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"Well, he thinks I'm a girl."Mom rolled her eyes at that statement. It wasn't any shock to her. Halfthe time I felt like she thought I was a girl."Is that what you want?" she asked me. Frustrated, I sighed. My mom hadasked me that question way too often. Moms weren't supposed to ask theirsons if they wanted to be girls, right?Sighing, I tried to put my thoughts together. "I don't know," I told hertruthfully. This had been on my mind for years now, ever since theaccident. Lately, the issue seemed to be coming up more and more often. Iknew that growing out my hair and wearing androgynous clothes would leadme to this point repeatedly, but it was still a big decision. I had beenseeing a therapist for a few years, and I was not sure if I would havedone it if she didn't think it was such a good idea."I promised Mary that I would try it. Maybe this is a good time," Iexplained. Mary was my therapist. She often said that if I was trulygoing to make an informed decision, I needed to know how. All the cowardly demons at the backs of our minds grasped at the same straw: if we don’t confess we can’t be found guilty so we can’t be punished so we’ll be released, still with our cocks and balls. We knew this wouldn’t happen but we kept telling ourselves it could, should, would. As I’d made clear to ‘Ms Curtis’ I began by asserting I’d never raped anyone. I honestly believed I was guiltless. Exhuming the memories and confronting the truth entailed emotional pain beyond imagining, and it wasn’t achieved without physical pain to match. Ms Kurtag inflicted it. The Russian who’d attended our aerobics sessions watched.“Torture can make invented confession,” Ms Kurtag conceded as she stretched me on the rack, “but it also dig up forgotten thing. Quicker than hypnosis. Now tell, Specimen Ten: Aileen.” She tightened the rack a little further and I screamed as my shoulder, hip and knee joints threatened to dislocate and the ropes gnawed into my wrists and ankles. She forced a wedge.
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