Disclaimer: All of the situations described in this chapter are based on  individuals' personal experiences described either on internet forums or in support groups attended by the author. As disturbing as it is, it is only minimally changed to fit into the storyline. This is not fiction, but someone's lived reality.

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March 26, 2016

Jerome:

The red blocky numbers on the alarm clock finally blink and the wait's finally over. I haven't slept a single second since we got home last night and I'm surprised I can still even blink. I don't know what's stronger, the shock that this's real or the shame of doing this to him. He's curled up on my bed next to me with an ugly yellow plastic trash can sitting patiently on his side of the bed, waiting for its morning meal. If anything, he's been sicker since we got home than when we went to the doctor. Not that I can blame him. I'm feelin' pretty sick myself.

"Come on, Mitch. You gotta get up." He shifts just enough that I know he's awake. I mess up his already messy hair and I catch him glaring at me out of one squinty red eye. He's not a happy camper. "You're the one who told me nine o'clock. Don't look at me like that." He sighs and slowly moves away, stretching and trying to persuade himself to get outta bed and take a shower. I'm gonna guess he already has a plan. "Before you go, though... We really need to talk about this. This's a big deal."

"No, it's really not." Oh, so he's playing that game. Shutting down and avoiding the whole fucking debacle. When things go to shit, he either gets ultra-defensive or he coasts along in denial. Denial needs some chlorine.

"Come on, Mitch. Let's be real about this. You know I'll support you no matter what but we really need to stop runnin' from the truth." He snorts and tries to rub some of the sleep out of his eyes. Even his hands look pale.

"I'm not running from anything. There's no choice here. There's nothing to talk about." And with that, he's off. He stumbles over to the chicken dildo bathroom and starts digging through the towel cabinet. He's not gettin' away that easy.

"I don't know what that means. I need a real answer so I can go and start gettin' my shit together. I'm not ready for this, Mitch, and I know you aren't, either." He gives me one of the greatest Bitchfaces this wide green Earth has ever seen and I see him look past me to make sure Alex hasn't somehow wandered in before he pulls me in the little echo-y bathroom after him and shuts the door. He turns the water in the shower on high before he starts talking, just to make sure.

"There's no decision here and there's no discussion; there's only a chore to do. This isn't going to happen, not now and not again. When I get done here, I'm going downtown to a place I found last night on my phone and I'm going to take care of it." He turns away from me and starts peeling his days-old clothes off. I give him a minute's head start before I try to talk to him again. He's already counting me out on this and it pisses me off to no end. Can't blame him, though. I'm pretty pissed at myself, too.

"Might be kinda hard for you to believe but I think you made the right choice. We aren't ready for somethin' like that. You know, a... a kid." All I can hear is the sound of the water hitting the shower floor. I don't know what else to say. "I'm sorry things had to turn out like this. You know I love you, right?" There's a short silence before I hear the too-familiar sound of him trying not to get sick. I pass the ceramic trash can to him around the shower curtain and I head back out to my room to give him some privacy and find both of us some semi-decent clothes. Today's gonna be shitty enough without people thinking we're high off our asses. I start Googling the place he was talking about while I wait for him to join the real world again. Whether he likes it or not, I'm not gonna let him go by himself. I'm scrolling through a sizeable list of clinics when he reappears in just the underwear I set out from him. "Those not good enough?" I point at the clean clothes in his hand and he tosses 'em on the dresser.

"It would make the whole thing a lot less horrible if we didn't have to worry about people recognizing us. That," he points to the multicolored elephant t-shirt, "isn't what we would call camouflage, Jerome." He goes through all the drawers in my dresser until he comes up with a pair of dark blue basketball shorts and a plain black t-shirt and he snatches the Posh Life hat off my head and replaces it with a red and black zombie one. "Today is not the day to be representing, dood."

"You're the mastermind here. I'm just the chauffeur." He raises an eyebrow at me in annoyance as he slips into a hoodie that's easily three sizes too big for him. He's taking no chances today. "Look, Mitch. I don't know how to say how fucking sorry I am this happened. I didn't know and I shoulda been careful and-"

"Hey. It's on both of us. It takes two to tango, and I should have somehow magically known that shit like this could still happen. It's more on me and the doctors than it is on you, dood. I told you this couldn't happen. I don't blame you." Goddammit. He's gonna pull this dumbass game of his. I keep my voice down as low as I can but it just pisses me off so much.

"Bullshit. Even if it's only a tenth of one percent my fault, it's still my fault. This wouldn't've happened it it weren't for me and my brilliant fucking ideas. I did this to you, Mitch. I did this. Me. I said I'd always be there to help you out and keep people from fucking with you and then I turn around and do this shit to you. I'm sittin' here watching you go through this, all the sickness and puking and anger and hurt and sadness and I know it's all my fault. Don't tell me it isn't." He pulls up the zipper on the hoodie and walks over to grab his wallet and keys and phone, looking pointedly at me as he goes past.

"It isn't."

"Fuck you." I slip on the closest pair of plain sneakers and hurry after him. Guess it's a good thing he can only do stairs like a snail without puking. I hold it in until we're out in the garage before I break into a run and dodge around him to get in the driver's seat. He just gives me a pissy look while he puts on a pair of flip-flops by the door. He's not leavin' this house without me. He takes his sweet ass time getting in the car, like I'm gonna change my mind. I know he doesn't feel good but this is what the rest of the world'd call 'bitchy.' "We goin' to the one on De La Vista?" He sighs and puts his seatbelt on, grabbing the sunglasses from the dashboard and sliding 'em on before I start the car.

"It was the closest one. We might as well start there."

"Did you check to see if they take Shit Farm Insurance?" He just laughs icily and gives me a sarcastic grin before he puts his head against the window.

"That's a good one, Jerome. You still think health insurance pays for health care."

---

March 26, 2016

Mitch:

"Hello, how can I help you?" A fresh wave of hot nausea courses through my body as I stand in front of the desk, preparing to out myself and humiliate myself in one go. I just hope it won't take long to get a room - I don't want to be the free entertainment for the other patients.

"Hi, I need to talk to a doctor. My name's Mitchell Hughes." She starts digging through a stack of clipboards until she comes up with two copies of a bright yellow packet, then she sets a copy in front of me and one in front of Jerome. He frowns and steps forward to take a look before he pushes it back toward her.

"I'm sorry, but we don't do provider meetings for HIV testing. We only do out-patient blood tests here and you come back to pick up your results in three to five business days." This is going to be harder than I thought.

"No, I'm not here for testing." I look at the dry erase board behind the counter, trying to remember the doctor's name. I scan the long list until I finally find it. "I need to see Dr. Agate." She tilts her head slightly to the side, like a dog who isn't sure if it heard a command correctly.

"I'm sorry but Dr. Agate only handles prenatal genetic testing and elective abortion care."

"Yes, I know that." She looks completely lost, and I guess I should be flattered that it doesn't compute for her why someone who looks like me would need to get an abortion. "What do I need to fill out?"

"We require patients to be present before we can schedule a meeting." Jerome stops himself from facepalming, moving to adjust his hat at the last second. He tells me that I rant about everything, but wait until we get back to the car. I can hear the echoes from his cussing from the future.

"I'm right here. I'm the patient." Blank brown eyes stare up at me and I try not to lose my temper. It wouldn't do any good to take my frustration from the last two days out on her. I lower my voice so the other two people in the waiting room can't hear me. "I'm transgender. I was born female. What do I need to fill out?" She continues looking at me blankly while she grabs a bright pink packet of papers on a clipboard and hands it over the counter to me. "Thank you."

"We'll need you to fill that out and hand it back to us, but we can schedule your appointment right now. For your intake visit, we have Friday the twenty-ninth at three o'clock. Would you definitely be able to make that?"

"Wait, Friday April twenty-ninth?"

"Yes. If you take that appointment, we could schedule you for the second appointment on Thursday May twelfth at one o'clock for the procedure. Those are our earliest appointments."

"I don't understand. Why so long?"

"We're booked up, and Florida state law requires that all women seeking an abortion have at least two appointments with the same provider at least twenty-four hours apart. It's inconvenient but the law is the law." I put the pen back on top of the clipboard and slide it back across the counter to her. There is no way in hell I am going to deal with this shit for another month.

"Thanks, but no thanks." I head back out to the car and it takes Jerome a few seconds to catch up to me. I pause at the car and lean my head against the cool, smooth glass. I feel even more sick now. I can't deal with this for another month. Just the thought of it growing inside of me makes me physically ill, and that isn't counting the health problems the high hormone levels could cause. I don't want to have a heart attack or stroke from blood clots, or end up with liver problems a couple of years from now. He unlocks the door and we sit in silence for a minute, letting it sink in. "I can't wait that long. I feel like shit already, and at that point it would be showing. Plus, would they even let me do it that late? What kind of sick fucking game is this?" He reaches over and grabs my hand, moving quickly like he thinks I would try to move it away. We aren't the most affectionate couple, but he acts like I am completely heartless and don't trust him. It hurts to see that he thinks of me that way.

"What now? 'Nother one?"

"Another one. We have no choice."

---

March 26, 2016

Jerome:

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave." Damn right you are. Assholes.

"We just want to make an appointment."

"I don't know what kind of joke you think you're pulling, but it isn't funny. Please leave."

"Are they part of that CFA protest group?"

"I don't know but-"

"All I want to do is make an appointment. What's so hard about that?" Mitch says slowly and carefully while he glares at me. I must be makin' a face again. I wipe the dirty look off my face as much as I can but there's still this bad taste in my mouth. These people are actually walking assholes. I can smell the shit from here.

"Sir, this is a women's clinic. You're disturbing the other patients and we're going to have to ask you to leave before security gets here." And they said real-life trolls didn't exist! This lady's living proof! Mitch lowers his voice again and tries to explain the situation a fifth time.

"I already told you, I was born female and we've been having a hard time finding a clinic that doesn't have a three-week waiting list. Please, just let me-"

"Mr. Hugh, I'm looking at you right now and I can tell you that you aren't a woman. We don't provide HIV testing here." Why's everyone always think we have fucking HIV? Not all gay people have AIDS, for fuck's loving sakes.

"We aren't looking for HIV testing," he replies with that snotty tone in his voice he always gets when he's about ready to lose his shit. Good thing I'm keeping my mouth shut or we'd already be outta here. "Careline gave us your address and they said you accepted trans patients."

"Very funny, kiddo. Neither of you are transgender."

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Mitch gives me a hardcore Bitchface, but it's the phrase of the day and it's about the only thing in my brain that still makes sense. I haven't seen this many stupids in one day since I graduated from high school. He turns back to the little glass window with the three older ladies frowning at him on the other side and I can't help but wish he'd pull his pants down and moon 'em all. We're gonna get kicked out, anyways. Might as well teach 'em a lesson about judging people.

"So what you're saying is that I'm not trans enough for you? Do you want me to give you my doctor's phone number so you can call her on Monday?"

"Sir, you have to come with me." A mega-bulky security guard materialized outta the side door and that just pisses me off even more. Guy looks like a goddamn ex-cop UFC fighter crossed with Peeta Mellark and they send him after us when we're just tryin' to settle this shit. We're not hurting anybody and everyone else is watching Dr. Phil on the little ol' tele.

"You gotta be shittin' me." Mitch looks over and I see him roll his eyes. He pulls out a folded-up, worn-out copy of his airplane needle carry letter and tosses it through the little hole in the window where people put their hopes and dreams and credit cards before he turns to the security guard and looks right up in his little blue eyes.

"I feel really sorry for you, having to work for so many ignorant pieces of shit. You deserve better than that." The guard tries not to look amused but we see through the stony face.

"Sir, you have to come-"

"We're going. We're done here. Maybe with a little luck, you will be, too." And like the sarcastic bastard he is, he pulls out his wallet and stuffs a couple twenties in the guard's shirt pocket while the big guy just stands there and watches. "Here, the drinks are on me." He nods at him before he turns around and canters his way out like only Mitch can. I forgot how interesting life gets when his hormones are outta whack. The guard and I look at each other and when he opens his mouth I hold up my hand and turn to look at the desk window again.

"Ya know... Shame you're publicly funded. Real damn shame. Maybe you shoulda learned a couple things about dealin' with patients." The old ladies look even less amused and I grab a business card before I follow Mitch out to the car. It's almost sunset and we've been at it all day. Guess we're gonna go 'til the sun goes down. Then I've got some work to do. Hope one of those grannies knows how to fix their webpage. 'Inclusive services' my ass.

---

March 26, 2016

Mitch:

"Come on, kid. Comedy act's over." I can hear Jerome calling someone a 'motherfucking fucker' in the hospital lobby and I can't hold the disbelieving laughter back any longer. The security guard is still dragging me out into the parking lot, trying to get some clue as to where our car is. I focus as much as I can on the movement, feeling the familiar wrenching in my stomach. If he's going to manhandle us like a complete, irredeemable asshole, I'm going to nail his shoes. I think he gets the same idea and gracelessly pushes me away from him so that I almost faceplant in the landscaping. If I was a different person in a different life, I would have taken the fall and sued him for unnecessary force against a pregnant woman. I have a feeling it wouldn't be the first time something like that happened. I curl over in the bushes and let loose, surprised that there was still enough water left in my stomach to come up. I feel like I could just lay down here and die. If we were living a hundred years ago, I probably would die. I have never felt this dizzy or sick in my entire life. I don't even want to know what the surges of estrogen and progesterone are doing to my body. I really don't want to have more surgery. "You done now?"

"Fuck off, dood." He snickers and I hear someone on his walkie talkie asking about 'the teenagers.' What am I going to have to do to get someone to take me seriously?

"Come on, kid. We have to get you outta here. Let's go."

"Can you just give me a second?" I need more than a second; I don't think I can actually stand up on my own. The world is spinning so fast, I can barely see anything more than five feet away from me.

"Don't got all day."

"Get your goddamn greasy alligator hands off me. Don't touch me. I said, don't touch me!" For someone as slight, skinny, and gangly as he is, Jerome doesn't take anyone's shit. It's a shame that nobody takes him seriously, either, because they know that he can't back up his threats with force. "You touch me again and I'mma sue your slimey ass. You okay, Mitch?" I nod, which turns out to be an even bigger mistake. How can anyone call this 'morning sickness' when it lasts all fucking day? I guess it's always morning somewhere in the world.

"I'll be fine. Just... just give me a minute."

"A minute ago you said you only needed a second. Come on, kid. Playtime's over."

"Fuck off, Lotso. This isn't fuckin' Toy Story." I feel Jerome lean into me as he grabs my arm and he struggles to pull me back up to my feet. I lean on him heavily until I can get some idea of which way is up and of how fast the world is spinning. I feel like a wounded animal. How could anyone ever want to put themselves through this? "It's my turn to tip. Here ya go." He turns around just enough to hack a loogie on my guard's pants, then we head back to the car.

"Get the fuck out of here!" We don't hesitate to leave. We tried nine different clinics today and this was the last one to close. The only two that were willing to take me as a patient had waiting lists that stretched until the end of April, and the others thought I was some kind of joke. I collapse as soon as I get in the car, half from feeling physically ill, half from being absolutely disgusted at society. This is what 'medically necessary' looks like.

"Sorry, Biggums. We tried." He sounds like he still thinks that I blame him for this. I just sigh and blindly put my seatbelt on, trying to brace myself for the bumpy ride home.

"All we can do is try. I'm going to call around Tampa and Ft. Lauderdale tomorrow, from the house. I'm not doing this shit again."

"Just gimme the list. Tell me what to do." We fall into an uncomfortable silence, and I can't keep my thoughts from turning to whether or not this is going to ruin our relationship. He won't even sleep, it bothers him so much. "I'm really sorry, Mitch."

"Stop apologizing already. It's just making it worse."

"I'm sorry."

"You have no reason to be sorry. Accidents happen and you're doing everything you can to help me out. I don't blame you." Silence again as we pull out of our parking spot and head toward the main road. "I love you." There, I said it.

"Love you, too. Took you fucking long enough."

---

March 27, 2016

Mitch:

"Please hold for the next available representative." The elevator music starts playing again and I go back to swirling my computer mouse around the screen, clockwise then counterclockwise, clockwise then counterclockwise. So far, the answers have all been resounding 'no's, even from the people who knew what the word 'transgender' means. This is one of those moments that showcase exactly what I got myself into by moving to Florida, and it's really, really pissing me off. Who are they to tell me what I can or can't do with my body? How the fuck can they claim to know what's best for me when no one will listen to my side of the story? Wouldn't I know what's best for me? Why isn't it illegal for them to tell me that I can't do this, or that I have to wait weeks on end until I have waited so long that they refuse to help me anymore? How are they able to get away with having security throw me out of the building without letting me talk to a doctor?

It's simple: they never give a shit about people like me, and they care more about this thing growing inside of me and taking over my body than they do about me. How does a chunk of cells with human DNA in it have more rights than I do? They didn't have a problem when I had my chest surgery. Those cells didn't have rights. Why is this any different, especially since the symptoms are so severe that it has no chance of making it eight more months? I might not be able to make it eight more months. I feel like I belong in a hospital; I feel like I'm going to pass out and not wake up again. I have had a throbbing headache all day, a common side effect of taking a too-high dose of T. Whatever this thing is doing to my body, it might have long-term consequences. I need to get rid of it - now. If this clinic can't help me, I'm moving on to my back-up plan. I need to take care of this yesterday, not three or four weeks from now.

"Hello, my name is Danielle. How can I help you today?"

"Hi, how much does it cost to do an out-patient procedure?"

"Did you know the law requires you to have an internal vaginal ultrasound beforehand?"

"Yes. How much would all of it cost?"

"We charge two-hundred fifty dollars for the ultrasound and test review, and it's four hundred thirty dollars for the procedure." Fuck. Every place I call, the costs go up. It looks like I'll be cutting into my savings after all.

"When is your first available appointment?"

"We have... Tuesday April sixteenth for your intake appointment and Wednesday April seventeenth for the procedure if you're cleared. Does that sound okay?" This is the best I've found so far, and I can always call back and cancel it later.

"Yeah, I'll take it. One more question before I make the appointment."

"Of course."

"Do you accept transgender patients?" I count five heartbeats pass before she answers.

"I'm not sure but I can go ask. Can I put you on hold for a few minutes?"

"Sure." I wait and wait and wait, listening to the elevator music. I check through the comments on the video Alex just posted to my account, trying to block out the pulsing pain from the combination of my migraine and the obnoxious music.

Then the phone line goes dead.

She hung up on me.

I slowly pull the phone away from my ear and look down at it, trying to tell myself that I'm not surprised. I shouldn't be surprised anymore. By now, I should know that they always pull this shit on me. I should know better.

But it still hurts.

---

March 27, 2016

Mitch:

"You think this one'll work?"

"It's hard telling. It's worth a try, right?" He shrugs and I open the door to the medical office for him, checking around to make sure that no one will recognize us. The waiting room is empty and the only person around to see us is the elderly lady at the receptionist's desk. She straightens her beaded reading glasses and puts on a grandmotherly smile, grabbing a small stack of papers and putting them on a clipboard for me to fill out.

"You must be Misch. We just talked on the phone?"

"Yeah, 'Mitch.' " She shrugs at me dismissively and hands me the chipped clipboard. Jerome has a strange, distrustful look on his face when I turn around, like a dog that can smell gunpowder before someone lights the fuse. He thinks that something is up. "What?"

"I don't like this place. It doesn't feel right. I think we should go."

"This is the only place I found that didn't have at least a three-week wait. It's worth a shot."

"And don't you think there's something fucking weird about that? I dunno, Mitch. I don't think we should be here."

"What's the worst that could happen? All they can do is tell me 'no' and throw me out on my ass like all of the other places do." He nods uncertainly and goes over to sit in the chair in the corner with his back against the wall. Does he think they are going to try to harvest my organs when they put me under? Maybe he should stay out of the dark corners of the internet. I fill out the forms as fast as I can, noticing that my handwriting doesn't look like it usually does. Maybe they can prescribe me something for this migraine, too.

"Ready, dear?" The old lady opens the door to the patient rooms behind the desk and Jerome jumps up to follow me. "Sorry, hubby. Ladies only beyond this point."

"Hell no." She doesn't look happy with his PG-rated cursing and gives him a disapproving look.

"You can take it up with the doctor if you want. Not my rules. I just enforce them."

"I'll be fine. You can ask them if you want to, but I'll be fine." He looks like he wants to argue with me, then he gets a horrible, guilty look on his face. He just nods and sits back down, watching carefully as I leave. "Did you need these, or...?"

"Oh! Yes. I completely forgot. I'll take those and you can head down to room three on the lefthand side. The doctor will be in to talk to you in a few minutes." I walk down to the room she was pointing to, but it doesn't look like anything that belongs in a doctor's office. It looks more like a therapist's office, with a floral couch, magazines, and several boxes of cheap tissues. I sit in the armchair at the far end of the room, leaving the matching chair at the other end for the doctor to sit in. These past few days have officially destroyed any respect I have for the medical field. I'm only there for a minute or so before a woman in a white labcoat appears in the doorway with a skeptical look on her face.

"Hi. Did Dolores tell you to come here?"

"The lady at the desk did?" She thinks for a second before she nods and beckons for me to follow her.

"We're going to head over here instead. You didn't come here for counselling, did you? You came here to get it done?"

"Yeah..." This is getting more awkward by the second. We aren't even done talking yet and I want to crawl under the bed back at home and forget I had ever lived. I have never felt this humiliated in my life.

"Okay, take a seat over here. We're going to do a quick blood test before we do the ultrasound. Take a seat." She closes the door behind us and rolls on a rolly stool over to the chair she told me to sit in, a thick blue band in her hand. "Can you put your arm out like this for me?" She shows me what to do and I copy her, but instead of tying the band around my bicep to draw blood, she zip-ties my wrist to the metal arm of the chair. I try to break through it, but the plastic is much stronger than it looks.

"What are you doing?"

"It's for your own good, honey. I mean, look at you. Who did this to you?"

"Untie me."

"I can't do that. You don't know what you're saying. Who decided to try to turn you into a man?"

"Let me go." I reach over and try to snap through the band with my other hand but it doesn't give at all. What is this thing made out of?

"We're here to help you see the light and show you His path. We want to teach you how to live in a way that will glorify Him."

"Let me out of here. I'll sue your asses if you don't let me go now."

"I don't think you want anyone to find out about this, sweetie. You're in a pretty bad situation right now." She rolls away from me and locks the door we came through, grabbing a couple of pamphlets off of the counter as she rolls back toward me. "Our Heavenly Father created you to be a wife and mother, to bring life and love to your home, and raise your children to glorify Him. The way you've been living your life... This isn't how you get through the gates of Heaven. We want to help you make the right choices and get your life back on track. We want you to make the right decisions." These people aren't rational. They aren't sane. If I could just get my keys out of my pocket, I might be able to cut my way out of here. She's watching me, though. I need her to leave. "How does it make you feel to kill an innocent baby? That's why you came here today, right? To snuff out that little life?" If I've learned anything from Marley, it's that you can get anything you want if you put on enough waterworks. I think of how much this hurts, how pissed off I am, what I'm willing to do if my other plan doesn't work out. I feel my eyes sting as they start to glass over, a trick I'd perfected as a kid and haven't had to use since. It doesn't do a lot of good on YouTube. I lay it on as thickly as I can, trying to hold back the insane laughter bubbling underneath.

"I just... I didn't know where to go. He didn't listen and I just wanted things to go back to how they were. I..." I trail off into nonsense in my hands, watching through my fingers as she looks around for a box of tissues. When she gets up to look through the cabinets, I pull out my phone just enough to use the fingerprint scanner and use the shortcut to call Jerome. I don't know how much good he is going to be, but he is the more resourceful one out of the two of us. He can think of something.

"We're going to help you plan everything out so you can have a long, safe, happy pregnancy. We can help you find everything you need for the baby and we'll try our best to help you get him onboard, too. Every baby needs a father and every young lady needs a provider." Her little speech disgusts me so much that I feel sick to my stomach again. How many people have they pulled this shit on? Is this legal? Is this why they make it so hard to do the procedure, so people will blindly walk into this trap? How many lives have they ruined with this controlling religious shit?

"Hey?" I can barely hear his voice on the other end of the phone as I sit up straight in my chair again to keep her from getting suspicious.

"Do you believe in the power of Christ?" I scramble around in my brain, trying to find something to say to keep her talking.

"I used to, but not anymore. How could they let something like this happen?"

"Goddamn it. I told ya." He hangs up and I try to keep my focus on the situation at hand instead of imagining him raising hell in the lobby.

"This happened because you stopped believing in Him. Faith isn't a one-way street. How can you expect Him to believe in you if you don't believe in Him?" I reach into my pocket as quickly as I can and grab my keys, using the first one I can grab to start cutting my way out of the plastic restraint. I should take a leaf out of Preston's book and carry a pocket knife. "We have a long way to go before that comes off, honey. That isn't going to work."

"Try me, bitch. You have... no right to keep me here. You lied."

"I'll wait as long as you need me to. He is patient, and He loves you no matter what you do. How long would it take for you to repent for your many, many sins? If you started now-" The key only manages to scratch the outside of the little plastic tie, so I put my keys back in the pocket of my hoodie and I just start pulling. The sharp edges dig into my skin but I keep pulling. I need to get the fuck out of here before they try to sacrifice me to their space aliens. "He will wait as long as He needs to. He wants to help His children, and you're trying to murder His sweet child. This isn't up to me. This is up to God."

"Fuck you." A fresh wave of anger dulls the pain and helps me pull harder. The arm of the chair is creaking from the force, and I think for a second that I can just stand up and take the chair with me, but the psychotic bitch has screwed the legs of the chair into the floor. My wrist is going to bruise like a banana from this but I don't have a choice. I haven't had any choice in this whole fucking thing. I reach over and grab my wrist with my other hand and keep pulling. I stand up to get better leverage and she lets out a dramatic sigh behind me, like I'm a stubborn child who won't go to time-out. The plastic tie starts to cut into my skin while the chair creaks even more. I can't give up yet.

"You can try to fight His love, but He will always love you. He loves this broken you and all He wants to do is to set you back on the path to righteousness, like you were before they turned you into a science experiment."

"Fuck off, lady. Go blow your space fairy and leave me the fuck alone." I brace myself against the leg of the chair and pull at the tie as hard as I can, gritting my teeth against the sharp pain in my wrist. Harder, harder, just a little harder... Then the screws holding the metal arm to the wooden back of the chair start to come loose. I slip the twist tie off of the back of the arm and I make sure I have my keys and phone before I head for the door. She runs forward and tries to grab my arm, but I snatch the pen off of the counter by the door and threaten to stab her with it. "Back. The. Fuck. Off. Don't touch me." I barely sound like myself. I sound hysterical, like a cornered animal trying to scare off a predator. I haven't sounded like this since the park incident in Jersey. I sound like my ten-year-old self, terrified for my life.

I glance to the left and start making my way back toward the lobby, checking to see if the old lady is waiting there to grab me. I hear Jerome screaming down the hall and I quickly check behind me again, hitting the button to open the automatic door. The fake doctor makes another move to grab me, muttering something about me not being able to save myself from The Fall, and I swipe the pen at her, leaving a line of black ink on the sleeve of her lab coat and on her hand. I feel a hand close around my arm, and I try to pull away until I recognize his long bony fingers. We stumble our way out the front door of the Christ-fearing clinic and across the street to the car. I lean up against the trunk for a second to catch my breath and he awkwardly wraps his arms around my waist before he moves to get in his side of the car, urging me to follow him before the gods start shooting lightning bolts down at us. The adrenaline starts to wear off when I land in the seat, a strange numbness creeping down my arms and up my legs. I am completely spent. He takes off out of the parking lot from hell, heading toward the highway and St. Petersburg.

"I'm done. I'm fucking done. I'm going to call my old surgeon in Montreal and see if he can refer me to someone up there. I'll pay whatever they ask. I'm done with this shit."

"I told ya! I told ya last year before we moved out here to Granny Ville! Fuck Florida and its fucking everglades full of goddamn Looney Tune loons.Shoulda done that all along. When's the plane leave?"

"Sometime tomorrow. I'm booking the first flight before the appointment. He knows people up there. Last time, I slipped him a few hundred under the table and he found me a next-day appointment for my surgery consultation."

"Fan-tastic. Sounds like a real upstandin' guy. At least the quacks up there give out weed. The bodyguard gets dibs on thirty percent." I can't help my face breaking into the first genuine grin of the day. The only thing more incoherent than a sober Jerome is a high Jerome. I reach over into his pocket and grab his wallet, pulling out the fake credit card with the Swiss army knife kit in it to cut the plastic zip tie off of my aching wrist.

"Fuck off, dood. Go find your own crooked doctor."

"The nerve of some people. You know Vik isn't certified yet. You just want me to get a nose job. You can fuck off."

"And you can fuck off! And you can fuck off! And you can fuck off! Everyone can just fuck off!"

"When your boyfriend turns into Oprah, you know it's gonna be a swell day. Real swell fuckin' day. I'm gettin' chicken." I don't know what I would do without this asinine idiot and his chicken addiction. I don't want to think about it.

---

March 27, 2016

Jerome:

I finish downloading the video files to the hard drive for Alex and I roll my chair out in the hallway and slide it across the floor to his room. My job here's about done. Back to the computer and all the important stuff. Today's been another day of epic failures and forced niceness and understanding and trying not to break keyboards and phones and noses. Hopefully the guy he knows up north can help us out. No one gets it. They don't even try. They just write him off - they just write us off. They think we're pulling a prank. They don't take this seriously and they don't get how out of it and not himself Mitch is. I can tell it's getting to me, too.

A baby. The doctors didn't know what they were talkin' about and now we have a baby. How do we even start to deal with this? I don't know if Mitch's strategy's better than mine, him pretending there's no question and no possibility and just focusing on how to get rid of it as soon as possible. And I get why he sees it like that. But every time I think about it, I see another version of him not on the verge of rage and depression, with the big pregnant belly or a baby in his arms. Maybe I'm just seeing Michelle. Not even that, I'm seeing a version of Michelle that I thought was what she'd grow up to be. Biggest fucking lie the world's ever seen. But what'd it feel like to have a baby with him? With curly blonde-brown hair and dark brown eyes and freckles and his sarcastic grin? I never realized how much he looks like his dad before. He's like a goddamn clone. Our kids'd probably look just like that, too. I don't know if I'd like having a kid or if I'd just freak the fuck out. I'm scared of what I'd do. I'm not ready for that but I think I wanna be. I don't know how to say it.

I've seen those Merome baby edits where they put pictures of our faces over each other. I've laughed along like everyone else when they said how fucking creepy and stupid they were. But have I always kinda wanted that? I don't know. It took so long so even get him to go out with me and I never intended to break up with him. That would mean I've been planning to marry him since before day one. I guess having kids is the logical next step. Don't let him hear that, though. He'd break me up.

I can't unthink any of this. He's carrying our baby. We could have a kid together someday. Now just isn't the right time or the right place or the right mindset to have a kid. We're too busy flying around the world to conventions and chuggin' Death Cups and doing dumbass challenges and skateboarding through the house and scootering to Taco Bell and experimenting together to deal with a kid right now. We're still kids underneath it all. We aren't make-believe grown-ups like Adam and his bae. But it could happen someday. We could be parents. It's really a wake-up call.

And we'll hafta come up with a way to keep this from happening again. He can't take birth control pills because he said it'd screw up his body and after this whole situation, I believe him. And let's be honest - we aren't gonna use condoms like real adults because the fuckers don't work all that great when you do the shit we do and we've done it drunk more than a couple times. So either he's gonna hafta have them put something up where the sun don't shine or I'm gonna hafta go have someone tie my balls shut for a while. They're both reversible. They're both safe. They're both really bad-sounding ideas.

But we hafta do something.

We aren't gonna realistically stop having sex and we can't afford him getting knocked up every few months. He'd actually kill me. Even if we didn't do what caused this mess, I could still get him pregnant from anal if we don't wrap it up. We can't screw around with this, especially when I see what it does to him. This can't turn into a regular thing where every six months we're lookin' for a new clinic. I hafta fix this. I hafta be the man for once.