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When fear fills your heart, you are about to do something brave, but Tommy didn’t feel brave as he entered the frigid waters of Miguasha Bay. He felt focused. The pink dress, out of reach for now, was clearly sent to him by a God willing to admit His mistake.
Within seconds, tightening calves told him the tale of a thousand swimmers swallowed by the sea. The treacherous tide kept taking away the shimmering silk, a solitary spot of color on the lugubrious fluid. He swam with arms like lead. A cramp gripped his biceps. Was the dress real? Or was the light of the setting sun playing tricks before his eyes? So close! The tip of his frozen fingers finally felt its slippery surface. How beautiful; a chunk of sheer Eden in his hands.
Tommy barely made it back. Gasping for air, he fell, almost frozen to death, on the pebbles, the place his papa picked for them to live. He dropped the dress and removed his “boy rags”. They laid there, like a dead body, waiting to be devoured by the wind. He would not need them anymore. Shaking with hypothermia, but with a bright soul for the first time in his twelve years on Earth, he climbed the steep slope to his shelter, a simple log cabin.
His father was not home. He was probably wriggling on top an overweight whore, or pounding on the bar for more beer. No bother. He secured the door with a heavy bar. Even if father came home early, the door would stop him for a while.
(long enough for the transformation to take place)
Tommy revived the hearth’s flames. Shivering, he slowly stretched out the dress, searching for stains or tears. Not a trace. A perfect present. As if heaven shed its skin and sent him a scale.
In a trance, he walked the rustling frock to the basin, as if it was The Holy Shroud itself. He used all the warm water, and all the fresh water, to rinse off the fine offering. Finally, he hung it up by the fire and waited there. Minutes like hours, sitting, completely naked, a sturdy boy, at the threshold of puberty, shaped by fishing and endless chores.
Soon, he would pull the dress over his head, let it slide down and cover his transforming body. Then, God would repair His error. He would strike down from above. He expected a boom, a blue blast, and piercing pain. He expected complete change.
After, he would grow bulging breasts, not hair on his chest. The mornings would bring bloodiness, not humid hardness. He would be Tommy no more. He’d never really been Tommy, he’d just looked like him. He would be Tammy, and he would finally be whole.
He had too, or he would die.
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