Transition to Murder

by Renee James

  “Strand, you’re pissing yourself,” I say. “How does that make you feel?” I deliver the often-mocked psychologist's line with sarcasm. His viciousness angers me. I can’t resist a little taunting.

  As he struggles for air I run another rope around his feet and up his back, then tie it around his neck. He can still kick if he wants to, but his range is very limited and each attempt will leave his all his body weight dangling from his lashed wrists. “Kick all you want now, Killer,” I say.

  When his breathing becomes normal again we lock eyes in a stare down. His lips naturally curl back into a sneer.

  “You really can’t control yourself, can you?” His viciousness helps me focus. This is about him, not me. “You have such incredible hate for me, for Mandy, for that girl you beat up in your car. What is it with you, Strand? Is it transwomen you hate? Or everyone? Are you a psycho like John Wayne Gacy? Or just a mean motherfucker who figures he can do whatever he wants? ? That’s what I think it is, Strand. You’re a mean motherfucker and you’re just going to keep beating and killing people until someone stops you. That’s why we’re here. I’m going to stop you.”

  I try to keep my voice steady and strong, but I waver a little at the end. Enough to remind Strand that I’m a simpering transsexual, not a real person.

  He sneers audibly then tries to shriek again. He jumps and pulls with great strength, trying to free himself or pull down the beam. The noise alarms me. I punch him in the solar plexus again. As he gasps for air, I tighten the line connecting his feet to his neck. If he jumps again the noose will close off his windpipe.

  “After you had those goons rape me, I dreamed about this moment. A lot. My best dream was cutting off your cock and your balls and letting you watch me play with them while you bleed to death.”

  More anger, maybe laced with the first pangs of fear. More gyrations, but no jumping. He's a very strong man, I realize. I’m a little worried about the beam and rope holding up. I check my watch. It’s three-twenty. I don’t think I can last until five. Despite my bravado and anger, I feel sick to my stomach and my body is so weak with anxiety I can barely stand. So I must kill him now. Or not.

  I move out of his line of sight and into the kitchen. I have the folding knife in my pocket. It has a sharp, three-inch blade, which is plenty. But I’d rather use something here, something that can't possibly be traced to me, something I can leave here. In the silverware drawer I find a stainless steel carving knife with a serrated blade.

  Back in the living room Strand looks worried. Through a series of grunts and sideward nods of his head, he communicates a conciliatory message. As in, cut me down. Let’s just be friends.

  He’s right about me. I’m a pussy and I’m not really capable of doing the rest of this. If he had started this way, I might have fallen for it. But he didn’t start this way. He's just working through the sociopath’s bag of tricks. He started with the real Strand, the animal who despises everyone, especially me. His act is playing on a continuous loop in the theater of my mind. Every time I think I can’t go forward with this, the movie tells me I can’t go back.

  “Sorry, Strand,” I say. “There’s no turning back now.” I turn to face him, the knife in my hand. His eyes widen a little. I’m surprised. He’s actually afraid.

  “I don't want to kill you and you don't want to die," I tell him. "Isn’t that the hell of it? I just don’t have a choice anymore, so neither do you.”

  He interrupts me with more noises. His plaintive face pleads for my humanitarian instincts to take over. He communicates well, even with a gag in his mouth.

  “No,” I say, slowly shaking my head from side to side. “If I let you go, you’d just keep killing people, starting with me.” He interrupts with more grunts and movements. More urgent now. “I’m sorry. I’m really very, very sorry.” I walk behind him.

  “Goodbye, Strand,” I say. He thrashes wildly, trying to crash into me. There is no power in his movement. I step back and let him gyrate until he has no strength left. I focus. There is nothing in the world but what I have to do next. I block out all other thoughts except for the need to execute John Strand. A single movement. Nothing else in the world. No conscience. No morality. No law. Just one simple action.

  He finally stops moving, sags, and breathes deeply. Before he can exhale I reach in front of him and put the blade of the knife to his throat with my right hand and place my left hand against his back for leverage. I command my right hand to slice the blade through his flesh and cartilage and veins and arteries while the other hand holds his body steady, so the cut goes deep. But my hands won't move. My rational mind screams for me to slit this bastard's throat, but my emotional mind won't let me. The one that loves soft fabrics and bright colors and hugging people won't let me do it.

  I step back, my body shaking, and throw the knife to the floor. It bounces and rattles to a stop in front of Strand. Even from behind him, I can see the relief course through his body. I don't feel any relief at all. I feel absolute terror. I can't kill him and he will kill me, just as soon as he can.

  Weakness overwhelms me. My legs feel like butter. My head is floating, I'm so dizzy I can hardly stand. I feel vomit rising in my stomach. I run to the bathroom, throw open the toilet and heave and heave and heave long after there is anything left in my body to void. I sit beside the toilet, sweat pouring from my body as if I were in a sauna. The lights are a blur. I have trouble focusing on objects. I lean against the bathtub and try to breathe normally.

  After a few minutes my panic subsides enough for me to move. I clean up the toilet, flush it three times to make sure all traces of me are deep in the Chicago sewer system. I wash my gloved hands in the sink by force of habit. I dry them on my pants.

  I stand in the bathroom for several minutes, trying to will myself to kill Strand.

  And failing. I can't do it. When I realize I'm going to leave I quickly tour the apartment to make sure I have all my belongings. Why? It just seemed like the right thing to do, even though Strand knows it's me.

  Heart pounding, mouth dry, I go back to the living room and stand in front of Strand again. He has regained his composure. He stares at me, his eyes filled with hate and contempt. He knows I can't do it. He can see himself beating my flesh and breaking my bones with a realism so stark he can smell the blood and hear the bones crunching. Me too.

  “You're right, Strand,” I say. “I can't kill you. Not here, not now, not like this.”

  The gag won't let him smile, but he's smiling. We both know it.

  “But you're wrong, too,” I say. I take a half step back and hit him hard in the stomach. All the air in his lungs gasps out, his body doubles, all his weight hangs from his hands for a minute because he is unable to straighten his body. When he can look at me again I get into his face. “You're wrong if you think I can't kill you. I can. And if you come after me, I will. Save yourself, you evil motherfucker. Leave me alone and you get to live.”

  I turn away and go through the place again, turning off the lights. I leave by the back door, locking it as I go. As I step out the door, that creepy sense that someone is watching hits me again. It's not as hair-raising this time, but it makes me cautious. I let my eyes adjust to the dark, and look for movement. It is as quiet and still as a cemetery. I tiptoe around the side of the apartment building until I can see the front yard and sidewalk. Still silent, no movement. I count to twenty, trying to control my pounding heart. Still nothing. I go to the sidewalk and begin walking.

  The chill spring air helps revive me. I concentrate on walking and trying to get my breathing back to normal. If anyone sees me, I want to seem like a reveler returning home after a late date. I have no idea how soon Strand will get loose from his bindings or make enough noise to get the neighbors to call police. Maybe he’ll be waiting for me when I get home. Maybe he’ll catch up with me tomorrow or next week.

  I feel his keys in my pocket. Even if he gets loose, he won't be driving to my place before I get there. Not much co
nsolation, but it’s something.

  I wonder what he will say if the police find him like that. He could identify me, but I don’t think he’ll want to do that. If he accuses me he can’t kill me himself. And if he does accuse me and we get into my motives, his dandy reputation goes to hell in a cloud of scandal. A big man in town who has a thing for transwomen. A woman beater. An accused rapist. A man with that kind of reputation isn't going to get invited to the governor’s house for dinner.

  No, Strand will say his assailant was disguised and not someone he recognized. And when the clamor dies down and the cops have gone on to other crimes, he'll come for me. It will be in the dark and it will be brutal and I will die a horrible death.

  I should have killed him.

  As I walk I check periodically to see if anyone is following me. Nothing. A few cars pass each way on the main streets. The side streets are silent. I see a single pedestrian on a side street; he's going the other direction on the other side of the street. My fear of being followed gradually evaporates.

  Two miles from Strand’s love nest, I drop his keys and my gloves in a public garbage can. A mile later I stop in a crowded bar and use the bathroom. When I emerge, I’m just another reveler who shouldn’t be driving home. I hail a cab and get out a block from my building. I walk the rest of the way, sliding in through the alley and the back door. There is no one on the street to see me, no lights on in the building.

  In the safety of my own apartment, when the door closes behind me, the enormity of what I’ve done hits me like a tidal wave. I melt to the floor, my back against the door. Sobs come in great retches. I am a coward and I am going to die for it. Die badly.

  The image of Strand beating me to death keeps flashing through my mind.

  Eventually, the urge to vomit comes again. I open the toilet seat and dry heave until my stomach aches. Afterwards, I rinse my mouth and see my image in the mirror. Facial hair. Male wig. I am revolted by it. I pull off the disguise, putting the facial hair and male wig in a bag. I will dispose of them in the salon where a little more hair won’t be noticed. I put the boy clothing in two other bags that will be dropped off at two different charities. I go in my bedroom and put on my girlie pajamas, then brush my teeth and brush out my hair. It helps. I’m Bobbi again. I'm real.

  As I lay in the darkness and try to escape the horror of what's to come, I go back through the events that led me to try to kill Strand. Tears come as I recall the violence done to Mandy and me, and I think of the violence done to thousands of other transgender people. I'm feeling sorry for myself, but I'm feeling angry, too. I'm angry that there is no protection for transpeople like me from predators like Strand, not in a society that cares more about how you look than who you are. I cry for all the victims of transphobia, from the countless daily slights to the brutal confrontations. I cry knowing that even now I'm a victim in waiting because I didn't have what it takes to kill the killer. I will be haunted by this night for however many hours or days are left in my life.

  ***

  AMAZINGLY, I ACTUALLY slept for several hours last night. I thought I might never have a night of natural sleep again. In fact, I planned to ask Camille to help me get a sleeping pill prescription at my appointment tomorrow.

  Despite the sleep, there is an unreality to my world as I get up and go through my morning rituals. The silence in my apartment is deafening, but the thought of turning on a radio or playing music is instantly vetoed. From now on, I need to listen for every creak and footfall. Strand will get me, but maybe I can make him pay for it.

  I seem to move in slow motion. . My body feels shaky again. Things I hold in my hand feel like they'll fall from my grasp. My knees are weak. I feel dizzy and the room whirls every time I stand or turn around. I wonder if I will pass out when I walk down stairs. I wonder if my anxiety will produce a heart attack, or maybe a stroke. I know it won’t, but it is more wishful thinking than dread. It would be an easy resolution to something I’m not sure I can handle.

  I make coffee out of rote habit. It smells awful. The thought of food is repulsive.

  As I dress I wonder if Strand has gotten loose yet, or been found. I break silence and turn on the radio, dialing up a local all-news station, expecting to hear a headline story about a local celebrity who was found trussed up in his own apartment. I listen to two cycles of news, both filled with murder and mayhem, but nothing on Strand.

  Putting on makeup and doing my hair helps. I feel human, at least.

  ***

  “WHY DO YOU THINK you’re having trouble sleeping?” Camille asks.

  She’s really smart and perceptive, but this was very predictable so I’m ready to steer our discussion far away from last night.

  “A big part of it is I need to have a vagina,” I say. “I’m at a point where I can’t stand having this penis any more. It’s uncomfortable and it’s preventing me from having a sex life. I’m so horny I can hardly stand it. Every night I dream about making love with someone.” It’s mostly true. I feel that way about my genitalia now. Of course, my sleeping problems stem from a different source. I’m a failed murderer who will soon pay the price for leaving an evil man hanging in his North Side apartment.

  My subterfuge works. She asks me questions about my sex life, my desires. Interest in both men and women is fairly common she says. She asks who my fantasy partners are, how many, how often. I respond honestly.

  “Why do you think this is coming up now?” she asks.

  “I think it’s because I’m ready. It’s time. My doubts are gone. This is who I am and I’m tired of being trapped in the old body.”

  “But is this just to relieve horniness? Couldn’t you go out and find a lover?” she asks.

  “Of course I could,” I say. “But that wouldn’t change anything. I’m a woman. I will never, ever present as a man again. I will never be a man again. And I’m just tired of being between genders.”

  Tears begin to flow. They are honest tears. Seeing Bob in the mirror yesterday was hideous. That isn’t me. If I had to go back to dressing and acting like a man, life would not be worth living.

  After a long moment, Camille asks, “What kind of woman will you be, Bobbi?”

  “A transwoman, Camille,” I answer. “One who feels like a woman inside and has some of the physical characteristics of a woman. But people around me will know I'm trans. Some will hate me for it, some won’t. I wasn’t born in a woman’s body, and I don’t think I’ll ever be like people who grew up as women. That’s okay. I can’t define myself by what I’m not. I’m what I am. A transwoman. I’m ready for whatever comes. This is who I am. Period.”

  We spend the rest of the session talking about transwomen and genetic women. Camille isn’t crazy about my willingness to differentiate between the two, and to categorize myself as something different than a woman. Transsexual women are like that. Most believe they are every bit as womanly as a genetic woman. I probably would too if I was 5’-5" and 120 pounds and could wear an off-the-rack size 6. But I can’t. I’m six feet tall with a male’s bone structure. I can be pretty, I can be effeminate, and I can even be sexy, but very few people will see me as a genetic woman.

  I can deal just fine with that, I tell Camille. What I can’t handle is having this penis between my legs. When I first said it, I was just trying to justify sleeping pills. But as we talk about it, I know it’s true.

  ***

  I GET TO THE SALON just a few minutes before my first appointment, half running the last block. I huff and puff through the waiting area and back to the break room. I empty my bag of hair in the garbage can the assistants use to dump their sweepings in and push it deep beneath the surface. I dig deep in the can with one hand and place my bundle in the middle, then cover it again. I wash my hands and head back into the salon.

  The receptionist is on the phone. She catches my eye and points to the waiting room. I nod. Yes, I’ll get the client myself. I check the appointment list on my station. Lilly. A new client.

  T
he waiting area is packed. We’re busy today. Every head looks up when I enter the room. You don’t see obvious transwomen every day, and I suppose I have an especially wild look today, having spent the night kidnapping and trying to murder someone.

  “Lilly?” I call out.

  A nice looking middle-aged professional woman stands, a smile on her face. “You must be Bobbi,” she says.

  “I am,” I reply, leading her to my chair.

  “I’ve heard so much about you!” she says.

  One of her co-workers is a client, a prize from my days and nights of handing out pamphlets. Back when I was an innocent transwoman, fearing only rejection from my fellow man. This thought passes quickly. We're doing hair here. This is what I do. I focus, both on Lilly and on her hair.

  The day flies by. I'm booked solid. My colleagues are busy too. Business has been picking up, and not just from the change of season. My little promotions last winter have brought in some new business, and we’re getting good word of mouth buzz, too. I think having a transsexual in our midst might be helping business more than hurting it, even for the other stylists. I think I bring an exotic aura to the place, something clients can talk about back in the office. Whatever, being busy is the perfect tonic for me. I shut out the mental torture, the fear, the worry. I just do hair.

  At seven my last client is done. I clean up my station and walk into the night. It’s raining, but the night air is warm and there's no wind to fight.

  I’m walking home. I need the exercise. I’m blowing off the gym for a few days but I need the exhaustion that comes from a brisk walk after a long day on my feet. That’s the only way I’ll manage to sleep. Camille’s psychiatrist colleague has called in a sleeping-pill prescription for me, and I’ll pick it up on the way home. But I prefer not to use narcotics. We’ll see.