JEN IVES

The walls closed in, oval as they were. Mr President clung onto the desk - onto the chair. Onto whatever might steady his legs, wobbly and inflamed. He pressed for a coke. Someone would bring it to him immediately and he’d be able to shout at them - exhibit some power - but most importantly, not feel alone for a moment. 

Mr President told her to put the can down on the table, and screamed at her to be quicker next time. Was she a fucking idiot? He called her an ‘ugly bitch’ and a ‘fat pig’, and she let him because she knew (just like everybody else did) that her continued service was nothing but a formality. A transfer of power. Only a matter of time. 

He could hear the morons outside - jeering and banging their drums. The immigrants and the queers and the bitches and the democrat sluts. If they tried to breach the gates, he’d have them shot on sight. There were still people here who believed in him. Good people. The best people. 

Mr President drank the coke down in one single go, barely even needing to swallow, full-sugar, almost classic taste. Not quite how he remembered it in the eighties, but close enough. No need to put the can down, he just let it drop from his face and onto the Oval Office floor. Watched, as it rolled away from him, his surname glistening on the side of the can - red and silver. Custom. For his lips only. 

An idea. The best idea. No other president had ever had such a good idea as this one. Dropping to his burning knees, full as they were with lactic acid, Mr President proceeded to tear at the can with his teeth - sharp tin edges revealed. And pulling at his sleeves, bringing them up to his bruised elbows, he held the tin to his wrists. 

The door swung open. A conga line of heavy-set Secret Service officials - poised and ready to deal with this inevitability. One prised away the can, while another administered a restraint. Mr President shouted, and flailed. Pig! Cunt! Bitch! Hoax! But it was no use. Did they know what they were doing? Committing treason. 

Mr President felt himself lifted upright - two goons on either arm - and allowed himself to get some much needed rest as he floated out of the Oval Office. He knew where he was being taken because he’d read about the place in a classified document back in his first term. He didn’t know much about what went on there, but he did know one thing. 

There’d be no Cokes. 

______________________________________________________________

More at:

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Contact: [email protected]

You can also join the SECRET DOSSIER group (FREE) to gain access to EXTRA documents and insight into this story. Find the link on my Instagram profile.

______________________________________________________________

If you like 'Good Trans News' - you might also like my collection of short stories, available NOW in paperback below:

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'Good Trans News' is an ongoing, serialised, dystopian trans novel. To read more of it (and get up to date), follow me on Instagram here or visit my website here. I am going to start uploading it here on Tumblr though, so if you enjoy it - please do stick around.

______________________________________________________________

CHAPTER 7

Mum and Dad visited today. No Cassie though. Mum said she couldn’t get it off work, but I know she’s covering for her. The truth is, my sister doesn’t want to see me - we had a massive falling out just before I came here because she disinvited me to her wedding. Not the first family event I was asked not to attend, either… She said she ‘wanted me to come’ but ‘not as Helen’. Wanted me to wear a suit. I told her I can’t just turn it off. If she wants me there, she wants me there. Suddenly, I’m unreasonable. Suddenly, I’m selfish and trying to ‘ruin’ her ‘special day’. I guess I’m going to miss it now, anyway. What a shame.

Mum and Dad had to sign in, and Cathy gave them a tour of the Institute, with me just following behind. I hate Cathy, she's two-faced, calling me ‘Helen’ and ‘She’ and ‘Her’ when my parents are there, when normally she calls me Colin, which isn’t even my dead-name. Dad was ‘surprised’ at ‘how nice it is’ at the Institute. He said my bedroom here was ‘nicer than any flat’ I’ve rented. Why doesn’t he live in it, then? He’s an idiot. We’ve never connected, me and him. I think he likes seeing me here. Out of sight, out of mind. I’m pretty sure he was always embarrassed to be seen with me in public, so this suits him just fine. Mum didn’t comment much - just the odd question here and there about meals, making sure I’m getting enough roughage. Filling the air, mostly. Classic Mum.

When Cathy finally left us, we sat in a quiet part of the day room - pretending to watch Aladdin on DVD. Mum said Cassie would try and get down here to see me in a couple of weeks. I told Mum that I didn’t want Cassie to come, I wanted to leave. Dad said this was the safest place for me right now. Mum started to cry. Again, classic. I told them both that, if they loved me, they’d get me out - take me home. Dad said I was upsetting Mum, and if I didn’t stop, they’d have to leave.  I told them both that I hated them, and that they should leave. How do you like that? Mum slapped me across the face, and told me I was ‘fucking stupid’ and should just ‘stop all this nonsense’ and they’ll ‘let me out’. It took me a minute to put together what she was saying, and as Dad helped her to her feet, and they left the Institute, I realised that she meant detransition.

There was a rumour going around that Debbie had gone home. Julia swears that she saw a bald Debbie leaving the facility with a man and a woman who looked old enough to be her parents - but I’ve since learned that Julia is a huge fucking liar, so take it with a pinch of salt. Grace confided in me that Julia has been telling staff I write pornographic smut stories about them. It sounds silly, but rumours like that are dangerous here. Like, who would I even write that about - Cathy? Why would I want to imagine something like that? I thought she was my friend. Maybe I am fucking stupid? 

Julia swears to have seen Debbie leaving though, and said that she reckoned that’s the whole point of all this - to get us to hate our femininity. For us to admit we’re ‘men’ and then prove it. To make trans-life seem unbearable, and then get us to willingly detransition - then we can leave. Is that what Mum meant? Maybe they’ve been told something we haven’t? If that is true, I wonder how many of the girls would agree to it? It’s probably not enough to just say you’re going to detransition. They’ll probably be checking up on you. 

Cathy had witnessed my fight with Mum and Dad, and had been very apologetic on my behalf as she showed them out. I sat on the sofa in silence for a while - enjoying the sting on my face. I think that slap, even though it hurt well enough, I think it woke me up from something. I think I’ve been floating through all this for the last couple of weeks. Been in shock, maybe. Trying to ‘get by’. It’s smart - and reasonable, but do I really see myself here for the rest of my life? With Cathy over my shoulder all the time? 

No, I do not see that. I have to get out. 

Professor Samuel, in his God-awful weekly ‘talks’ keeps saying how we are significantly ‘better off’ here. He keeps saying how the world (as it is now) is too hostile for us. He says we are too delicate for the ‘rough terrain of society’. Well, he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about. Who even is he? He’s never navigated the world like me. He’s never had to risk it all to be true to himself, has he? He knows literally nothing about my life. 

As I look back now on some of my writings from when I first got here, I’m ashamed. I sound docile. Pathetic, even. A fucking pushover. As I write now, it’s clear to me suddenly that I’m no longer that same person, and getting out of here should have been my number one priority from the start. And yet, I went into that van willingly. 

But I will not detransition. I don’t know how I’ll get out yet, but it won’t be like that. It’ll be on my own terms. I just need some time to think of something. Luckily, I have a lot of that.

CHAPTER 8

I’ve not been spending much time with Julia and Grace lately. Julia did apologise for all her bullshit rumour spreading, and I let it go because she’s having a bad week, but I think it’s better if I keep to myself for a bit - at least until I figure out what I’m doing. Julia’s boyfriend came to see her a few days ago, but it wasn’t a happy visit. Apparently he broke up with her - said it wasn’t practical anymore. Said he had to move on. I spoke to her a bit just after he left, and she seemed fine enough, but a few hours later she was tearing posters down off the walls and had to be restrained for pushing over the fish tank. Three of the four fish didn’t make it. 

Joseph has been assigned to be my ‘keyworker’, which means he’s my ‘main go-to’ if I need anything. He’ll be in charge of booking my doctors appointments and planning my weekly schedules. We had a sit down yesterday and he wanted to know if I needed anything. I told him that I wanted a medication review. I want to know what exactly I’m being given. He said he’ll look into it. I’m relieved it isn’t Cathy. She’s really fucking awful, and seems to be getting worse. There’s a little window which looks into the medication room, and sometimes I see her in there, rationing out the pills for us, and counting our money. Because we’re wards of the state now, we get a small amount of money each month to buy necessities - but the Team Leader has strict control over it. She spends most of her time in that little medication room. She doesn’t like to interact with us.

Today’s activity was a group outing. It’s the first time I’ve been outside with other girls (only 3 of us allowed at a time). We went in the van to a bowling alley of all things. It was me, a quiet girl named Shantel and Emily - the older trans woman who was in the van with me when we first got brought here. I don’t think any of us have ever expressed a desire to go bowling, but I think The Institute gets a discount or something, because they take girls every week. Something I’ve learned is, when we’re taken out in groups, the two to one support is relaxed. On this trip, we each had just one support worker - Joseph for me, Sandra for Emily and a new one - Alexandra, for Shantel. I guess they figure we’ll keep an eye on each other? Or maybe they can’t get the staff.

I’m useless at bowling. We played 2 games, and almost all of my tries were gutter balls. Sandra kept asking if I wanted to have the sides put up, like a baby, but I was adamant no. If gutterballs is what I’m getting right now, that’s what I’m getting. Otherwise, what’s the point? Are we here to achieve something, or do we just like seeing the pins fall over? Emily is quite good - but she does have some years on me. I’ve not really spoken to her all that much since being here, but at the bowling alley she was pretty chatty - telling me about how she used to be in an amateur women’s football club. About how they all took a vote just before the law-change, and there was a majority on her having to leave. She didn’t hold it against them, she said - their funding was threatened. 

Shantel wasn’t really into it. I don’t know how old she is, but she dresses younger than I do - has an anime backpack - I don’t know what the character is. Even the lightest ball was a struggle for her, and I think she’d have had more fun in the arcade. The only other time I’ve spoken to Shantel was when I first got to The Institute and she showed me how to set up the Nintendo. She spends a lot of time on her own - drawing in her room. I should make an effort to get to know her. Try to be a friend. Maybe tomorrow?

The new support worker, Alexandra, talks to us like we’re children. At bowling, she would continually check to see if any of us needed a drink or wanted to use the toilets. Eventually, I just told her I did need the toilet, just to get a little bit of privacy and shut her up. Joseph escorted me over. We have 2 choices while out in public - either the disabled toilets, or the men’s. I tell Joseph that I can go up to the bar to ask for the accessible radar key on my own, but he seems hesitant. I assure him that I’m not going to run off in bowling shoes. I wouldn’t do that to him anyway. I like him. 

He lets me do it, and under his watchful eye, I go up to the counter and ask the woman behind it for the key to the disabled toilet. She inspects me - gives me that stare that asks: What are you? Do you know you look like that? It’s funny because stuff like this used to really throw me off - make me self conscious for a week. Spiral, even. But these days, everyone knows what I am. It actually feels good to meet somebody who isn’t sure. She tells me the disabled toilets are out of order - apparently a drunk woman smashed it up yesterday and there are major repair works to be done. 

Annoyingly, I actually do need the toilet suddenly - and my stomach sinks as I realise I’m going to have to use the men’s. I tell Joseph the situation, and he asks if I want him to escort me in. He means it to be kind, I can tell, but I turn it down all the same. It feels absurd to walk in there, but I do. There is a dad in there with his young daughter, lifting her up to wash her hands. She bursts out laughing when she sees me in the mirror - points at me and shouts ‘look Daddy, she’s come in the wrong toilet!’ He looks mortified to see me there - how do you like that?

I enter a cubicle and I sit down. It’s amazing how a space that can look so identical to the ladies can feel so starkly different. I guess my body just knows when I’m somewhere I ought not to be. There is a sticker on the cubicle wall, which reads: ‘Women Don’t Have Cocks’ with a little picture of a laughing chicken. I scratch away at the corner, and notice that there’s something behind it. Carefully, I peel off the sticker and find, hidden behind there, a razor blade. It’s an old, sick stick - placed there to hurt whoever tries to remove it, but I wiggle it out with no injuries. I wrap the razor blade in a few rolls of toilet paper, and I tuck it into my bra. 

______________________________________________________________

More at:

jeniveswords.substack.com lobotomyworld.substack.com jenives.net

Contact: [email protected]

You can also join the SECRET DOSSIER group (FREE) to gain access to EXTRA documents and insight into this story. Find the link on my Instagram profile.

______________________________________________________________

If you like 'Good Trans News' - you might also like my collection of short stories, available NOW in paperback below:

Buy my book

'Good Trans News' is an ongoing, serialised, dystopian trans novel. To read more of it (and get up to date), follow me on Instagram here or visit my website here. I am going to start uploading it here on Tumblr though, so if you enjoy it - please do stick around.

______________________________________________________________

CHAPTER 5

The dungarees fit perfectly, except I didn’t have a t-shirt so everyone could see my bra. The dining room was full, some girls waiting in line for the 3 nail techs sitting at the table. In the garden, one of the ‘support workers’ had a little CD player on and was leading some of the girls in a choreographed dance routine to Oops!… I Did It Again by Britney Spears. I joined the line too - thinking I might go for something silver. Glittery, even. 

Over by the fish tank, I notice what’s her name - blondie from the van. She’s sitting with her head against the glass, watching one of the fish struggle to swim with one defective fin. She’s got dungarees on too, and I’m pretty sure we’re the only ones. One of the women in white scrubs from earlier sidles up to me, and tells me to come away from the line. She says I ought to take my makeup off and follow her, handing me some face wipes.

I wipe it all off in the downstairs bathroom mirror. I’m thinking about those cyanide tablets again, except I’m starting to realise that maybe there weren’t ever any. I had been on my own too long - cooped up, and in my own world. My toilet being given away? That sounds insane. I was unwell. The fantasy is broken now, for better or for worse. When I’m done, I’m taken to an area of the building I’ve not been to yet - through a conservatory - and out, down some stairs. There are white tiles on the way down, like in an old London public toilet. 

The room is empty, and dim. Sort of like an interrogation room from a crime drama, except without the table or anyone offering you a coke. There is one chair, facing a door - which I’m ordered to sit down in. It is explained to me that, behind the door is a ‘very, very large and upset dog’. This dog, they say, is troubled. It came from a bad home, and hates men. In a moment, they inform me, the door will open and the dog will be let into the room. How the dog treats me will show me what I am. 

Sure enough, the door swings open and I am set upon by a snarling, almost rabid looking monster - held back only inches from tearing off my face by a leash held by a figure I can’t see. I’ve always wanted to like dogs - wished I could get over my reservations - but I had some bad experiences as a child. Maybe I’m more of a cat girl? I see in its eyes that it hates me - wants to tear out my jugular and leave my throat bleeding out onto the floor. Maybe the dog is right? Maybe it knows me better than I do?

Once again, the form is placed in front of me. I sign it this time, and agree that I am indeed ‘a man’. I don’t actually believe it, but I need to get by. I need to not be down here, with this dog. I need to get my nails done and learn the Britney dance. See, what’s so hard about that? Someone behind me asks. What’s wrong with being a gender non-conforming male? Rachel is there, and she tells me that ‘internalised homophobia’ is a ‘tough thing to shake off’ but we will. She assures me of this. 

 I’m allowed to go back upstairs and change. There is a new outfit in my wardrobe - a faux leather mini skirt, black heels and a belly top. I do my hair up into a high pony and reapply my foundation. I am myself again. By the time I get downstairs, the nail technicians are packing up to leave. I’ve missed my chance, but am reassured that they’ll be back soon. Besides, it’s time for us all to go into the garden and watch the performance. 

I sidle up next to Blondie, who is still in her dungarees. I guess she didn’t sign? It really doesn’t matter, because she couldn’t look masculine if she tried. On her, the dungarees look stylish. High fashion. This girl clearly had help from a young age - supportive parents, probably. The song starts. Mm yeah. The girls jump into choreographed action. Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeeeah. It’s an incredible show - with everyone perfectly in time. 

Blondie asks me my name. I'm surprised because she hasn’t spoken to me once so far. I tell her it’s Helen. She tells me hers is Debbie. It’s a funny coincidence. I say like Harry? But she seems confused and says no, like Debbie. I guess she’s too young to know who it is I’m even talking about. She grips my hand, which takes me off guard a bit. I should show her ‘Maria’ (one of my all time favourite songs). Maybe she’ll like it? I don’t know how though. I’ll have to check the communal CD rack to see if they’ve got it. 

CHAPTER 6

It’s been two weeks since my last diary entry, but that’s only because I’ve been too busy getting involved and hanging out with everyone. I’ve made a couple of friends - Grace, who is a few years younger than me, and used to work in the nursery just a few streets away from my old flat. All that time, and I had no idea there was another trans woman nearby… She says she liked her job - working with special needs kids, but she had to leave it when the law changed. Professor Samuel says none of us are in any mental state to care for anybody else. 

Then there’s Julia. She’s so cool. She used to be a model - did some shoots for Cosmo and even had a small part in a movie (except she was cut out). Her face is perfect - she’s got these incredible cheekbones, and her makeup is always immaculate. Hanging out with Grace and Julia has been a godsend, and our little bitching sessions about the support workers here has helped keep me sane. There’s this one staff member - Joseph. He’s only about 25, and Julia is always teasing him - asking him if he’s ever been with a girl like her before. His whole face goes pomegranate red, it’s hilarious. Grace helped me cut my hair as she did hairdressing at community college. We bleached it, and cut it shoulder length. 

I’ve not seen Debbie for about a week now. I don’t think she ever did sign the contract, and the last I saw her - Cathy was shaving her head in the garden. Cathy is a ward Team Leader. She controls our finances, and administers our hormones. She’s a massive cunt. I think she’s in her late fifties, and it’s obvious she hates us. According to my councilor, Rachel, the staff are still supposed to gender us correctly, but she never does. Professor Samuel says the entire point is for us to feel free to ‘express’ our ‘paraphilias’ in a ‘safe environment’. The way Cathy sees it is - if we signed the contract, it doesn’t matter what we look like. To her, we’re all ‘fellas’. 

I’m guessing Debbie is in solitary. I’ve not seen it myself, but I’ve heard that it’s basically a de-transition centre. No hormones and no nice clothes - just the dungarees. I hope she’s doing alright. I don’t know if you’re still allowed to watch Disney films in solitary? I told Rachel in my last session that I was worried about my hormone dose. I know we’re all given the exact same one pill, but I don’t think it’s enough. My body is reacting badly to it, and I’ve definitely noticed some light facial hair growth again. She told me I shouldn’t worry - that my body is just readjusting to the levels. Cathy wasn’t sympathetic, either. She said: ‘Real women do have body hair you know… welcome to womanhood’ in her Australian accent. 

My parents are visiting tomorrow. It’ll be the first time I’ve seen them in over a month - the last time being a trip to Spaghetti Complex for my sister’s 26th birthday. It wasn’t a great night - I got drunk and ended up crying and ‘ruining the birthday’. That was happening a lot before the law changed. I’m nervous about seeing them - I want to look my best. That’s why I had my hair done. Yesterday, I got my first trip outside The Institute - a short walk into town to buy the bleach. It felt odd being out - sort of overwhelming. It wasn’t an especially sunny day, but what sunlight there was, caught me off guard. It made me dizzy. The communal garden here is pretty shaded for the most part - with tall bushes to keep the neighbours from seeing in. 

Trips out are ‘two to one’ which basically means - there are two support workers assigned to be with you when outside the building. This is because we are severely mentally ill - therefore a risk to ourselves and others. While in the pharmacy, I could feel people staring at me - and could hear them whispering. I was allowed to go up to the check out and pay for the box-dye by myself, but Joseph and Sandra (support workers) were either side of me throughout. If I’d have ran, I wouldn’t have gotten far. The high street they take us to isn’t very big, and all of the staff in the shops know who we are, and where we live. 

This morning Julia, Grace & I rehearsed a new dance routine for ‘Take a Chance on Me’ by Abba. It’s an original routine, choreographed by Julia. I’ve never been good at dancing - always lacked the confidence - but right now, it’s helping. In the times when all I’m worrying about is which steps to do next, I’m not worrying about anything else - and that’s been useful. During the bit that goes: If you change your mind, I’m the first in line - honey I’m still free, take a chance on me - I’m supposed to do this sultry sort of bend, and then into a shimmy. I think I’ve got it down pretty good. Julia is a bit of a taskmaster, but she’s just passionate about the arts. She wants us to ‘Serve Puss’ at the next performance, and I don’t want to let her down. 

I did check the communal CD collection to see if there was any Blondie - and there was a ‘Greatest Hits!’, but when I tried to play it, it was too scratched up. It kept skipping and won’t seem to play past track 3 (One Way or Another). As far as I’m aware, we’re not allowed to use the internet, so ordering a new one doesn’t seem likely. I’m thinking of asking Joseph if he can sneak it in for us. I think he likes us (me, especially) as he always sits down with us while we’re eating. He likes to hear our gossiping, and is always asking me about our interests and lives before all this. Julia says he’s a ‘little chaser’ but I don’t think that’s it. I think he just feels sorry for us. 

______________________________________________________________

More at:

jeniveswords.substack.com lobotomyworld.substack.com jenives.net

Contact: [email protected]

You can also join the SECRET DOSSIER group (FREE) to gain access to EXTRA documents and insight into this story. Find the link on my Instagram profile.

______________________________________________________________

If you like 'Good Trans News' - you might also like my collection of short stories, available NOW in paperback below:

Buy my book

'Good Trans News' is an ongoing, serialised, dystopian trans novel. To read more of it (and get up to date), follow me on Instagram here or visit my website here. I am going to start uploading it here on Tumblr though, so if you enjoy it - please do stick around.

______________________________________________________________

CHAPTER 3

The Institute looks a lot like a hospital, except we’ve been assured that it isn’t one - so that’s a load off. In fact, they tell us that most of the staff aren’t trained medical professionals at all - many of them haven’t even been taught to do the Heimlich Manoeuvre, so we have to make sure we chew our meals properly. 

We spent the first three hours in a lecture hall, being shown Disney films on a big screen. We watched Snow White, and then Pinocchio - which is about a little wooden puppet who dreams of being a real person. You’ve probably seen it - it’s gangbusters! I’d say there are about sixty of us here - all trans women. I’ve never been in a room with so many of us at once! Very sisterly vibes.  

A man called Professor Samuel explained to us what was going to happen. He can’t be older than 40, and has a kind face with a little mole on his left cheek. He said that we are to live here now, and we need not worry about anything. It’ll all be sorted, Professor Samuel says - from hormones, to clothes, to electrolysis - and even surgeries. All we have to do in return is agree - verbally, and in writing - to being male (and mentally ill).

This one girl (redhead, early 30s) stood up and pushed her chair down the lecture theatre stairs. She shouted out that Professor Samuel could ‘go and get fucked’ before she’d agree to ‘anything like that’. Three men and two women in white scrubs came in and dragged her away. If she’d only bothered to read the pamphlet they gave us, she’d have known that it’s not so bad, really. On page 2, for example, it clearly states that friends and family will be allowed to visit on Thursdays, and we can even earn fun group trips out, accompanied by staff.

My room is nice, and I’m sitting in it right now. I’ve got a bed, a chair, a desk, and a window - which overlooks the gardens. Looking out of it, I can see a small group of girls being shown the proper way to walk in heels - up and down, up and down the decking. They’ve brought a specialist in to show them - a cis woman, it looks like. Each girl is dressed in a mini-skirt and crop top. 

Just checked in my wardrobe, and sure enough - I have a skirt and top set too. I also have a more formal party dress - with puffed sleeves and a floral pattern. There is a catalogue in the side drawer, with a post-it on it, telling me to tick the outfits and shoes I like. See, they weren’t lying! 

Look, I’m not naive - I can see why the red haired girl was upset (wherever she is), but I don’t see what I can do about any of it. I’d might as well make the best of the situation, and look on the bright side. At least I can make friends here. Have a bit of a social life, and stop panicking about unpaid bills. If all I have to do is sign a silly piece of paper agreeing to be ‘a man’, and in return I get the very best trans healthcare imaginable - why the hell not?

I’m quite sure that none of this will be forever. These things are like a pendulum, aren’t they? Politics, or whatever. Things feel odd now, but time is a healer - and progress moves forwards, right? That’s the way of things… I might as well get the hormones and the surgeries while I can now, and then when the tides inevitably change, and people come to their senses, we’ll all probably be let out and apologised to. Possibly compensated for all the hatred over the past couple of decades. I believe that. 

I mean, this place is practically a resort. We probably ought to at least give it a chance?

CHAPTER 4

Odd - there’s nothing in the papers today about the country-wide ban on trans women from public life. You’d think something like that’d be newsworthy? At the breakfast table this morning, I scanned through as many papers as I could - which all seemed to have the right number of pages (as far as I could tell) but not a single thing. I’d have thought the left-leaning papers like The Guardian or Independent would have something, but no.? 15 pages of sport though.

Toast and jam and fruit for breakfast. And, as they said they would, we’ve had hormone pills handed out to each of us to have with our coffee and orange juice. I don’t know which kind they are - I used to be on estradiol (8mg) but these are just one single pill. It’s light blue, and comes in little paper cups. The blonde girl from the van is sitting at my table, and I notice her drop her pill into her pajama breast pocket. 

We all have silk pajamas. They have a little kitten pattern over them. We all match. It’s cute, like we’re all at a sleepover! Although, I didn’t get much sleep last night. There was a lot of crying and banging, and the occasional scream from across the hall. Some girls are really struggling to settle in. I totally get it - I was the same way back on school trips. 

During breakfast, we watched another Disney film - Beauty and the Beast this time. Belle was always my favourite as a kid. I liked that she liked to read. I do too - except all they have here are copies of Black Beauty, Jayne Eyre and Bunty. 

I have a personal counselor assigned to me. Her name is Rachel, and she says she’s going to help me ‘figure myself out’. She’s about my age, but she doesn’t really look at me when we talk. Our first meeting wasn’t very long, she just assured me that my family and friends know where I am, and arrangements will be made for them to come and visit me soon. This is all new for them, too - apparently. I need to ‘give it time’. 

I’m told that there are people coming in today to do all of our nails. Gels, acrylics, French manicures - whatever we want. But, I’ve also been told that I won’t be able to participate in any of the activities unless I sign the document - agreeing that I’m ‘a man’. 

After my meeting with Rachel, two older women in white scrubs took me back to my room, and sat down on either side of my bed next to me. The form was placed in front of me and I was asked if I was ready to sign it. I said I was, and they handed me a pen - except, when it came to actually putting my signature down onto the paper, for some unexplainable reason, I wasn’t able to go through with it. I wanted to. I want this experience to be as easy for me as possible. It’s almost as if my hand was going against my mind. 

The more I tried to sign my name, the sicker I began to feel. I puked before I could do it - all over the bedroom floor. The two women jumped up and one of them called me a ‘Troon’ - which I’ve never heard before, and have no idea what it means. 

The other one stepped over the sick, and began pulling clothes out of the wardrobe. The skirts and tops, and fancy party dress - all of them - and began tearing them up with a small knife. She told me if I was going to ‘act like a dirty little boy’ I would have to ‘dress like one’. 

A pair of blue, denim dungerees were left on my bed - which I was told to put on and come downstairs.

______________________________________________________________

More at:

jeniveswords.substack.com lobotomyworld.substack.com jenives.net

Contact: [email protected]

You can also join the SECRET DOSSIER group (FREE) to gain access to EXTRA documents and insight into this story. Find the link on my Instagram profile.

______________________________________________________________

If you like 'Good Trans News' - you might also like my collection of short stories, available NOW in paperback below:

Buy my book

I’m curious, what was it like writing a TERF character who, in the beginning of the story, starts off as unlikable but then over the course of the story, she learns to grow somewhat as a person and realise her wrongdoings?

Thank you :)

Well, I don't want to give away any spoilers - but it's not set in stone yet as to whether or not Charlotte will come through it 'reformed'.

It wasn't so hard writing from a terfy, gender critical perspective - and she isn't the only character like that I've experimented with. I think it helps me to try and put myself in their position, at least to understand how their philosophy is flawed.

I like complicated characters in general. Also, to answer your previous question about TransAction, no I haven't seen it, but I know Jordan and I think she's very talented.

'Good Trans News' is an ongoing, serialised, dystopian trans novel. To read more of it (and get up to date), follow me on Instagram here or visit my website here. I am going to start uploading it here on Tumblr though, so if you enjoy it - please do stick around.

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CHAPTER 1

The Women’s Institute will no longer allow transgender members. Trans girls banned from Girlguiding. Labour bans trans women from Women’s Conference. The Trump Administration plans to end prison rape protections for trans people, memo says. 

All of this has been announced in one week (and it’s not even Saturday yet). 

This morning I opened my advent calendar and, where a chocolate should have been, was instead a cyanide capsule - and a short, cursive, seasonal message reading: Do it, tranny. I didn’t, of course. I wouldn’t be writing this now if I had - but I did put it away somewhere safe, about my person, just in case.

I am no longer leaving the flat. I Deliveroo or JustEat everything I need right to my door. Hot dinners, groceries, tobacco - cyanide capsules. Even a phone charging cable if I need it. I don’t, but I’ve ordered 5 anyway. You never know, these days. Why leave the flat? Why risk it? I have a toilet here, and I can use it whenever I like with no stipulations (and I need to, often - due to all the fast food). 

Socialising isn’t necessary anymore. All my friends are inside my phone, inside of apps. And when they’re not available, I have the comments sections and DMs. And when no one's there, I chat with my favourite AI chatbot on Amazon - making up fake complaints and refund claims for conversation.

A letter just dropped through my letter box. It’s from the government - they say they’re commandeering my toilet. It’s going to a ‘biological woman who needs it’ - to make up for all the times I unlawfully used a public ladies room in the past 15 years. Tomorrow, I can expect some men to come by and take it out. They will leave me with one gratis box of hazardous waste bags, which when out I’ll need to pay to be refilled. 

Some good news! I received a phone call from the Women’s Institute, and they say they are creating a new division to cater to their trans former-members. It’ll be called The Trans Women’s Institute. The address is a hospital, and membership is mandatory. They’re sending a van on Sunday to pick me. I’m very excited to be ‘Institutionalised’ - as they put it. 

I’ve lost my cyanide capsule. Typical me. I shouldn’t have scrimped on the next-day delivery. I’ll be off to The Institute before the new ones arrive. Oh well. 

CHAPTER 2

More good news! The men who came to confiscate my toilet were actually really nice. One of them said I had a ‘good bum’, and it made me feel valid. One problem - they didn’t quite disconnect the pipes properly and now I have water flooding my bathroom. Luckily, I don’t need to worry about my flat anymore, they say - as I’ll be off to the Trans Women’s Institute soon enough, where I’m told I’ll live in peace with all my other trans sisters. Joy of joys!

The more I think about the idea, the more I come to understand it. I can see how it’s probably for the best. Society just doesn’t get us - and I guess they never will. Separatism has benefits. At least I’ll be around people who get me.

It’s 4 o’clock, and a few minutes ago there was a loud knocking on my door. Men and women in white jumpsuits came up to my flat, and now they’re packing a bag for me. No clothes needed - they say they have a new wardrobe waiting for me at The Institute. That’s wonderful, because I’ve given up on looking nice lately. Every time I buy a new dress, or top, or whatever, the sizes don’t ever quite work out. I’m not allowed to use ladies changing rooms, so I’ve had to order all my clothes online, and just guess the size. 

They say I can bring my notebook, but no electronics. No phone. No laptop. Probably for the best - as we’ve all become attached to them, haven’t we? It’ll be a nice little holiday away from doom scrolling. As we leave the flat, water is pouring out from the hole where my toilet used to be. They tell me it’s going to a biological woman named Christina who is having a third bathroom put in, and needs it to match her tiling. It feels good to give back. 

The back of the van is comfy enough. I’m sitting next to two girls I’ve never met before. New friends! One looks younger than me - blonde, skinny and very well passing. She could be a model. The other is older, and is crying. I ask her what her name is, and she tells me Emily. She says her cat was confiscated. I tell her not to worry - it’ll most probably have a good home with a kind, heteronormative family who’ll have enough shared income to treat it better. Give it premium food, and such.

The Institute is a chance for us to ‘escape the conflicting pressures of a sane society’ where ‘transsexuals can be free to exist as they are’ - that’s according to this pamphlet anyway. There is a photoshopped image on the front of a sisterhood of smiling trans women, arm in arm, in what appears to be a beautiful garden. 

The younger blonde girl hasn’t spoken to me. She has her head up against the window, and is muttering something to herself that I can’t quite make out. 

She’ll come around, I’m sure. This is all for the best really - God knows I was struggling to afford the rent. And, according to this pamphlet here, I’ll ‘never have to worry about any of that again’. So that’s something. 

______________________________________________________________

More at:

jeniveswords.substack.com lobotomyworld.substack.com jenives.net

Contact: [email protected]

You can also join the SECRET DOSSIER group (FREE) to gain access to EXTRA documents and insight into this story. Find the link on my Instagram profile.

______________________________________________________________

If you like 'Good Trans News' - you might also like my collection of short stories, available NOW in paperback below:

Buy my book

Obviously “Good Trans News” would make for some great intriguing telly fr, but I also think your short story “Jump Doggy” would fr make a awesome and tense short film frfr (like it has all the ingredients of a really thrilling emotional thriller fr)

Thank you :) there’s a story in the book called ‘Josephine Joseph’ that I think would make a good sci-fi series. I have more ideas for it, so that’s probably a good one.

Considering you used to do stand up a while ago but decided to stop doing it for personal reasons (which is totes understandable ❤️❤️) , I was wondering if you had any personal comedic influences on your comedic style?

if so, who are they & why?

Hiya! Thanks so much, I appreciate that :) I’m going to be making some more videos soon actually.

Growing up I was very into Vic & Bob, Harry Hill etc. then later on Josie Long, Lee & Herring, Blue Jam/Nathan Barley, League of Gentlemen, Nighty Night, Kim Noble, Marc Wootton - that sort of thing. Right now I’m into a lot of the US alt stuff like Conner O’Malley, Tim Heidecker, Neil Hamburger (BIG FAN), On Cinema, Maria Bamford, Nathan Fielder & Joe Pera.

I like stuff that’s a little bit avant-garde I guess, or kind of on the darker side. Or just very silly.

Did you know that in 1945 there was a chicken that lived for 18 months - AFTER being beheaded?

‘Mike the Headless Chicken’ was put on the block by Colorado farmer Lloyd Olsen, who proceeded to go at it with an axe like any other in preparation for dinner. However, unlike ‘any other chicken’, Mike got back up - headless - and continued to walk around. Apparently, the axe had missed the jugular vein (somehow) and a blood clot had stopped him from bleeding to death.

Mike’s brain stem was left largely intact, meaning - as far as Mike was concerned - he still had a head, and continued to act as such, walking around - trying to peck, and ‘crowing’ (making a horrible gargling sound through his severed neck hole).

This neck hole would keep Mike alive, with Farmer Olsen feeding him small portions of corn and worms through it. Olsen, seeing an opportunity to earn some cash, began taking Mike to touring sideshows, where he quickly became a star - being photographed for magazines and even dating Ginger Rogers for a couple of months (okay I made that last one up).

The bizarre true story of Mike the Headless Chicken got me thinking about fame. I’ve never been ‘famous’ myself. I’ve had flirtations with it - the thrill of opportunity. The anticipation of a public profile that comes off the back of ‘industry buzz’. But no, I’ve never known what ‘true fame’ feels like. But I’ve seen it. I know people who were once normal chickens themselves, plucked out of the coup and launched into something bigger - only to then fade back into the background.

Andy Warhol said everyone gets ‘15 minutes’ of fame, but that isn’t true. Some never make it off the block - never stand a chance against the farmer’s axe. Most chickens end up as dinner.

The sad thing about Mike is, he never even knew he was famous. With no head to take in light, and no conceivable concept of ‘fame’ (with him being a chicken and all) he was, in many ways, just taken advantage of. Mike was an oddity - and as such, people wanted to see him, so he was paraded around from town to town with nothing to gain himself but a few squirts of milk from a pipette down his throat hole.

I think we see this pattern play out a lot in the entertainment industry today. People who never should have been famous - who never truly had the resolve for it - are propped up on the world stage and gawked at for their novelty alone. They’re unable to see how they’re being taken advantage of because, like Mike, they don’t have a head either. Theirs is lost in the clouds - blinded by lights.

If Mike were famous today, he might have been able to parlay his weaning ‘decapitated novelty’ into something else - maybe a stint as a TikTok influencer, or go into stand up, or present a podcast with an over the hill 90s pop star.

Unfortunately, like so many rags to riches stories, this one ended in tragedy - with Mike choking to death on his mucus in a motel in Phoenix Arizona. Neglected - his complex needs forgotten about by those very same people who put him into the limelight.

Fame has its perks, sure. I’m sure Mike was treated better than other chickens during those heady 18 months - the quality of his worms increased maybe… an occasional pipette of brandy down his neck. Who knows? But when his head came away from his body on that fateful afternoon in 1945, Mike stopped being a chicken altogether. He became something else… something confusing and disjointed. He became ‘famous’.

No one ever asks what happened to Mike’s head. I’ve tried searching, but I can’t find anything about it. I like to imagine that maybe it rolled back into the coup, was stumbled upon by another chicken. Maybe it found love, and went on to live happily ever after and have some chicks?

That’s what I like to imagine, anyway.

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A short story about an appointment at the gender clinic gone awry...

Hi, I'm Jen Ives. I'm a writer from London. I've written some stuff for TV and radio, and do a serialised, dystopian trans story online called 'Good Trans News' which you can read here on my Instagram, or on my website www.jenives.net

I recently put out a book of 14 short stories called 'JUMP DOGGY' and I thought I'd share the first one here [see below]

Anyway, it's nice to be here - back on Tumblr after all these years. Who'd have thought it?

I'm looking forward to sharing some of my writing here, and getting to know the community. :)

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JUMP DOGGY [From the book 'JUMP DOGGY' available HERE]

“You have to press the button… on the wall” 

The woman on reception, just visible through the glass window on the door, was pointing her finger impatiently, as she no doubt had to do every single time a new patient arrived. Stacy jerked around, almost knocking over the her sized plant in the corridor. The button was large, and green, and indeed on the wall. When she pressed it, a buzz emanated somewhere in the reception room beyond, and after what felt like another spiteful, unnecessary 20 seconds, the receptionist unlocked the door.  

As Stacy entered, she gripped tightly onto the strap of her faux-leather handbag. This day had been a very long time coming, and she wasn’t about to lose her cool now. The room was bright and teal and headachey. The radio was on, and playing a light, Radio 4 talk show where the guests were discussing a new initiative to make HRT readily available over the counter, for women starting the menopause.  

Stacy approached the reception desk. The woman sitting behind it looked near to retirement and was cooling herself with a fold out paper fan. Next to her sat a man, early 20s, with bleached blonde hair and a stud in his left nostril. Stacy stood, expecting one of the two receptionists to, at the very least notice her, but neither did. Tapping her newly manicured nails nervously on the reception desk, Stacy sheepishly revealed her existence.  

“Stacy Harris. I have an appointment for ten fif…”  

“Fill out the form there and then bring it back”.  

The older receptionist pointed again, this time down at the paper her baby faced, peroxide headed colleague had just slid across the counter. Stacy picked it up, took one of the cheap, split-plastic biros on the desk and made her way over to the seating area.  

There was a stack of magazines on the table, none of which could have been newer than 2 years old. One was titled Women’s Health Weekly and had a lady on the front cover with very white, gapped teeth - laughing as she jumped through a meadow. A few chairs away from Stacy, sat a short, bearded man whose age was difficult to place. Stacy made eye contact with him for a second but broke it off before he got any wrong ideas. She wasn’t here to make friends; she was here to get something. In and out.  

A door opened across the way, and out of it came, almost skipping, an older trans woman. A trans elder. Stacy hadn’t met many of these fabled creatures before - they were practically urban legends to her. Hypotheticals. But  

here was one now, right before her eyes. Wrinkles and all. She’d always imagined that if she ever got to be one herself, she’d be dignified - graceful. A hot-milf type. But that wasn’t what she was looking at in that moment. This trans elder was making a fool of herself - talking loudly on the phone to one of her friends about how happy she was to finally be ‘getting a vagina’.  

“…he said 6 months probably. I know, but it’s nothing compared to how long I’ve been waiting already. I have to lose weight for the operation though. We’ll have to go bikini shopping…”         

Stacy squeezed the points of her fingernails into the meat of one thigh, only letting up when she began to feel her tights snagging. She wondered when this woman’s first appointment at the clinic had been, and if they would make her wait that long for surgery? Was this normal procedure? No, Stacy had decided long ago that she wasn’t going to let anything like that happen to her. She wasn’t going to wait around for years and years at the whim of some doctor for no reason at all. That was why she was doing this. She reminded herself to keep her expression smiley - or at least neutral. To follow the plan and stay focused.  

The form only took a few minutes to complete. Just the basics, nothing she hadn’t already told them multiple times over the phone. She stood up, adjusted her skirt, and carried the form back over to the reception desk.  

The older receptionist, who was now unwrapping a tinfoil covered, homemade sandwich, snatched it back. Looking over her glasses, she began to type, slowly, onto her PC keyboard.  

“I’ve got nothing here” she said, looking Stacy in the eyes for the first time.  

“I’ve definitely got at appointment. I have the letter…”  

Stacy felt her neck hotten. This was all she needed, after all this time. She wasn’t going to be able to wait another six months.  

“I’m looking at calendar and you’re not in it”.  

“Do you want to see the letter?”  

The receptionist didn’t answer but flung her open hand outwards toward Stacy for her to place the letter into. She had at least ten bracelets on. Stacy handed it over, and the receptionist, again, squinted over her glasses. “Steven Harris - ten fifteen”.  

Stacy winced. That wasn’t her, and it never was. But right now, at this very moment, it had to be. She steadied herself.  

“They said my name had been updated on the system”.  

“It hasn’t”.  

“Can you change it?”  

“No, you have to do it through your GP”  

“But I did”  

The blonde-haired boy receptionist next to her took a swig from his Diet Coke can, then sidled up his chair to join in.  

“What’s it supposed to be?”  

Stacy gripped onto the faux-leather strap of her bag again, even more tightly this time. Shaking, her hand found its way inside, rummaged around and pulled out a box of pink Tic Tacs. A placebo. She popped one in her mouth, to distract herself. To calm her down.

“Stacy Harris is what it should say…”  

“It takes a little while to update sometimes, that’s all”.  

Stacy wondered if six months was ‘a little while’. She didn’t say it though; she didn’t want to ruin her chances. She plastered on her trademark fake smile - the same fake smile she’d used on her GP. The same fake smile she’d perfected during twenty sessions of mandatory therapy at the Psychosexual Clinic, where they checked to make sure she wasn’t clinically insane. The same fake smile she’d been doing for years now, hoping that one day, if she practised it enough, it’d start coming naturally to her. Turn into something more real.  

“Well, I’m here, anyway”.  

“Take a seat again. We’ll call you when Doctor Bartlett is ready”. 

Stacy did as she was told. 

As Stacy made her way back over to the seating area, the click of a door opening sounded out, and a man’s voice called our her name.  

“Mr. Harris?”  

Stacy turned awkwardly on her heel, buckling her ankle, and was unable to stop herself from dropping cumbersomely into the water cooler to her side. The short, bearded man sprung up from his chair, gripping Stacy by her upper arm, helping her to her feet with, what appeared to be, a real smile. She thanked him, without making eye contact, and after brushing herself off, and readjusting her skirt for the second time, made her way past the reception desk and into the clinic room the call had come from.  

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

The room was every colour of beige you could imagine. Stacy closed the door behind her and was surprised when a quite handsome man in his mid-thirties invited her to sit down at his desk. Doctor Bartlett’s voice didn’t exactly match his face, but then again - neither did hers. The doctor got up, and shimmied open one of the large, horizontal windows.  

“You’ll have to forgive the stuffiness in here. There, that’s better isn’t it?”  

Doctor Bartlett sat back down, smiled, and clicked a few times on his PC mouse.  

“I’ve got ‘Steven’ here… that doesn’t seem right now does it?”  

Stacy took a deep inhale through her nostrils. “It should be Stacy”.  

“Yes it should! Blasted NHS systems - they can’t expect you to go around looking like that with ‘Steven’ on your records, can they?” 

Stacy exhaled through her mouth. He was nice. He got it. She almost felt a smile coming on.  

“Now Stacy, how are we doing at the moment?” Doctor Bartlett positioned his lips on his two index fingers, waiting patiently for Stacy’s response.  

“Great. Really good”.  

“Yes? Really?”  

Stacy knew this was a test. She’d been tested before, at the Psychosexual Clinic, and knew that the key was to get the perfect balance of open honesty and sugar coating. She had to acknowledge the inherent difficulty of her situation without casting any doubt whatsoever on her decision making or confidence.  

“Well, you know… there are good days and bad days. But on the whole, I’m happier than I’ve ever been”.  

“And your family, they’re all on side, yes?”  

Stacy’s family were not ‘all on side’ - but she didn’t need to tell Doctor Bartlett everything.

“…they’re coming around. Dad doesn’t really want to talk about it, but Mum is better.”

“Mmm, that’s quite standard I’m afraid. Friends? Partner?”.

Stacy wondered if she ought to tell him about the breakup. The person she’d been with, way before any of this, who swore they’d love her in spite of it all - who said none of this would ever change things - who, ultimately, was wrong. Did Doctor Bartlett need to know all that? Did he deserve to know? This had been Stacy’s own private pain for a year and a half now - the excessive drinking, the pills, the embarrassing public breakdowns.

“I have friends. I’m single right now…”

“Well, friends are important. It’s vital that you have a support network. As for a boyfriend, well, there are plenty of men out there who like women like you. I’ve met them, they’re very real, so don’t worry about any of that - it’ll come with time. Are you thinking about surgeries?”

Stacy felt like this would be the opportune time to say what she wanted. She hoisted her bag up onto her shoulder, to stop it from slipping down anymore. 

“Yes, I would like to do that, definitely… but right now, what I’d like very much is to start on hormone replacement therapy. I’m not trying to get ahead of myself, you know? I’m not rushing. But hormones, I think, will be a big life-changer for me”.

Doctor Bartlett readjusted in his chair and brought his coffee mug up towards his mouth.

“I see. And how so do you imagine HRT would ‘change’ your life?”

“Well, I think - more than anything - if I had some forward momentum in my transition… something helping me, to… you know, pass… if I could see some tangible changes, I think I’d be more confident and my quality of life would improve”. 

“Confidence can’t be medicated Stacy…” Doctor Bartlett took a sip from his mug.

“… we develop it through a foundation of resilience. It’s important that you understand that. Womanhood, after all, can’t be found in pill form”.

Stacy felt the back of her neck starting to burn up. This always happened when she felt patronised. Stacy knew resilience. She was still here, after all. She chanted her regular mantra in her head: Play the game, Stace.

“Yes, of course, I definitely do understand that. It’s hard though, isn't it? Because if I passed better, I would be more confident.” 

“And if you are more confident in yourself, as you are, you will pass better, no?”

Stacy’s neck was scolding now. Was he toying with her? This sick chicken and egg game of his. What did this man know about passing, anyway? About ‘womanhood’? What did he know about any of it, really? Sure, he met a lot of girls like Stacy, and had probably read some books, but did he ever feel what it was like? Did he ever go out in a dress and makeup and have to grin and bear it while kids on the bus made fun of him? Did he ever have to prove who he was to a stranger, and beg for a cure? No, he didn’t. But somehow, in some unjust twist of fate, he was the expert. He got to decide her future. 

“It says here on your records that you’ve only been transitioning for about a year?”  

“Well, no - that isn’t strictly true. I came out to a few friends five years ago…”

“And how long have you been presenting as female?”

Stacy hated this oversimplification. Presenting as… like she was a show dog, presenting her arsehole to a panel of judges. In her head, she’d always been the same. Every interaction she’d had in her life before now, in her mind she’d always been Stacy. Stacy might be new to some, but she’d been eating away at her for decades.  

“I’ve been dressing like this for a little over a year and a half.”

“Hmm, well - we require you to have been living in your new gender role for at least two years before I can sign off on any hormonal treatment, I’m afraid”.  

“But that’s only a matter of a few months now? Surely, by the time it all gets sorted, I’ll be more than ready?”  

Doctor Bartlett took a deep breath out, as if to say he’d relayed this bad news a thousand times before.

“I’m afraid Stacy, we’ll need to see two years from your first consultation with us”.  

The back of Stacy’s neck could have set her hair alight; had it not been tied up.  

“Two years from now?” She could feel herself starting to hyperventilate. “I can’t wait another two years.”  

“It’s not negotiable, I’m afraid. It’s as much to do with your safety as anything else…”  

Stacy pulled her bag off her shoulder. She unclasped it, and even though her hands were starting to tingle, and become slippery under the clamminess, she grabbed securely onto the handle of the gun that had been weighing her down all morning. A small part of her had hoped that it wouldn’t have come to this, but - if she was being completely honest with herself, which now she may as well be - she had been mentally preparing for it since she left the house.   ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

Stacy pointed the gun at Doctor Bartlett who, in response to seeing it, didn’t move a muscle. He froze dead in place, like a man just realising he’s walked into a game of musical statues. Stacy knew as soon as she did it that there was no going back, and the feeling reminded her of that afternoon she sat her parents down on the sofa and finally told them who she was. Now she was doing it all over again - coming out - telling the world who she was, and there was no going back from it. Cats out of the bag now. No putting it back.  

“Please… just write me a prescription. Please…”

Stacy steadied her hand, the weight of the gun feeling less heavy now. More natural - no heavier than a hairdryer.  

Stacy knew she had crossed some sort of line in that moment. Some Rubicon into the unknown, of which anything - and nothing was now possible. From here on, she would let her heart take over - let it surprise her and relax completely into the mysterious cause and effect she’d spent so many years trying to fight against.  

“Stacy… let’s not do anything irrational now…”  

Stacy let her mouth take over - the words free to come out as they pleased for once, like a jar of bees, finally opened after hours of shaking.  

“Irrational? In what universe is this ‘irrational’?”  

“I just mean…”  

“Shut up. I’m not being irrational. This is a perfectly rational response to, well, everything. You sit over there, in your chair, with your coffee and your lanyard, and you think that means you know somethingabout my life, but you’ve got no idea, have you? You have no idea how difficult all of this is. You could help me, but you won’t. You know why? Because you don’t give a shit. Not really. This is just a job for you, and when you get home and tell your wife about your day, I bet you laugh together about all the ‘confused weirdos’ you have to talk to. Well, this one isn’t confused. This one knows what she wants – hormones. Please.”  

Doctor Bartlett pointed his head downwards, slowly, as if to say: please lower the weapon. But Stacy didn’t falter.  

“Stacy, I do want to help you. I can see that you’re in immense pain, and that pains me.”  

“I just want to start hormones. That’s all I want.”  

“Well… I can authorise you, but I’m not the final word on it. It’ll still need to go through your…”  

“No. Forget prescriptions, it takes too long. I know you’ve got some boxes of Estradiol around here somewhere.”  

“We don’t.”  

“You do.”  

“We don’t dispense here Stacy”.  

“But you’re a gender clinic!”  

Stacy stepped forward, and as she did - she caught sight of Doctor Bartlett’s left hand, which had been typing out something on his mobile phone.  

“What was that?”  

“What was what?”  

“Who did you just text?”  

“My wife…”  

Stacy moved around the desk to get the gun as close to Doctor Bartlett as possible.  

“Stand up please”. Stacy waved the gun a little bit, as if she were shaking a bullet down into the chamber, to prove she was serious. 

“Where are we going?”

Doctor Bartlett did as he was told, and got up  slowly from his expensive, orthopaedic office chair.  

“Reception area. Come on…”  

As Doctor Bartlett squeezed cautiously past her, Stacy leant back against the open window and took the opportunity to catch the breeze on her face. She took in the view of Central London - it’s monstrous buildings, in all their performative modernity. Did anyone realise how backwards things still were inside those buildings?  

Stacy saw the police cars and the armoured vans turning the corner and parking up outside the building. She wasn’t mad about it - she had suspected from the very moment she unclasped her bag that this eventuality would unfold. If anything, there was a comfort to the reliability of it. At lease something was efficient. She followed close behind Doctor Bartlett, as he made his way out of the clinic room and into the main reception.  

No one screamed or even gasped when they saw Stacy come out with the gun. The receptionists and patients in the waiting area alike all just froze, completely unaware of how to even begin to react to such a situation. Stacy felt bad for the short, bearded man, who was still sitting there, magazine in hand. She had slowed down the practice significantly, and knew that, whatever happened next, this poor guy would probably need to wait another six months at least.  

“Don’t anybody panic, I’m not going to hurt you, okay? It’s only Doctor Bartlett I have issue with”.  

No one spoke. Doctor Bartlett stopped in the centre of the reception room and made eye contact with the woman on reception.  

“What now, Stacy? Where is this going?”  

“I’m sure you’d love to know, wouldn’t you? How does it feel to not be in control of your own life for once?”  

Doctor Bartlett turned his head cautiously, just enough to see Stacy’s gun in his peripheral vision.  

“None of us are completely in control of our own lives, Stacy”.  

“Kneel down please”  

“Excuse me?”  

“Kneel down on the floor, right there - by the water cooler”. 

Doctor Bartlett did as he was asked. Stacy placed the gun to the back of his head.  She hadn’t planned to do it, but it felt like the right thing to do in the moment. That was the thing about ‘the moment’, she thought - you never know you’re in it until it’s there. And in this moment - this is who she was. Somebody new.  

A buzz rang out in the waiting room, and there behind the glass of the door stood another young woman, about the same age as Stacy, like her - struggling to find her way in. Stacy rubbed her finger on the side of the trigger, and wondered what decision that finger was going to make. All the agency she had hoped would come from this appointment was long gone, and all she could do now was watch, from a distance, as her life changed direction once again.  

“…I just wanted hormones. Why is that so hard?”  

Doctor Bartlett didn’t answer. He didn’t have an answer to give. The woman behind the door was gone, now replaced by an armed officer, himself pressing the door buzzer over and over again. Stacy knew she only had a few moments left, before the door would be breached and it’d all be over, one way or another. She turned to look at the receptionists; their faces set in unmistakable horror now. She glanced over at the short, bearded man, who was crying. Stacy looked back down at Doctor Bartlett, who was now face down on the carpet - blood rushing out of his head and mouth like a water feature. She looked at her index finger, which had made its decision while she had her head turned. She looked back toward the receptionists. The blonde one had spilled his Diet Coke all over the counter.  

“Go on. Buzz them in…”