Charlotte's Tale Part 3

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As Charlotte becomes more comfortable in her new life she faces returning to her old school as guest soloist. Her desire to become something more than a nobody requires her to deal with two doctors, one caring and one not. What lengths will she go to in order to attain her goals?


Charlotte’s Tale

Part 3

by Angharad

 
Authors note: This story was originally posted on Sapphire’s Place. I have since re-edited/ rewritten much of it and with Erin’s Agreement, posted here. Thanks to Karen for her as-sister-ance.

It was commented on as being very contrived and weak, nothing new there then. I would ask you to hold judgement until you’ve read a couple or more episodes, because I think they actually show my writing at it’s best. It also contains a theme which some might consider depressing or sad, suicide is also mentioned on several occasions. There is some violence, but no sex.

I hope you enjoy.

Angharad.
 


Part 3
 
I rang Mr King a day or so later and asked if I could sing in his concert. He went very quiet then said, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I thought you wanted me to,” I felt almost as if he were rejecting me. “Don’t you want me there?”

“I should love to have you sing for me again, but I need to be sure you want to do this. What does your mother think? Put her on will you.”

My mother duly came and talked with him, reassuring him that it was my decision, but she tactfully left out the bit about my ‘covenant with the Almighty’.

I talked with him again, “Okay, I’m convinced, though I suppose it won’t be quite like old times.”

“No Sir, it won’t.” I don’t know if I felt sad or relieved, it was the only part of my schooling I enjoyed.

“You realise it’s in less than a month,” I hadn’t. I’d have to work our a few things before then, it was a challenge and perhaps it was time to see how ready I was.

We discussed what I would sing. I’d do three songs. Schubert’s ‘Ave Maria’, Handel’s ‘Ombra mai fu’, and ‘Summertime’, from Porgy and Bess by Gershwin. They would all need some practice, both by me and with Mr King and his accompanist Miss Daws. We decided that I would have to brave the school at some point, but that he would just tell everyone he had a young soprano who was going to guest at the concert. I would now have to make up an alias, which I thought I’d better agree with my mother, so arranged to get back to him.

I also agreed that I would go to the school the following day to ‘meet’ with him and the accompanist. I felt a little shudder when we discussed this, but it was a demon I needed to face. I had made a promise to God, so would honour it whatever the possible price. I almost felt like Abraham, being asked to sacrifice his son Isaac, but a sheep turned up at the last minute and the boy was spared. Thankfully, my beliefs were definitely New Testament, and with the required religious song, perhaps the most beautiful I had ever sung, the Ave Maria, I would surely repay the debt to the ‘man upstairs’, as my dad called him.

I went to find my mother who was very unsure about my attending school even for a short time, but I insisted. We discussed aliases without much success, we thought of all sorts of clever ones and some funny ones. However, they all had that contrived feeling about them. What I needed was a simple, real sounding name. Nothing too fancy or memorable, just real. It was so difficult.

Eventually, I gave up and went to town to get some more of the washable hair colouring. I hoped it didn’t rain on the days I needed to use it. I also bought some new makeup, with darker shades to go with my new hair colour. I was feeling bold with my new breasts being almost undetectable, and I treated myself to a new bra and scoop necked top, a mini skirt and some black, ruched, suede boots. I was going to have some fun with my former schoolmates.

Mum was horrified with my ensemble when I modelled it for her. “Is this wise?” She asked, “Parading yourself like some tart in front of two or three hundred testosterone fuelled boys.”

“If I time it right, it could be more like six hundred,” I swaggered back, the smirk on my face stretching right across it.

“I am not sure I approve of this and I don’t think Mr King will either.”

“Old Kingy will probably cream himself in his pants,” I laughed at the very thought of this.

“Charlotte, that sort of attitude will get you into trouble, besides, Mr King is a very nice man. It would be wrong to tease him.”

“I’m only joking Mum.” This was an out and out lie. I knew I looked foxy in this outfit, and was going to have some fun from it. “But I have to make sure there are no questions raised over what or who I am.”

“I’m not sure I agree with you, especially, exactly what you are, as in my opinion you look a bit like a common prostitute.” She blushed as she spoke. “If your father were here, he wouldn’t allow you to flaunt yourself like that.”

There was a pause, and I agreed to wear a thin shirt over the top, like a jacket. I buttoned it up for Mum’s eye, but would loosen a few buttons when I got to school.

“We still have to find you a name.”

“How about using your maiden name?”

“Okay, so you have a surname, what’s your first name going to be?”

“Christine?” I ventured.

“Christine Monk. Yes, why not?”

It was a family joke that my mother was the only monk who’d gone into a church instead of a monastery. So it was agreed, I would be Christine Monk for the purposes of the concert, and I thought, any such things again. After all, someone got to ‘Charlotte’ Church before me, and to be fair she was born with it, I’d had it forced upon me.

After doing some warm ups, I began to practice the Schubert, I used a tape recorder, so was able to gauge a bit of how I sounded when I played it back. It was going to need some work, so was the Handel. Thankfully, the Gershwin wasn’t too bad.

I had a play with the makeup. Jane was better at it than I, but I kept plugging away and before long, I managed to make myself look different without appearing too sluttish. As I refined the look I was creating, I began to think I was starting to look quite pretty in a sultry sort of way. Surely no one would recognise me, a real babe, as ‘one time loser’ Church. I practised altering my voice a little as well, trying lisps or accents. In the end I just raised it a fraction in pitch and made it more breathy. Even I didn’t recognise myself then! This was going to be very exciting and potentially a good laugh at my tormentors. I could well enjoy this.

I had difficulty sleeping that night. Dreams in which I made the whole thing a wonderful revenge were interspersed with one in which they guessed who I was and attacked me. I woke up in a real sweat after that one.

Consequently, the next morning I awoke feeling tired and less than confident about the whole thing. I was on the verge of asking Mum to phone Mr King and say I wasn’t well, when I remembered I had promised someone else I would do the concert. It was a commitment I had to keep. In return I asked for help to fulfil the obligation without mishap. That made me feel better, with the Almighty on my side, I began to regain some confidence.

After breakfast I began my metamorphosis, showering and adding the hair colorant. By itself it made me look quite different. When I did my makeup, added the balcony bra and scoop neck pink jumper and the black mini skirt and boots, I looked very different. I practised my new breathy speaking voice, and was one hot chick. Well if nothing else, flaunting my cleavage should sell a few more tickets to boys who were more familiar with sherbet than Schubert, and to whom Handel, was something on a broom or door. But they might just turn up to watch me perform. Part of me hoped they did, part also hoped that they didn’t recognise my voice. The songs were ones I hadn’t sung in school although I had elsewhere in competitions. None of my brethren were at those, so I hoped I was safe.

I sat about for the afternoon, unable to settle to do anything. I had homework to do but couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t read or watch television. I was tempted to listen to Renee Fleming who had sung all the songs I was going to do, but that would be like watching Picasso before painting the kitchen.
Eventually it was time to go. Mum drove me to the school, dropping me at the gate. On wobbly legs I wandered into the building which was filled with so many unhappy memories for me. My resolve to tease the boys was fast disappearing. It was all I could do to keep back the tears.

“Can I help you?” The voice came from slightly behind, to my side and above me. I hadn’t seen it’s originator and jumped visibly. I couldn’t believe who it was. It was Watson the dinosaur, my old nemesis! Oh shit, what do I do now, he’ll kill me if he finds out who I am?

“Must keep calm,” I repeated to myself without much effect. How on earth could I miss something the size of a small gorilla? I could certainly smell him now. I didn’t suppose he had washed since he’d last beaten me up.

Instead of all these things which were flashing through my brain on an adrenalin surge greater than Lewis Hamilton gets from a formula one car, I said, “Ooh! You made me jump.” My voice was breathy alright, I was astonished I could say anything, I was so frightened.

“Sorry Miss,” he blushed. The dinosaur blushed. I had made him blush. Oh joy! I began to realise he was as frightened of me as I was of him. As a boy he could tear me apart in moments, as a girl he was much more wary of me. I was beginning to think this could work, and if I keep the initiative then it could be fun because he will be more frightened of me than I am of him. I would have to be very clever because if he rumbles me, I am very dead. If he doesn’t, hee hee!

“That’s okay,” breathed back at him, “I’m here to see Mr King your music teacher.”

“Oh, Old King Cole, I’ll show you where he hangs out,” he smiled at me, his eyes fixed on the place where my shirt parted and cleavage intermittently displayed itself.

I pretended to find his joke funny, or that’s what he thought. I was actually nearly wetting myself with success in my perfidy. This was payback time.

“Is he giving you singing lessons?” asked my small brained companion.

“No, I’m helping him out. I believe he lost his soloist, so I’m going to sing in his concert.”

“Oh yes, Charlotte. Yes he left a while ago,” he added an embarrassed laugh.

“You had a boy called Charlotte here?” I asked in mock surprise, all the time wanting to knock his teeth out one by one.

“That was his nick name, bit of a fairy, but he could sing a bit.” As he spoke I wanted to shout back at him, ‘I’ll show you who’s a fairy you big ape!’ but managed to control myself. Then the thought arose, if I had done that, it would have proved his point. I told myself, to keep detached or it won’t work. If it doesn’t work I shall upset the Almighty too, then anything could happen. So keep calm.

“I’m sure you’ll be a very welcome replacement. I might even come and look at you, erm, I mean listen to you, I erm, like mean come to the concert myself.”

I tittered at his gaffe, but it proved my point. His brain was very small and probably lodged in his scrotum! My evidence, he couldn’t walk and talk while looking down my top at the same time, especially with the growing bulge that was displaying itself in his trousers. Still I suppose for Watson, an erection while walking could be considered multi-tasking.

Before I could wind him up some more, we were outside the music room. He mumbled something and I thanked him and smiled looking directly at his crotch, he caught my eye and I thought for a moment he was going to faint. He blushed to the point where, so much of his blood was in the superficial vessels of his skin that there can’t have been much elsewhere, save that pumping up his genitals. He suddenly realised he was tenting his trousers and I was smiling at it. He turned and fled the field of battle without offering combat. This was becoming good fun.

As I knocked on the door, I had the wicked thought that had I managed to brush past his front with my bag, he’d have creamed his pants. Oh well, a wasted opportunity, but there would be others, I had just decided.

Mr King opened the door himself, “Can I help you?” He obviously didn’t recognise me, but using the same chat up line as Watson cost him points.

“It’s Christine Monk, your replacement for James Church,” I offered.

“Charlotte?” he whispered. I nodded back. “I didn’t recognise you.”

“That was the intention.”

“Of course,” he agreed opening the door, “Do come in and meet Miss Daws our accompanist.” I entered the room which was so familiar to me, but pretended it was all new. I knew Phyllis Daws too, she had played for me several times. If she recognised my voice, we’d have to let her in on the secret, but I wasn’t going to so otherwise.

We were introduced, “Where do you go to school?” she asked me.

“St Margaret’s,” I replied, which was true, well I would be next term and I was registered as a pupil with them for next year.

“Are they not doing anything?”

“I’m new there, we only just came to this area, so I haven’t got involved with their music department yet.”

“Had much experience?” she was grilling me and I felt some hostility which had never been there before, but I played along, testing my disguise and role play.

I looked at Mr King to rescue me, but he was more concerned with examining my legs than listening to the conversation. “I sang at my previous school and in one or two competitions.”

“Which ones were they?”

I decided that as little James I would have been close to tears by now. Instead, as ‘Christine,’ I felt more than a little irritated. I also decided that as I was the soloist, I would turn things round a little. What I felt like saying was, “You just play and I’ll sing,” but I made it a little more polite than a full frontal. “Do you have much experience in accompanying singers?”

She went very red, then white, then red again. The look she gave me, nearly burned my clothes off. Then she frowned and I realised I had perhaps been a little over the top. Finally, Mr King intervened, “Ladies please, let’s not get off on the wrong foot. Miss Daws is an accomplished accompanist and I am led to believe, that you Miss Monk are a talented soloist. Shall we combine our talents and see where it takes us?”

It took a while for the atmosphere to calm, but it did as we let the music talk for us. We did one of the toughest warm ups I had ever had, Mr King getting his own back for my cheek with his colleague, plus old Daws was going to test me all the way, and I was determined to stay with it. Which I did. I was only just realising the difference there was in interacting with other women, especially when they feel threatened. Me, threaten anyone? This was all so new.

“You have a very sweet voice for a girl. Reminds me a bit of our previous soloist, a boy. They say he died.” She looked straight at me, but in a whistful way.

“Thank you. I’m sorry to hear about my predecessor.”

“You are possibly even more accomplished than he was. I’m sorry if I sounded hostile at the beginning.” She smiled at me, I had passed her test.

I blushed, and looking at the piano rather than her replied, “Thanks, you’re probably the best accompanist I’ve sung with. That was one hell of a session.”

Mr King smiled at both of us, no he beamed, his face lighting up like the sun. “Christine, that was delicious, we still have some work to do to polish things up just a little, but it’s going to be great. Phyl, that was great as always. So what d’ya think, will she do?” He put his arm around me as he spoke.

“Oh yes, she’ll do alright. Sadly the finer points of Schubert and Handel will be lost on the morons here and their imbecile families, but,” she smiled directly at me, “with the right display of your other assets, we may sell a few more tickets than usual.”

At this we all laughed. However, it reminded me that I would need something semi- formal to wear on the night. I had nothing of that sort in my wardrobe. If I was going t play the part of the ‘femme fatale’, I might need to add quite a few things to my wardrobe. Part of me was quite enjoying the prospect, part of me knew I’d have to work hard on my mother as keeper of the purse strings, and another part of me was terrified.

“You look amazing Char…. I mean Christine,” Said Mr King patting my knee a he dropped me home after our practice. “I really would never have recognised you from the other week, let alone your previous incarnation. Your voice is just as remarkable young lady. I look forward to seeing you on Friday.”

“Miss Daws doesn’t know does she?”

“I haven’t told anyone, including her. I don’t think she recognised you judging by her testiness earlier, although I thought she nearly did at one point.” I felt myself blush. “I think she likes you anyway once you got the competition bit over, it’s probably a bit of ‘girls sticking together’ in the bastion of maleness. She’ll be okay now she knows how good you are. My problem will be remembering to call you Christine, not Charlotte.”

“I know the feeling,” I replied.

“I like the monk bit, a play on church isn’t it?”

“No it’s my mum’s maiden name.”

“Oops! Another clanger,” blushing he drove off and I walked down the drive to the front door.

“Well Miss Monk, how did it go?” demanded my mother as I went in. I reported the proceedings as a success and my affect upon Watson.

“You be careful my girl, if ever he finds out he’s been having masturbatory fantasies about a boy, he will be less than pleased.”

I felt disappointed, no, hurt by her use of the word ‘boy’, and I told her so. “I am sorry Charlotte, I didn’t mean it like that.”

The tears came, probably more as an anticlimax to the afternoon’s stress than her wording. “I thought I was a girl now, your daughter, not a boy.”

“Oh baby,” she said, “I’m so sorry.” She hugged me and I let go all the repressed emotion I had felt for days. I was really beginning to see myself as a girl and all the complications that entailed, interacting with other girls and boys. Some of me was enjoying it, some was not, perhaps frightened by where it might go, or trying to hang onto the last vestiges of boyhood.

Either way, the future was going to be girl shaped, and I had to live with it and the consequences.

The next day we had to see Dr Cervantes. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to it, but I suppose it had to be done. I continued to have this dilemma, part of me was ambivalent about the whole thing, while part of me was becoming increasingly girly.

However, Dr Cervantes had no such problems with ambivalence or dichotomy, he took one look at me and his smile was so wide he was in danger of cutting his face in half. “Wow! Charlotte, you look amazing.” He was suitably impressed. Mind you I had got Mum to wash out the top and bra from last night, and I wore them again today. “The prosthetics look very realistic, don’t they?”

“They’re alright I suppose, but they won’t pass scrutiny at a girls’ school,” I retorted, partly because I meant it and partly because I wanted to wind him up.

“Does that mean you want to grow your own breasts?”

“It has to be more comfortable than these things,” I threw at him poking myself in the silicone and latex replicas.

“Are they uncomfortable then?” he asked with eyes wide.

“Why don’t you try them for a week and see how it feels?”

“Ouch! Why are you so angry with me?”

“Who said I was angry?” I snapped back. In reality the sight of him made me irritable, his stupid questions made it worse.

“I did,” he countered, “You have been quite aggressive with all your comments so far. Are you not happy?”

“Would you be in my position?”

“I don’t know,” he allowed, “but perhaps you can tell me why you are unhappy.”

“I am a nothing,” I slumped in the chair.

“A nothing? In what way are you a nothing?”

“I am neither a boy nor a girl.”

“From where I am sitting, you appear to be a very attractive young woman.”

“But it isn’t real is it? My bobs are rubber and my fanny is a sham, made of superglue and skin”

“Do you wish these things were real, like a natural female?”

“If they were, at least I wouldn’t be a nothing, would I?”

“I suppose not,” he agreed. “What can we do about it?”

“You could prescribe me hormones, to make me more real.”

“So some magic pills would make you more real, would they?”

“I think so.”

“Well you are entitled to your opinion. How old are you Charlotte?”

“You know how old I am.”

“Yes I do, I just wanted to ask you.”

“Fourteen.”

“I can’t prescribe hormones until you are at least sixteen, and surgery is not allowed until you are eighteen.”

“If I was girl having problems, you could prescribe hormones then couldn’t you?”

“A hormonal problem such as you suggest would be seen by a GP or gynaecologist, even a paediatrician rather than a psychiatrist. So it wouldn’t come to me.”

“Perhaps I should see one of them instead then, because this is a waste of time.”

“I’m a waste of time, am I?”

“If you must know, yes.” I was becoming more than irritated now.

“Why is that?”

“Because all you do is ask stupid questions, you don’t actually do anything and you say you can’t do what I ask you to do. So that makes you a waste of time, and I’m not coming here again.”

“You’re not coming here again?”

“That’s what I said, why do you just repeat everything I say. This is stupid,” I said and got up to walk out.

“James, sit down please.” His comment nearly stopped me in my tracks.

“James is dead, ask my mother. My name is Charlotte.”

“I’m so sorry. Is that why you are angry?”

“No it’s because I have to waste my time coming here?”

“Perhaps you’d better go then.”

Without even a goodbye, I stormed out of his office. He followed me and called to my mother. “Let’s go Mum, this is a waste of time.”

“Can I just see Dr Cervantes for a moment?”

“Can’t we just go, he’s useless?”

“Charlotte, that’s not very nice.”

“Neither is he, can we go now?”

“Here are the car keys, go and sit in the car. I’ll be no longer than ten minutes.” She proffered the keys which I declined to accept.

“Sorry Mum, if you believe him rather than me, I’d prefer to walk home.” With that I strode out the door.

I don’t know how long it was before she found me. I was by then quite upset, the tears streaming down my face. “Get in,” was the greeting I got. I chose to ignore it and walked on, turning up a one-way street, which she couldn’t in the car.

She drove off to apprehend me at the other end, except I had done an about turn and walked back out onto the main road. I just kept walking.

I had no idea of what the time was, I was in something of a trance. I had switched my mobile off, when she had tried calling me on that. I didn’t want to talk, I’d done enough of that with that smart arsed trick cyclist. What good did talking do?

If I could no longer be a boy, and my father had said as much, then I wanted to be as much a proper girl as I could. That meant having a girl’s body not a stupid boy’s one. I would not be a nothing, I’d rather be dead than a nothing. I knew I should have finished the job that day in the garage, except those stupid bastards stopped me, and then caused all this mess. Why couldn’t they let me just finish the job. There’d be no need for all this stupid talking, stupid words. How can that stupid man have any idea of how I feel? All he does is repeat things back to me or ask stupid questions. A parrot could do his job!

I imagined Cervantes being replaced by a scarlet macaw parrot, I began to laugh hysterically, which was when I wet myself, and replaced the laughter with more tears.

I was eventually ‘found’ despite not being lost, by a friendly policewoman. “Excuse me love, are you Charlotte Church?” Fed up and programmed to tell the truth to policemen and women, I nodded. “Come on love, hop in the car, let’s get you home.” I complied because I didn’t know what else to do.

When I got home, I was made to thank the policewoman who’d given me the lift, which I did. She gave me a hug, and I burst into tears again. I ignored my mother and went straight to my room, shutting the door and jamming a chair behind it.

As expected, she came and knocked and pleaded, but I just put my headphones on and turned up the volume. She would be able to see me from the keyhole if she thought of it. I wasn’t hiding, just not wanting to speak to her. I felt she had betrayed me, talking with the enemy.

I wished Dad were here, he’d sort it out. Except he probably wouldn’t and he’d have broken the door down. In fact he’d have come up the one-way street after me. He wouldn’t be too pleased would he, but then he’ll be even more upset when I do kill myself. I can’t do it until I get rid of the old woman. I thought about what I had in my room, but there was nothing I could use unless I electrocuted myself, and that would make a mess of the electrics all through the house. Besides, it didn’t appeal, I was going to hang myself, like I planned in the beginning. I had made my mind up.

As I was saying this to myself, I suddenly remembered I had an obligation to fulfil. If I killed myself before the concert, then God would really be pissed off and I’d be sent to hell, if there was such a place. Possibly I was there already. Damn! I thought, then smiled at my own unconscious humour, I would be damned wouldn’t I?

I wanted to bargain with God again. “Dear God,” I said, “I can’t stand being a nothing, I’d rather be dead. But I know that to kill myself is a sin, and I don’t want to upset you. If I break my promise to you that is another sin. So please help me to be a girl, to have a girl’s body, a proper girl’s body with breasts and things and I will sing better than ever at the concert. Thank you, amen.”

What I didn’t know was that standing outside my door were stood my mother and our family doctor, Dr Phillips. They both heard my conversation with the Almighty, my mother had tears in her eyes and apparently the doc had a lump in his throat.

“Charlotte, Dr Phillips is here to see you. Will you let him in? Please hurry up, you know how busy he is.”
I sheepishly opened the door, “Hello kiddo, can we talk for a minute?” asked the doctor. A tall gangly man with bright blue eyes and a smile that could melt bricks. All the girls fancied him, although his dark hair was beginning to recede slightly, and he was happily married with two children and a spaniel.

“I wasn’t prying, but I overheard you talking to God.” My shocked response made him look a little uncomfortable. “I wasn’t listening, but you were talking quite loudly.” I supposed with the earphones on, I might have been.

“Can we talk about it, just for a minute?” I nodded. “Good, now I know if you’ve been telling God something, it must be true. Am I right so far?” I nodded again. I felt ashamed that I had been overheard and tears were rolling down my face in hot streams.

“Did I hear you tell God that if he didn’t make you a girl, you might do something drastic?” I nodded again, too choked to speak. “So if I help you achieve that, then will you promise me that you won’t do anything like you were saying you might. You know what I mean. I mean kill yourself. Do we have a deal?”

I nodded. He held out his hand and we shook on the deal. “Good, we have a deal. Now I shall keep my part and I expect you to keep yours.” He produced his prescription pad and began to write on it. “This is a prescription for female hormones. Take just one a day.”

“Dr Cervantes told me I couldn’t have hormones.”

“I’m not Dr Cervantes, Charlotte, so I can’t answer for him. What I can say, is that I don’t think drug protocols are much use if the person they are meant to protect has been dead for two years because they were so unhappy.”

“You won’t get into trouble, will you?” I asked nervously clutching my priceless piece of paper.

“Nah,” he replied with his magical smile, “Give us a quick hug then.”

I jumped off the bed and threw my arms around him. “Can I come and see you instead of Dr Cervantes?”

“I suppose so, but I’ll have to speak to him about it.” He paused, then said, “Yeah, course you can.” The putting a finger under my chin, he lifted my face up to look at his. “As one of my special girls, you can come and see me any time, but don’t tell my wife, okay?”

“ ‘Kay,” I replied, smiling back at him. I think in that moment I began to see why the other girls fancied him, and I thought I might be falling in love too.

After he went, Mum and I had a long and tearful embrace. Neither of us said anything for half an hour. Then she asked me if I’d like to go and get my prescription. I nodded and cried some more. It took me ages to get my eyes to cool down, and despite my desperation for the pills, I wasn’t going out with red eyes.

I started the hormone pills that evening, with my mother’s agreement.

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Comments

I'm glad to see this chapter

I'm glad to see this chapter -- I've been waiting! I love this story... Charlotte is very real to me.

A failure as male

Oh, I know that feeling very, very well.

You really have a very entertaining writing style. I hope that "Fat Boy" gets his nailed to a stump though.

Not many of us get the kind of understanding that Charlotte is getting. I am so happly for her.

Gwen Brown

PS, I think it is a real pisser that Charlotte Church has thrown away a career in place of singing in a bar.

Dr. Cervantes—

Angharad wrote:–

“I imagined Cervantes being replaced by a scarlet macaw parrot,”

I wonder if Auntie was being just a wee bit Quixotic when she decided to call the trick cyclist Dr Cervantes?

Great story, Angharad, is it going to rival EAFOAB for length eventually? Hope so.

Hugs,
Gabi

(AKA VolvoGirl)

Gabi.


“It is hard for a woman to define her feelings in language which is chiefly made by men to express theirs.” Thomas Hardy—Far from the Madding Crowd.

sure you can

Stevie Nicks or (God forbid!) even Lady Gaga are much preferable.

Karen J.

* * *
I contend that for a nation to try to tax itself into prosperity is like a man standing in a bucket and trying to lift himself up by the handle. - Winston Churchill


"Life is not measured by the breaths you take, but by the moments that take your breath away.”
George Carlin

Beauty is truth ...

This story is so good, it hurts. The writing is packed full of empathy, making it oh so easy to identify with the protagonist (even though I'm ancient!). There's just something about this that rings true. It indicates the story is written from the heart, and is not a mere fabrication.

Isn't the Doctor tired of

Isn't the Doctor tired of tilting at windmills?
How many kids have committed suicide, because of being underage for hormones?

Karen

The parrot

Jamie Lee's picture

I kept wondering when Charlotte was going to ask Dr. Cervantes if he wanted a cracker. Charlotte needs a Dr. who does more than parrot her answers. She needs a Dr. who can draw her out and help her understand herself. And for once, believe her when she tells the story of how Charlotte was born.

Others have feelings too.

Twisted

While it is is sorta forced fem, it is also not. Like James was transish and just didn't know if yet and the ass clowns accidentally did him a favor while being asinine. I get the feeling that an over arcing theme is Good using evil intents and actions to meet his goals. Case in point, using Charlotte's desire for suicide, preventing her from being able to act on it, and placing the right people when and where they needed to be. Been there, done that, so it resonates with me.
This is probably a good story that gets you feeling and caring about James/Charlotte (based on the assumption that everything happens for a reason has been forshadowed) and not a gratuitous abuse of a fictional character.