ARTHUR
My story?
—Yes, the journey you went on that made you end up here. Do you mind if I take notes?
No . . . I don't mind. My story . . .
Thinking about it hurts. Going back there to that house. That bedroom. Those nights.
—Take your time.
He came in.
—Who did?
My stepfather. Alistair's father. He was nice to the other boys—the stepfather was, I mean. He drank a lot, and sometimes he told us to leave him alone, but he played football with us in the yard sometimes too. He taught the twins how to tackle for a rugby ball. A pigskin, they called it. It made Dylan look sad. But Daddy liked Dylan a lot, he was the cutest, the baby.
Maybe he wanted to hurt Dylan, too.
But he didn't. He only ever did it to me. I know, because the others told me so. I asked if they ever had to go in Daddy's room, and they all said no.
—Could you describe what your stepfather did to you?
He showed me how to touch to make boys feel good. He made me rub him through his trousers, and then he said it feels better with a mouth, so he took his trousers off and I used my mouth. He tasted bitter and gross. Not nice. I didn't like it, but he looked happy, so I kept doing what he asked.
—Did you ever tell anyone?
No. He said I shouldn't, because it was our special secret. He said I could tell him anything, though. So I thought it was fair, because I told him my secret, too.
I wanted to be a princess.
He said it was bad that I wanted to be like a girl, and I would get in trouble for it if anyone knew. So we had secrets. I couldn't tell his, and he promised not to tell mine.
—How did all of this make you feel at the time?
Bad. I didn't like doing those things. They were horrible. They were disgusting and awful and I hate him I hate him I hate him.
—It's alright. Here, have a tissue. You can stop if you want. Just go at your own pace, and know that you're safe. You're among friends.
He . . . He never told anyone about me, and I never told about him, until Gilbert and you. But I couldn't live like that. I couldn't stay and be . . . be raped every night. It made me lose sleep. I still have nightmares, of him. I couldn't eat, I was failing all my classes at school . . . it just felt like he was putting all of his darkness inside me. I was made of it, and I hated it. I hated me. I hated being who I was.
I was too scared to kill myself, so I left.
—How old were you?
Sixteen, when I left.
—And when all this started?
I was seven.
—. . . Right. Thank you. Continue, whenever you're ready.
I left home, and I went from city to city in England. I don't know how I managed to scrape up enough money from odd jobs to buy so much alcohol. Well, I guess I know. I didn't buy much of it. Most of it I got off other people. I went to parties I wasn't invited to and got drunk there. I woke up in places I couldn't remember going to. I went to Scotland, then to Ireland, both parts, and to Wales. I hardly remember any of it.
—How did you end up in America?
Some men I was partying with in Dublin said they were going stateside and I should come with them. They were tourists, doing Europe, about to go home. I flew over with them and wound up in a little bar near the airport, and we were about to get into a fight over the cost of the plane ticket (which I could never afford to pay) when someone stepped up beside me. He was golden and beautiful and he had the nicest smile I'd ever seen. I was too drunk to remember what he said, but he paid for the ticket and took me home with him, and I was in his bed the next morning. He made me French toast and orange juice for breakfast. He was so nice. I loved him.
—Would you still be with him, do you think, if he wasn't transphobic?
I don't know . . . I guess so. I loved him, but . . . he was a cage. A comfortable, loving cage. He loved me, or so he claimed. I just don't know what was real and what wasn't.
—He loved you? Before you came out as trans, you mean?
Yes. He got angry at me when I told him I wanted to be a lady. He said I was killing Arthur by making myself into a woman. He called me a murderer.
—He clearly does not understand anything about what transitioning means.
But he is right. I won't be Arthur. Arthur won't exist anymore. I don't want him to.
—Right. And that is perfectly fine. Some people find a whole new identity that was hiding within them when they transition. Some stay mostly the same as they were before. Both are perfectly acceptable. Each case is different.
I feel bad. For . . . for taking his husband from him.
—Well . . .
"Can I say something, doc?"
—Go right ahead, Gilbert.
"Thanks. I say, fuck Alfred Jones. If he can't see that Arthur is being replaced by a wonderful girl, and if he can't accept that this is who you are, then ya know what? You deserve a hell of a lot better for a husband, and it's his loss. Good goddamn riddance."
—I have to agree with Gilbert.
I . . . I d-don't . . . know what to say . . .
—Here, have another tissue. It's alright to cry. These will be emotional times. That's to be expected.
Th-thank you.
—It's my job and pleasure, Ms. Kirkland. I would love to help you transition. Let's turn you into the woman you want to be, shall we?
. . . A-alright.
—Excellent.
"That's my girl."