Becoming Charlotte, Chapter 2: Death and Rebirth

I turn my head to look at the digital alarm clock on the bedside table , wincing as my bruised and swollen left eye touches the bed. 5.25am, it’s been nearly four hours, four hours since this asshole came inside me and collapsed, trapping me on the bed.

For those of you that haven’t read chapter 1, I’m Charlotte, Charley for short and I’ve just been raped. Yeah, not a nice way to start a story but hey ho. It’s not been easy, these last few months, in fact, it’s been hell. To recap, I was once a man, a contented man despite living a shitty life until a scientist made me an accidental lab rat for a pharmaceutical company that was developing a compound that would allow trans people to biologically change into their desired gender. I wasn’t trans by the way, just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Coming to terms with the change wasn’t easy, especially considering I never wanted to be a woman in the first place. No, all I wanted was to change back but that’s now impossible without killing me. In a stupid act of anger and hatred towards my new self, I snuck out in search of a guy who would punish this body, stupidly thinking that it would just hurt this body, not me. Boy, was I wrong.

Everything was going to plan until the voice of my old self made me change my mind, it was just supposed to be a rough fuck, a little on the abusive side, just to teach this body a lesson. Instead it turned into a brutal loss of my new form’s virginity by force.

So yeah, I’ve been here nearly four hours now, the slumbering form of my rapist pining me to his bed. What’s worse is he’s still rock hard inside me, after four hours! How the hell is that even possible? For much of the first hour afterwards, I tried to move him off me but, with virtually no leverage nor the strength needed, I couldn’t budge him an inch. I spent most of the second hour quietly crying, the emotions I had been holding back finally overwhelming me. I literally cried until I had no tears left to shed, still sobbing long after. During the third hour, I assessed my current injuries. Closing my right eye and doing my best to open the left one, I was relieved to see a blurry red glow from the numbers on the clock, a good sign that he hadn’t blinded me and my eyesight would recover. Next, my left wrist, despite sharp stabs of pain I could still move all my fingers, so, hopefully, it was at worst a minor break. Running my tongue over my bottom lip and wincing as it touches the split in it, I feel and taste dried blood I can also feel a nice big lump forming on my jaw. As quickly as I think about the pain in my stomach, I have to stop as it makes me feel nauseous but it doesn’t seem too serious. Next my breasts, I can feel the bruises already forming where he dug his fingers in, but it seems the bite on my right breast has stopped bleeding. So far, so good. I should heal OK, given time. Now for the big one, my vagina. It’s hard to tell as it’s throbbing crazily, it doesn’t help that his cock is still fully erect inside it and any slight movement from either of us sends another agonising stab through me. I don’t know if it’s real or psychological but I’m sure I can still feel his semen in my womb.

The fourth hour has been the worst, purely because that was when my mind began to wonder what was coming next. Would he wake up and climb off me, giving me a chance to escape? Would he rape me again? Would he forcefully take my anal virginity too? Beat me? Tie me up and strip me, using me as his living sex doll until he became bored and killed me? Nearly an hour of thoughts like that swirling around my head was driving me towards insanity. I couldn’t help but wonder if my stupid, idiotic mistake would prove fatal…

I feel a strange sensation in my pussy and realise that he’s finally, slowly starting to go soft. The mixture of his semen and my virginal blood gluing us together and forcing me to shrink with him. He stirs and wakes, lifting himself up to look down and laugh at me. “Still here?” he sneers before yanking his cock from my body, making me cry out as the “glue” suddenly gives way and pain shoots from my hole. I’m not sure if it’s fresh blood or his spunk, but I can feel something warm leaking from my sore and battered pussy. He stands at the foot of the bed, still sneering as I feebly pull my top back down, the large tear in it nearly exposing my right nipple, and cover my pussy lips with my hand in a vain attempt to soothe it.

“Not bad for a first timer,” he says coldly, grabbing his wallet from somewhere within reach. “you make a good twenty quid whore.” With that he pulls two ten pound notes from his wallet and throws them at me, accidentally tossing a packet of a certain blue pill with them (Now I know why he stayed hard for so long), I’m about to throw the money back at him when I realise that I’ve got nothing with me, no money or phone and I have no idea how far from the institute I am, so I reluctantly put it in my top by my left breast. “Now get the fuck out of here, you cheap bitch.” He stomps into the bathroom and starts to pee as I tentatively climb off the bed and stagger painfully towards the door. “Thanks for the fuck! Might recommend you to my friends!” He shouts from the bathroom as I stagger past. I open the door and make my way painfully to the lift, only to find it out of order. Heading to the stairway, I slowly make my way down to the ground floor, each step sending a sharp shock of pain through my body and eventually I emerge onto the street, a cold wind blowing straight up my skirt and making my pussy throb angrily. Through tear filled eyes I look around, getting my bearings, only to realise that I’m only a few hundred yards from a very familiar quayside. I stagger towards it, my knees give way making me fall and scrape them painfully on the pavement. I sit and cry, I can’t take any more even though safety is not far away. Finally gathering my strength, I stand and stumble towards the chain link fence that surrounds the institute’s grounds, using it to help me reach the guards house at the entrance and hoping it’s one of the friendlier guards on duty. About 100 yards away from the entrance, my exhausted body finally succumbs and I start to fall, thankfully I’m caught by a pair of strong arms and I hear a voice say “Charley! What the hell’s happened?” It’s Dave’s voice, one of the guards I’ve grown quite friendly and close to (and unfortunately for me, he’s very happily married), I feel myself being lifted up and carried somewhere, my battered body and traumatised mind making me say “I’m an idiot…” over and over like a mantra. I’m lowered onto something very comfortable (there’s a sofa in the guardhouse for visitors to sit on whilst they wait) and I pass out, the last thing I hear is Dave practically shouting that he needs a medical team to the guardhouse now…

I sit up in bed, screaming as the nightmare fades, my mind reliving the terrible events from earlier that day. Poor Sally, who had been dozing in a chair next to the bed in the medical room, nearly jumps out of her skin. She grabs a nearby phone and dials, telling the person on the other end that I’m awake. As she puts down the phone, I realise I can’t see through my left eye and raise my hand to my face, finding something cold and plastic covering the left side of my face from just above my eye down to my chin.

“it’s a compress,” Sally says, soothingly. “to help bring the swelling down.”

“I can’t feel anything.” I state, realising I’ve just touched my face with my injured hand but felt no pain, my voice quivering with worry.

“That’ll be the morphine,” Sally replies, indicating the IV drip by the right side of the bed, the tube leading to a needle entering a vein in my right hand. “you were pretty beaten up.”

“How bad do I look?” I ask, half jokingly half with concern.

Sally holds up a small mirror, I see the blue compress on my face and that my lip has been cleaned up. “The doctor says you should heal without any scarring, so that’s good.”

“What about the rest of me?”

“The bruises on your breasts and stomach will heal naturally, thankfully the bite on your right breast was fairly shallow so it should heal without trace. Your wrist is badly sprained and you’ve been cleaned out down below, after they took a sample for DNA testing of course, which reminds me…” she hands me a small round white pill. “you’d better take this.”

“What is it?” I ask, looking at it curiously.

“The morning after pill, whoever did this to you came inside you unprotected. You don’t want to get pregnant I should imagine?”

“Too right,” I say, swallowing the pill with a little water. “I’m definitely not ready for that just yet. Why did they take a sample?”

“To find out who did this to you and bring them to justice. For all we know, you might not be the only one he’s attacked.”

“How will they find out? Don’t they need special permission or something?”

“The company’s links with the Government allow it unlimited access to every database in the UK, some others around the world too. They’ll find him.” She rests her hand reassuringly on my shoulder. “I take it you didn’t ask his name?”

“No,” I shake my head, feeling stupid. “I wasn’t thinking straight. For all I know, his name could be…”

“Jack Thompson.” A familiar voice from the doorway states, making both Sally and I jump. “36, lorry driver, questioned several times by the Police in various parts of the country over alleged sexual offences. No convictions due to lack of evidence. Currently lives just down the road.” Mr Knight steps forward, holding a photo out to me. Mr Bridge and the therapist follow him into the room. “is this him?”

“Yes.” I nod, the image sending a cold shiver down my spine.

“Get the boys on it.” Says Mr Knight to Mr Bridge, who nods at the guard outside the room, the guard walks away.

Mr Knight reaches out to touch my hand and something snaps in my mind, making me cry out and scramble back towards the headboard of the bed, nearly ripping the IV line from my hand. I hug my knees to my chest, shivering violently.

“Charley, it’s OK,” Mr Knight begins. “we’re not mad at you for sneaking out, you made a mistake, that’s all…” again he reaches for me and I whimper loudly.

“Steven,” says Mr Bridge. “I think we should back off, she’s clearly traumatised.” A part of my now fragmented mind blinks at this statement, unused to such a fatherly attitude from Mr Bridge.

“You’re right.” Mr Knight agrees, stepping back and leaning against the wall.

The therapist sits in the chair by the bed, gently resting her hand on mine. “Charley, we need you to tell us what happened, do you feel up to that?”

I nod, taking a moment to compose myself. “I… I… he…” I stammer, the full memory of last night floods into my mind like a high speed reel and I burst into tears, hiding my face behind my knees. “I can’t! I can’t!”

The therapist gently strokes my hair soothingly, “it’s OK, Charley, it’s still a bit raw. We’ll try again later, ok?”

I nod, still hiding my face and sniffling. “Gentlemen, I think we should leave her to recover for a while.”

I hear them quietly leave the room, only relaxing when I hear their footfalls recede. I lay on my right side and stare blankly at the wall, Sally gently puts her hand on my arm from behind. “Charley, are you ok?” she asks.

“No,” I respond with a sob. “I’m an idiot.”

The more I think about what happened, the more I blame, and withdraw into, myself. Over the course of the next week, despite numerous attempts, no one can bring me out of it, not the therapist, my parents, my brother, anyone. The only person yet to try was Mae but she had been away on an important two week trip with her college class and had no idea what had happened. It was decided to keep it that way until she returned so she could focus on the trip, rather than be distracted with worrying about me. I can’t sleep, every time I close my eyes the nightmare is there, waiting. I lay in bed in a completely catatonic state, unresponsive and unblinking, oblivious to everything.

By the time Mae returns and hears the news, I’ve been moved back into my room. She can’t get to me fast enough, practically taking the room’s door off it’s hinges as she bursts in, leaping on the bed, throwing her arms around me in a huge hug and holding me tight, telling me over and over “I’m here.”

For the first time in days I stir, turning to look at her as she leans back a little, her arms still wrapped around me. “Mom, seriously, what happened?” she says.

“M-Mom?” a frown appearing on my face (which I should say is free of the compress and only showing slight bruising now).

“Well, you’re my parent and you’re female. I can’t exactly call you ‘dad’ anymore, can I?”

My daughter’s sense of humour has always been my Achilles heel, no matter how bad my mood she could always cheer me up. I look at her, the first tears in a week welling up in my eyes. “Oh Pickle (my nickname for her), I’m an idiot.”

“No you’re not,” she grins at me, “now, come on, tell me everything.”

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. As soon as the first words leave my mouth, I start to cry, recounting the entire incident, the words flowing as fast as my tears. I tell her everything, every tiny detail, every sensation, every fear and pain.