When I was little, and my parent's weren't home
Thomas would dress up in Mommy's clothes.
When I found him and asked "What are you doing, Thomas?"
He'd jump and cry out.
He'd say "Carol, get out, don't tell Mom!"
So I'd get out, and I wouldn't tell Mom.
I didn't know why.
But I was little.
When I was a teen, Thomas moved out.
I went in his room to say goodbye, one last time at night.
He was asleep, so I snooped around.
I was young. I was stupid.
When I looked in his case, I found Mom's old dresses.
I shut the case quick. I woke him up.
"Carol, get out, don't look through my stuff!" He whispered fiercely.
I did not listen.
I was stupid. I was young.
"Thomas, what are you doing with Mom's clothes?" I demanded.
He threw me out. I went to bed.
When I woke up he had left in a hurry.
I didn't know why.
But I was young.
Thomas came back sometimes.
Christmas.
Thanksgiving.
Dad's birthday.
When his presence was necessary.
Every time, he looked sadder and sadder.
More and more tired.
Less and less like Thomas.
I didn't know why,
But I was starting to grow up.
I was starting to wonder.
Dad died when I was fifteen.
Mom died when I graduated.
Thomas drifted away.
I didn't know why,
And now I was an adult.
I had a need to understand.
I found his apartment.
Unsanitary. Cheap. I expected no more of him.
He opened the door and I invited myself in.
"Mom died."
He nodded.
I could've punched him, but I chose not to.
We sat there for so long.
He looked at me. I waited for him to speak.
He had envy in his eyes as he gave me the up and down.
I didn't bring it up.
I gave up.
"Thomas, what's wrong with you."
He blinked. He stuttered. He stared like a dear in headlights.
"Thomas, I asked you a question. You're not a child."
He hung his head.
"What if I said I was fine?" He said.
"You'd be lying."
We both smiled. Then we frowned again.
We spent the rest of the night together, talking.
First he sat across the room, then next to me, then with his head on my lap.
He told me his struggle.
How his body was wrong.
How Mom's clothes fixed him.
How he loved the feeling of being a woman.
How he was scared of the family finding out.
How the stolen dresses were growing too small for him.
"What size are you."
"39"
I came back with dresses. He was overjoyed.
Siblings just know what to do for each other.
I moved in with him.
When he got his job at the sheriff's department, I laughed.
"I didn't know they were hiring sissies!"
But I was proven wrong. He made a name for himself.
He'd talk on and on about his "Lovely G."
"So strong." "So handsome."
I didn't pay it much mind.
He came home one night, shaking with fear and excitement and ecstasy.
I made him sit. He babbled about immortality, the red trees, his Lovely G.
I was scared. He grabbed me. Told me to join them. Told me to help them.
I shoved him into his room and locked the door.
He scratched and scratched. Then he fell asleep.
I didn't.
Life became a blur.
I find myself with Thomas, and Lovely G, and the pretty young girls.
We play together.
We have so much fun.
We are a little club.
I am in bliss.
I am in pain.
I am confused
I am in shambles.
When I was little, and my parent's weren't home
Thomas would dress up in Mommy's clothes.
When I found him and asked "What are you doing, Thomas?"
He'd jump and cry out.
He'd say "Carol, get out, don't tell Mom!"
Things have changed.
"Thomas, where did you put the remote?"
He points. "Over there."
"Thanks."