reduce the drama. After I soothed her lethal mouth, we talked and talked until our morning coffee turned into dinner plans. We’d become too hot for each other to take the slow path, so we jumped into bed before we hit our one-week mark. Our relationship had become a hot pot of oil just waiting to burn the house down: we constantly fought and then made up. Well, it had always been me giving in. I felt that fighting like cats was too much of a chick thing.

“You know … I could love you … until I’m an old prune,” Bethany hollers at me and interrupts my memories. Her grin is from ear-to-ear while she holds on tighter to my hand. My anger slowly fades and our relationship troubles seem unimportant. We’re like too love-drunk teens who can’t stop our googly-eyed stares. I know I should say something, but after days of disagreeing, I just wanted to hold on to this loving moment.

Without warning, we veer off of the road and then hit a parked car. In a loud pop, every air bag in my SUV ruptures. Bethany’s small frame bounces from the air bag and into the driver’s side window.

The screams that roared inside of my SUV … if my eardrums had been balloons, they would have burst along with the airbags. My face burns from the impact. Bethany shifts to glance at me and mumbles, “What did we hit?” I tell her that I’ll return for her before I leap from my SUV, then rush toward the small Honda that resembles a toy car next to my Highlander.

“Hello. Y’all ‘ight?” I yell as a strange ringing stabs my ears.

“Aaaggg.” A gurgle bubbles below me, and my heart screeches to a stop when I grasp that we’ve hurt someone. Fuck. Please don’t be dead—fuck.

“Damn, girl! Bethany—yo, girl, damn. Fuck! Look what ya damn did?” The thought of doing time, over this—hell no! I drop to my knees, reaching for my cell phone to get a better view of the small gurgling person. Everything inch of me clinches as my smartphone’s light shines on a grizzly scene. If only we would have focused on the road, then we would have seen the small older man. His body is parallel against his car, which collapsed onto his left arm. A rough urge to vomit churns within when I notice the nonstop flow of blood seeping from his injuries.

He continues to mumble in pain, and I’m in too much shock … my thoughts are a jumble of negativity. Should we leave? No, we should stay and get him help, we have to.

“Fuck. Bethany. Girl, come. See—” I begin to yell, jumping to me knees before marching toward my driver’s side … but I stop when I see her body slouching and limp. Her stare is glazed, and she didn’t wear her seatbelt.

“Bethany,” I croak out in a cry.

“Baby?” My voice is weak and all I can do is take small steps toward her.

FUCK. She’s alive. She has to be alive. Please, baby, be alive.

Again, I get my phone but this time I call for help. Too much damn time passes before two ambulances finally arrive. I’ve kept my fingers on Bethany’s chest, so that I can feel her pulse beneath my touch. Alarms sound in the background and then the EMTS are quick as they spring from their truck and rush toward the injured man and my love.

“Uhhh.” A gurgle creeps from Bethany’s throat.

“Babe? I’m here. Don’t move, OK?” I try to calm her before I turn to the hauling-ass patrol car that’s swerving and then halts inches from us.

“What happened here?” a twang-filled voice interrogates from the state trooper’s car.

It’s all my fault. I lingered. I should have known better. I’m the responsible one, the one who keeps track of all of our obligations. Bethany’s the cute one who keeps me dressed to impress. And now, now she might leave me … for good. For good. The guilt of losing her strikes me mute.

“Sir? You need to make an official statement. Now take a seat in my vehicle,” the female state trooper orders as she types at her car’s laptop.

Vertigo strikes me and the world feels off its axis. The accident replays in my mind, and I’m too stunned to speak. Anything I say … could result in jail time. We’d simply enjoyed one moment. One moment of peace, and for once in much too long—our love burned. There’d been no drama, only two people who have loved each other like an uncontrollable wild fire.

I’m in shock as I step into the state trooper’s car. It’s an out of this world experience as my mouth stutters through the events before our accident. I make sure to state that we had just left the gym and had taken a drive to cool off. Nothing more. However, officer Pam didn’t care and her rudeness makes my guilt rise.

“Your driver’s license says, VICTORIA Rauter. Why did you give me a fake, male name?” Her question strikes deep like a sword to my heart. The dim patrol car’s lighting makes her stare dark and fierce. I push away from her and press into the door, trying to create as much space as I can. In a nervous reaction, I start to dig my nails into my arms, like I would when my dad would yell at me for no damn reason.

Any day of the week, I am proud to state that I’m a transgender male. There are Internet trolls who have nothing better to do than to spread hate. But to actually be confronted—like this, it’s a first. How can I answer this hateful person? Why didn’t I change my damn driver’s license before my surgery?

“Heeelllloooo? VICTORIA? Did. You. Hear. ME?” She’s a bully just like my dad, and her yelling causes my repressed memories to stop my speech.

“He-she! He-she!” The girls on my high-school bus had constantly tease me. Until the day that I finally saved up enough money to buy my first car, a 1990 Toyota Corrola.

“Vic-tor-i-a,” Officer Pam screams and like that … all my emotional transitional preparations vanish from my once positive mindset. No longer do I feel like the strong masculine male that I’ve created. The understanding that this, this is how many will react when they discover my gender history is a sharp throat punch.

“You—you! Disgust. ME! You couldn’t just be happy as the woman God made you?” Her authority and words strike at me again. And now, all my memories of my father disowning me crash into my head.

“You’re dead to me, Victoria,” he screamed over-and-over again. Until, I finally stormed away from him and packed everything that I could from my childhood bedroom. On my eighteen birthday, I decided I didn’t have to deal with his hate anymore.

“Leave him alone,” my always loving mother said. She continuously defended me, and that day she made sure that I could escape my father’s rage.

“They’ll never accept you—no one ever will. Yoooou fucking freak!” His words hurt, but his drunken spit all over my face made his hate even worse. My mom shoved him out of the way before she helped me with the last of my boxes.

She swiftly hugged me tight and kept strong while she said into my ear, “No matter who you become, you will always be my child—Vaughn. Do you understand me? Promise that you’ll contact me as soon as you can, sugar, please.”

Then my drunken father stumbled towards us. In defense, my mother shoved me into the car and kept me safe from my father as she slapped his pistol from his hand. For once, I had been thankful that my father hadn’t mowed the grass. I pulled out of their driveway just as my mother gave my father a gut punch. She stayed strong … for me.

And now, after years of being bullied—I too will be strong.

I face the genderist officer and open my mouth to say, “I …”

“What you’re doing is gender discrimination. Who we are is none of your damn business,” a deep, female voice booms from outside of the patrol car. When the EMTs pulled up, I assumed that they were all males, but I was wrong. Officer Pam’s patrol light shows that who I believed was a man is actually a transgender female.

“I’m reporting you this time—Pam. This is the last transgender person you’ll ever degrade while on the job.” She’s a force to fear, and before I know what is happening—she yanks the door open and pulls me off the seat.

“Has he answered your questions?” she snaps at Officer Pam

“Yes,” Pam says through gritted teeth.

If this nut-case had the grit to talk to me as she did, there’s no telling what she’d do, so I keep eye contact with her as she cranks her car.

“Freaks!” Pam yells before she burns tires to get away from us.

“You ‘ight? I’m Linny.” She offers her rough hand and I shake it with gratitude.

“Um. You may need to call your insurance company,” she says from behind me.

“Where’s the EMT? Where’s my girlfriend?” Panic claims me as I note that it’s just me and Linny. Why didn’t they tell me where they’d take Bethany?

“I couldn’t just leave you alone with her; it was my civic duty to stay. Pam shouldn’t get away with it again.” She pats at my shoulder. "Your girlfriend and the injured male were taken to the nearest hospital. I had to stay. I didn’t have the heart to ignore another unreported case of gender discrimination," she mentions, deeply concentrating on collision.

After a thirty-minute convo with my car insurance and another forty minutes of waiting against my car, Linny and I lift to stand as a tow-truck drives towards us.

“Eee, y’all!” an older stick-thin granpa greets us from his driver’s side window as he parks his truck.

With ease, we introduce ourselves, then Linny and I watch while Alf hooks up my Highlander to his tow truck.

“It’s errr … almost 12AM, y’all gots someone to git’ya?” Alf asks once he’s inside of his truck.

“At the moment, no sir,” Linny says before she turns to face me.

“No,” I say and then kick at some rocks.

“Well, y’all git up in ‘ere.” Alf waves us into his vehicle. We share a bench seat as we buckle up, then he starts his truck. Time ticks by while we drive in silence towards Austin. I stare out the window and search the sky for the Lone Star.

“Y’all … y’all like ‘em people, huh? ‘Em people on the news?” Alf stutters over his words.

Then the air grows stale, and in a hot minute Linny shots back, “Great,” as she shakes her head in aggravation. To avoid any type of anything from going down—out here, in the middle of nowhere—with a tow-truck driver who could actually be a murderer, I just keep my mouth shut.

“My child was born different,” Alf whispers while his hands grip at the wheel. And again, we keep our traps shut. We don’t question for more, yet he just overshares. “At a young age my boy, Leo, had been too different. He didn’t want to play with his older boy cousins’ toys. Instead, he played with his mama’s makeup.” His unkempt, gray hair sways as we drive at a steady pace.

“At two, we took’em to a child psychologist and that lady said my son was a gender dysphoric.” He pauses and releases a tense cough.

“Dysphoria,” Linny whispers.

“What is that?” I add.

Linny whips her neck towards me. “Whaaat? How did you arrange a change without being diagnosed with gender dysphoria?”

“I’ve just always—” I start but then Alf says, “Seen yo’self as a boy?” He shakes his head with the same shame that my father did the first time he caught me with my childhood best friend, Milly.

We’re quiet until Alf speaks, “That was my child. On his third bir’day he asked that we call him Leona. For too long, I hated my child.” His head hangs dangerously low, but I’d be ashamed if I admitted to hatin’ my child too. Without warning, we park along the shoulder.

“On Leona’s 18th bir’day, her friends threw a surprise party. But some asshole boys from her school’s baseball team caught wind it. Before Leona even made it to the front door … they ganged up and beat her into a hospital bed.” We’re all silent while Alf cups his face with his hands, softly sobbing for his loss. Through his palms he whispers, “While Leona’s graduating class accepted their high school diplomas, my wife and I removed Leona from life support.” Linny and I are respectful and give Alf a moment to grieve.

“I’m … sorry,” Alf hesitates as he starts his truck. “We’re sorry for your loss, Alf,” Linny and I say. He takes his time and shakes his head in thankfulness.

“Y’all, live yo’ lives—howeva it makes y’all happy. I wish … I wish would had said that to Leona.” Alf trembles through his words. “My last words to her were awful. I hope where ever she is that she knows that I’m proud that she was strong enough to be herself.” He shakes his head with pride.

He ends our convo by leaning forward and turning on the radio, then soft banjo melodies play from the old speakers.

My father’s last words cycle in my mind, and as usual hate begins to rear its head. But, after what Alf said … I just can’t. Hate isn’t worth it. And although my father might not want anything to do with me, I forgive him.