Stranger Things

Chapter 1 My mother told me I was born on a night so dark and stormy that even the spirits dared not venture forth from their crypts. She added, with a tone of mild irritation, that getting to the hospital had been an obstacle course of fallen branches, stray rubbish bins, and scattered pieces of outdoor furniture. “I thought I was giving birth to the antichrist,” she said. I was only six, and when I searched her face for a sign she was joking, I found none. Soon after I was born, my father left and my mother, who’d always wanted a daughter, began to dress me like a girl. I was too young to know any differently, but when I got older and started going to kindergarten, I was made aware that little boys weren’t supposed to wear dresses and ribbons. “Are you a boy or a girl?” asked one inquisitive boy. “A boy,” I replied with a measure of indignation. “But you’re wearing a dress.” I stared at him. What could I say? I was wearing a dress. In reaction to my unresponsiveness he shoved me to one side and walked over to join his friends, who were waiting by the swings. The news that Morgan Berry was really a boy spread like wildfire and from that day on I became an ‘untouchable’. No one played with me and whenever I was paired up with anyone for a game or a dance, they pulled a face and walked towards me like they were headed for the gallows. Later, when I went home and complained to my mother that I wanted to wear boy’s clothes, she smacked me and told me that money didn’t grow on trees. When the verbal teasing turned physical, I’d come home distraught and my mother would hit me again and tell me grow up. I remember I’d just turned eight when my mother introduced me to her new beau. “Morgan, this is Dennis O’Rourke. He’s going to be your new daddy.” I stood uncomfortably in front of them, barely able to do more than glance at Mr O’Rourke. “Aren’t you a pretty little girl?” he said before bending down and kissing me on the cheek. When my mother didn’t correct him, I ran from the room. I’ve no doubt I would have run from the room even if she had told him, although for an entirely different reason. Not long afterwards, Dennis, my mother, and I moved to a town far, far away from the town I had been born and raised in. I never went to kindergarten again. Or to school, for that matter. My mother applied to the Ministry of Education to home school me and that’s just what she did. Most days. I was thin and pale as a child. I guess I was pretty for a boy. My dark brown hair was long and straight, and my fringe was cut in a perfect line just above my eyebrows. I very easily passed for a girl and fooled everyone, just as I had fooled Dennis. It was to my benefit to make sure I did a good job. I’d already had a taste of what happened to boys who wore dresses. Six months later my step-father found out I wasn’t really a girl. My mother had gone out for the evening so Dennis was to be my babysitter. Just like any other weeknight I was sent to bed at eight-thirty. I brushed my teeth and climbed under the covers, having to forgo my mother’s usual good-night kiss. Several minutes later I heard my bedroom door creak open. Immediately I pulled the covers up over my head. Curiosity, however, compelled me to take a peek, and what I thought had been the boogie man was, in fact, Dennis. “Are you asleep?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper. “No,” I replied. He came and sat down on the side of my bed. “Did you know,” he began, “that if I put my hand down here…” His hand disappeared beneath the blankets. “…and rub…” He recoiled as his hand came into contact with something he wasn’t expecting. The mask of horror he wore so startled me that for a moment I thought I had done something wrong. In the days that followed, Dennis could not look at either me or my mother with anything but mild disgust. Once I caught my mother returning his look with one of her own. One that said, “Don’t you dare!” At puberty, the game was up. No more girl’s clothes. For the first time in my life I was permitted to be a boy, though the permission was given not by my mother, but by hormones which made things too hairy, too big and, in the case of my voice, too deep, to be able to fool anyone any longer. I was still more slender and petite than the other boys I saw around town. Even the scrawniest of them had at least some muscle definition. I’d never lifted anything heavier than a book and had no muscle tone at all. I noticed my complexion was paler and smoother than theirs, too. The sun hadn’t had much opportunity to tarnish my skin. I was indoors too much. Used to creamy smooth skin and thinking the fine hair that appeared above my top lip ugly, I shaved daily, close to the skin, double and even triple shaving the same area until it was as silky as it had ever been. My mother continued to home school me until just before I turned eighteen. Mostly she’d give me classics like Jane Eyre, Oliver Twist, and modern classics like Catcher in the Rye and then expect me to write discursive compositions about what I’d read. She’d give me topics like “Pompeii” or “World War 2” or “The Vikings” to research on the internet and then she’d quiz me on them. I’d watch documentaries on television and online, and somehow, despite this hotchpotch method of teaching, I arrived at the eve of my eighteenth birthday an educated man. “Man?” Dennis snarled. “You call this a man?” He’d been drinking, a pastime he’d been cultivating over the past year or two. “Leave him alone,” said my mother, who was drying the dishes she’d just washed. “I’ll leave him alone if you stop calling him a man. Bloody faggot!” He went to the fridge and retrieved another beer. “You’ve raised a faggot!” He slammed the fridge door shut. My mother indicated that I should leave the room with a discreet nod towards the double doors leading into the hallway. It wasn’t discreet enough. Dennis caught it. “What are you doing behind my back?” he bellowed. “Secret signals!” He was right in my mother’s face. She wore an expression of terror. “Wh-what are you talking about? There weren’t any secret signals,” she said, managing a weak smile as she braced herself against the kitchen sink. I started for the door, but Dennis saw me. “Get back here, faggot!” He stormed towards me. I continued for the door, sliding it open and making it into the hallway before I felt him grab the back of my neck. I gasped as I was yanked backwards. “What are you doing?” screamed my mother. “Seeing how much of a man he is.” I felt faint. Numb. I didn’t know what Dennis had in mind, but a whole slew of wickedness passed before my eyes on a conveyor belt of horror. My heart was racing and I felt as though I was going to throw up. Whatever he had in mind for me, I knew I was no match for him. He slammed me up against the wall. “Come on, boy! Fight back! Show your mother what sort of man she’s raised!” He stood at six foot and was an ex-football player. His muscles were like steel. He had alcohol and aggression on his side. How was any man, let alone me, going to defend himself against all that? His fist connected with my jaw with such force that my face had hit the wall before I felt the pain of his blow. I glimpsed a line of crimson on the painted plaster and noticed the salty, metallic taste of blood invade my mouth. “What are you doing?” I heard my mother scream. I saw a flurry of movement—my mother rushing to my aid and being thrust back by Dennis. “Come on,” he said, his bottom teeth bared as his eyes bored into me. “Be a man.” I could barely focus. I saw his hand come towards me. I flinched. His fingers grabbed my crotch. “Just what I thought. A cunt!” He removed his hand then hit me again, his fist pounding my face into the wall. I felt a brief explosion of white hot heat and I think I threw up a little bit. I fell forwards. It felt as though I were falling into a void. It seemed like I’d fall forever.