Wednesday, November 7, 2018

New short story... 'Compassion' Snippet One

Will post a couple of snippets then offer on Lulu.





Copyright 2018

by Chris Bellows

“So you found me. Seeking revenge... or seeking compassion?”

The voice... it haunts... it rattles the mind... it frightens... but it also strangely soothes.

“If I wanted revenge I could shoot, stab or strangle you right here.”

Words of menace but offered calmly... as best I can. Despite the emotions, I veil my quaking voice, wondering if the trembling within is evident.

“Not likely on the streets of Manhattan, Thomas. There is violent crime in this city but not in midtown at lunch hour.”

She smiles. So self assured, such savior faire, crossing her arms, shifting her weight to her right side, shuffling forth her left foot in a silent gesture of ‘Well?’.

“So if it’s not revenge than it must be ‘compassion’,” enunciating the word with mocked ardor. “I’m on my way to an appointment, Thomas. And I have not time for that... that for which you’ve been trained to respond,” the suggestion coming with a smirk. “Nor is this the place,” her tone becoming flippant.

“I... I...” cursing myself with my stammering.

Months of research, following up many leads... and when I finally find her, the words flow not.

“You’re shaking, Thomas. Taking your Androcur? I cannot give you a prescription but I know medical types who can... if that will suffice in place of ‘compassion’,” her voice again transforming to staged sexiness.

“I... ah... would like to talk... about... ah... my condition...”

“Yes they all do. You’re not the first to track me down. The others seek the same. The compassion for them is a little different... as I’m sure you realize. For them there’s the need to bond. The need to serve... to adulate. It’s quite curious. Someone with a different skill set than mine should do a research paper. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had my apartment cleaned... laundry done... meals prepared. Little pixies prancing about. But I suspect... with the nature of your transformation... you have other... ah... desires.”  

I nod, shamed by my silence.

“There’s a restaurant... near my apartment... I’m sure you know my address if you’ve been tracking me. With your alteration, there’s probably little craving for domestic servitude. So why not buy me dinner instead? It’s called ‘The Raven’s Nest’. When you make a reservation, be sure to tell them it’s for Dr. Winton. I have a special table. Quiet.”

She turns, again shifting her weight, stepping away. I am wont to reach out and grab her. But as suggested, midday in mid Manhattan there are throngs of onlookers... not the place for violence.

I must see her again... next time find my voice. But I have not her phone number and slinking about her neighborhood, anticipating her travels and journeys is time consuming.

‘Wait’, I am given to call out just as she pauses from a distance and turns.

“Make it for tomorrow night, Thomas... 7:00 p.m.”


Returning to my hotel room, the tremors slowly dissipate, aided by two fingers of fine Scotch. The woman was prescient in quickly ascertaining that I have not been taking the Androcur... the anti androgen. The drug addresses my hormonal imbalance, serving to assuage the jitters, but over time shrinks the testicles... a horrid thought for the normal heterosexual male. So I have disdained and must endure the consequences of an endocrine system in constant need... that which seems to drive every thought and every action... right down to spending inordinate time and money locating she who best knows of my condition... and best knows how it is to be addressed.

Dr. Winton referenced revenge. And I suppose such should be slaked. But then what? Life in prison? Life on the run?

No, I must concede, emotionally yield to this condition. Seek therapy. More therapy than I’ve had. And ironically it is best offered by she who has manifested the need for it.

The alcohol induces repose... a solitudinal stupor. My mind reflects... on times and events most meaningful...


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