Butterfly (Part III) Badgers Parting Gifts

Butterfly (Part III) Badgers Parting Gifts

Writer/Model - Lexus Bradbury

My Mum shouted me downstairs to meet her friend Karen. I was quite a timid child, particularly after what my Father put us through. I probably didn't realise it at the time, but he'd changed me. There she was, all smiles. I already described her at the end of Part II, she was effectively a dyke.

I genuinely thought it was just my Mums friend, I was only little. I have a vague memory of the first day we met. Sholver had a local quarry. It was often a day out for the locals. We'd go up there in summer and take in the view. It overlooked the whole of Manchester, it's quite a sight to be honest. Mum, Karen and myself, went up there for the afternoon. I think I have pictures of the day somewhere. She seemed like a nice lady to be fair, I had no indication she was into my Mum like that. Turns out my Mum and Karen had quite the history.

Karen knew my Mum from way back when she was with my Father. My Dad introduced them apparently, he was hoping for a threesome the fool. My Dad never ceases to amaze me with his idiocy. He introduced a dyke, to my Mum, hoping for a threesome. What do you think might have happened ? Needless to say, my Dad didn't get his three way, Karen only had eyes for my Mum. Apparently, my Father eventually worked it out and told my Mum at knifepoint, to tell Karen, she never wanted to see her again. That's my Mums side of things. My Dads side of things, is he caught them both in bed together, and kicked Karen out. I believe my Mum. My Dad is way too weak a person to deal with someone like Karen. It's not important. What is important, is I shouldn't have been hearing any of this crap growing up. So, my Father doesn't like Karen, and Karen doesn't like my Father. 

We had such a good first day out, I think I cried when Karen had to go home, she was awesome. Then I have a gap in my memory, because the next thing I can remember, is her living with us. Now there's possibly not a gap, because she could have made the move very quickly, or I genuinely can't remember the gap before she moved in.

It would have been around this time, that my Aunty Jen took her kids and headed to pastures new down south in Portsmouth. I really missed them when they'd gone. I don't blame her for leaving though. Anyone with dreams and ambitions, should leave Oldham immediately. I liked my Aunty Jen, she was like a nice version of my Mum. Softer in nature and more forgiving. I used to go down south visiting them, I had some amazing holidays down there.

So now, there's Uncle Sam, Mum, Karen, and me, all in 33 Wells Road. I used to share a bedroom with my Mum. Karen would give me her Walkman to listen to music at bedtime. Den Den Den Den Den, Inspector Gadget, woo woooooo, remember the chart remix by The Kartoon Krew ? I'm listening to Karen's tape, and all of a sudden, I hear my Mum howling in pain. I took the headphones off to tell Karen to stop hurting my Mummy. Karen explained she wasn't hurting my Mummy. I wasn't convinced until my Mum assured me Karen wasn't hurting her. Hindsight prevails now, and it turns out, she was fucking my Mother, with me in the same room. The headphones were an elaborate idea to keep me out the loop, so they could fuck. And there was me thinking Karen was just loaning me her headphones to be nice. You do not fuck in front of kids. You do not fuck in front of other peoples kids. We've already established my Mum was nuts, here's your first indication something was up with Karen.

I can't remember much of the early stages of Mum and hers relationship. I find that fascinating, because my memory is usually so good. I suppose the next clear memory I have, is seeing my Grandads car pull up unannounced to the house. I was delighted to see him, what a lovely surprise. Usually, he and my Nan would get out the car, and come and knock on, but only Grandad got out. My Mum, sensing something was up, rushed to the door to greet him. I knew something wasn't right when Grandad went and sat back in the car. My Mum came into the living room in tears, asking Karen would she look after me a few hours, then she left in the car with Uncle Sam. Nan was in the passenger seat covered in a coat, heavy look on her face.

Being left with Karen was anxiety inducing. You ever been a kid and left with an adult, that you sense doesn't know what the fuck they're doing ? She wasn't rotten to me or anything, I just didn't feel particularly safe in her care, so I fucked off upstairs to my room.

I don't recall seeing my Mum for a good few days after she left. When she returned, her eyes were bulging and bloodshot red. I don't know where Uncle Sam was, but he didn't come back with my Mum. The last time I saw pain like that etched on my Mothers face, was the day my Father left. This was something different though, something more painful. She got through the door, fell into Karen's arms, and began hysterically crying. Karen turned her head towards me and flicked her head upwards, to tell me to go upstairs for a bit, I quietly left.

I knew something major had happened, but had no idea what, so I sat on the end of my bed, waiting for answers. Karen was the person who came to my room to break the news of my Nans death. My Mum wanted nothing at all to do with me. I could see the sorrow in Karen's eyes as she explained. Not really for herself, but she was sad for my Mum. Karen can't hide pain she's feeling, her eyes go a weird shape, like little commas side by side pointing downwards. I was shocked, I don't recall crying at the time. It was my first taste of grief, and generally, kids are quite resilient. 

Nan and Grandad had gone visiting Uncle Colin in prison for the afternoon. I don't know the details, but they'd got into an argument with Colin, and Nan began complaining she felt hot and unwell.

I was kept off school a good week, I wish I hadn't been to be honest. I can remember coming downstairs one morning, to find my Mother stood front and centre of our large living room window. She was gazing out through the thick, smoke stained net curtains, up to the sky. She was just stood there statuesque, gazing beyond the clouds, up towards the heavens, looking for her Mum. "Are you ok Mummy" I asked. She turned her head towards me briefly, her eyes red, and her face etched in misery. Then, without reply, she turned back to the clouds, and resumed looking. Karen looked after me for a good few week, my Mum was like a zombie. I've already said Karen didn't really have a clue what she was doing, but she did the best she could.

I didn't want to be in the house anymore, it was like my Mum was a stranger. The house was so heavy and filled with misery. Some time before, my Mum had given me her old record player with some records. I'd never bothered with them once in all the time she'd given them to me. Boredom got the best of me with all my mates being at school, so I set the record player up, and fished around for what record might be a good one to play. I'd never heard of any of the songs or the artists on the records, so randomly, I pulled out a small single and banged it on. There was crackling, and then one of the most beautiful songs I'd ever heard. I know your eyes in the morning sun, I feel you touch me in the pouring rain. And the moment that you wander far from me, I wanna feel you in my arms again. What a beautiful song I'd found. The instrumental mixed with the lush layered harmonies, it was like nothing I'd ever heard before. How had I not played these records before ? I played it on repeat all day, never growing tired of what I was hearing. The first ever record I played, was How Deep Is Your Love by The Bee Gees. I consider myself very fortunate to have such a moment in my life. Ever since that day, I consider The Bee Gees to be my favourite band, and I'm a big vinyl collector.

A few week passed by, and my Mum finally started talking to me again. I went back to school, and things resumed some sense of normality. Not complete normality, because I noticed both Karen and my Mum were drinking most nights. I figured it's just something adults do, it's normal, and no harm was being done.

The next milestone, was my Uncle Sam being asked to leave Wells Road. Since my Mum had got into a brand new lesbian relationship, he was in the way. I was really upset about it, I still am. It was his house as much as my Mums. Why should he go to facilitate Mums new girlfriend. I'd heard Karen rabbiting on about him when I was in bed, telling my Mum how she should ask him to leave. He did leave in the end, I think he went to stay with Grandad for a bit while he waited for a flat.

I remember him coming back to visit me, he was drunker than usual. Sam loved his Mum, everyone did to be fair, she was the Queen on the Bradbury chess board. You could see by the level of drunk he was, that he was really struggling with the loss. He reached into his pocket, hands trembling, and pulled out two pound for me, it felt like a lot of money back then. I went to the local shop with it and bought some balloons. When I returned, I noticed him walking towards me with his hand stuck out. He looked like he was going to do a chop type move on my forehead, so I ducked underneath him. Turns out he wasn't, he just wanted to pat his favourite nephew on the head. That was the last time I ever saw him.

He did get his flat in the end. Grandad had gone round to see him one Sunday afternoon, only to find there was no answer. It was only a few months after my Nan passed. I don't know what made Grandad act the way he did, fatherly instinct I guess. But he suspected something bad had happened, so he kicked Sam's front door down. What Grandad discovered behind that front door, can only be described, as every loving fathers worst nightmare. He found him on all fours in front of his living room chair, face down, dead. When the police and ambulance arrived, my Grandad had Sam's lifeless body lay beside him, head resting on his legs, while he stroked his hair. The police officer was disgusted in what he saw, and said to my Grandad "You know he's dead right". My Grandad told him straight, "I've not long since buried my wife, now I have to bury my Son. If you do not get out of this flat right now, someone's going to be burying you". I know this because the adults discussed it in front of me afterwards. It was at that point, I ceased being a child, and became a young adult. My childhood was a feather at the mercy of the elements, vanishing off out of the living room window, into the distance, never to be seen again.

I was overwhelmed with guilt, remembering the time I thought he was going to chop my head with his hand. Only to realise after I'd ducked, he just wanted to touch the top of my head. And he gave me two pound as well. And I did him dirty like that. Now he was never going to touch his nephews head ever again. I'd deprived him of that connection with something he loved and adored. Maybe if I'd have let him touch my hair, he might not have died.

I blamed myself for a long time after he died, I kept it all inside. My Nans death didn't impact me half as much as Uncle Sam's did. I don't know why that was, it just was. Any progress my Mum made after her Mums death, was instantly erased, and she was right back to square one. I figured I had no right to be upset, not when I saw the state of my Mum. Even to this day, I don't often think of my Nan. Yet every day, I think of Uncle Sam. I don't blame myself anymore, I blame my Mum for asking him to leave Wells Road. 

Being a nosey kid, and listening to their conversations, there was no clear cause of death for Uncle Sam. The autopsy revealed nothing, yet on the death certificate, they'd written choking to death. My Mum quizzed this and was told "We can't write died of a broken heart". Sam was nothing without his Mum, he loved her dearly. Already an alcoholic, and on top of leaving Wells Road, once the home of his Parents, it must have all been too much.

Everyone was consoling my Mum, they didn't realise I might be grieving too. I had some cartoon pictures in photo frames on my bedroom wall. I pulled them down and replaced the images inside with pictures I had of my Nan and my Uncle Sam. It was months before my Mum saw them on the wall and realised what I'd done. It was like time stood still for me. I was watching the other kids in my class be kids, while I was sat thinking about the two loses the family had experienced. My thoughts were the colour black, the topic was death. I realised one day I would die too. It was soul destroying.

I came home from school one day to be greeted by my Grandad. A once joyful man, now sad and sombre. Mum asked me to sit down, so I did. Mum went on to explain that she'd noticed I'd put my Nan and Uncle Sam's pictures in my frames on the wall. Grandad patted his knee for me to go join him. Ordinarily, I loved chilling with my Grandad, but I just couldn't, I knew I was on the verge of breaking down. My Mum said she'd had a word with my teacher, and my teacher had given her a book, it was called Badgers Parting Gifts. It was a book to help kids cope with grief. I really didn't want to hear it, I was barely holding myself together as it was. She began to take me through the pages of the book. I know she meant well, but I wish she hadn't. When she finished the book, miraculously, I'd not shed a tear. I knew I had to though, the back of my throat was all swollen, so I got up to go to the bathroom to cry in solitude. As I walked by my Mum, she grabbed my arm, and looked me square in the eyes. I can still see her face to this day. There must have been about a ten second pause as she looked into my soul, we saw each others pain and grief. I broke down in tears, I couldn't hold it in any longer, my Mum forced it out of me. The pain had become too much, and my Mums approach was too confrontational for me to hide it any longer. I can still see her face, a haunting moment between Mother and child, brought together by grief. Below is the book she brought home.

My family had been decimated, and all it took, was six months. Jen had moved to Portsmouth. Sue had fallen out with my Mum over Nans funeral. Colin was rotting in prison. Nan died. And now, Uncle Sam was gone too. Everything turned to dust very quickly. It left Mum and me vulnerable.

I'm writing this now, with company present in the same room. Here I am, doing exactly the same thing I was doing when my Mum confronted me with that book. I'm holding it in, on the verge of tears. I think I better pop off to the bathroom and have ten minutes eh. I'll be back next week with Part IV. Rest In Peace Cora Marian Bradbury, and Rest In Peace Christopher Bradbury. Two special people who only ever showed me love, now etched in stone. I miss you x 

See you next week, but for now, Goo Goo Ga Ga x

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Butterfly (Part II) Trigger Warning

 Butterfly (Part II) Trigger Warning

Writer and Model - Lexus Bradbury

I hate eighties music, I literally can't stand the crap. Soon as I hear that electro sound, I'm out. It's like finger nails down a chalk board to me. The music videos aren't much better. Some of it's so vile and sleezy, I daren't listen to it without wearing a condom. Men prancing round on stage, sporting heavy makeup, singing some dirty song about a homosexual encounter they've had. I'm often told it was the fashion back then, yeah ok. I see it clear as day. Fashion was the excuse to dress up as women, wear makeup, and be gay, got ya !! The wives must have been in mad denial about it all. 

I was born in 1984. It wasn't the world George Orwell predicted. Celebrities banded together to feed the world. Michael Jackson set himself on fire shooting a Pepsi commercial. And scientists discovered the AIDS virus. 

I came from a dirty old town called Oldham. My family all lived close to one another on a council estate called Sholver. If you're not familiar with Oldham, it's a small town about half an hour from Manchester. People always assume I'm from Manchester, but I'm actually from Greater Manchester. They're not the same. Manchester's a big city, whereas Oldham's a little town surrounded by countryside. It's famous for the Hindley and Brady Moors Murders, roughly twenty minutes from where I grew up. The hangover from the murders was still fresh. Parents were scared to death. I often had it drilled into me to be home before the streetlights came on. And to enforce that, my Mum would frighten me to death with stories of what happened to them poor children up on Saddleworth Moors. Oldham was like a world of its own. Check out the video below. It's an honest review that sums the place up perfectly. Whenever I feel homesick, I drop into this video, and remind myself I'm better off out of it.

Also, if you're interested in a side quest, here's a review of Sholver, the estate I grew up on. I couldn't describe it any better than the person who's written this review. https://www.ilivehere.co.uk/sholver-a-giant-category-c-prison-built-on-a-hill-side.html 

I had a relatively big family, most people did in the eighties. Seems like people had a lot more children back then. At the head of the table, sat my Nan and Grandad. They had five children in total. Two boys. My Uncle Colin, and my Uncle Sam. And three women. Aunty Jen, Aunt Susan, and my Mother Alison. Then there's the folk that married into the family. My Uncle Pete, who married my Aunty Jen, and my Uncle Frank, who was with my Aunt Susan. And then there was my father Roy, who was with my Mum. Together, our bloodline made up the Bradbury's. I was actually given my fathers surname Harrison at birth, but I consider myself a Bradbury. I've taken the liberty of making a family tree so it's easier to understand.

My Uncle Colin doesn't feature much in my story, because he got sent down for murder the same year I was born. Other than the odd prison visit, and him being allowed out on day release, I didn't see much of him. I was having a nosey on the internet to see if I could find anything in the newspapers about it, this is all I could find.

I'm not going to get into this, because the victim had two children, and I don't think it's fair on them to be digging it all up. It took its toll on my Nan big time. She was a religious lady, but how I remember her, a kind loving lady. She certainly didn't raise her son to do shit like that. It wasn't her fault, but our family name got dragged through the mud over it all. Christine didn't leave Sholver like she said she was going to in the paper. She raised her two children about five minutes walk from where I lived. We saw each other often. The daughter would stare daggers into me, it was mega awkward. I get it, my Uncle killed her Dad, no worries. That being said, Colin was still my Uncle, and he'd have given his life to protect me if he had to.

I lived round the corner from my Nan and Grandad, with my Mum and Dad. Originally, I was living on a street called Swift Road. My Father was only in my life for a brief period. When he was gone, I grew up hearing horror stories of all the bad shit he did while he was with my Mum. My Father already had two daughters with another woman. My Mum, before she was my Mum, was brought in to babysit my Dads girls. One thing led to another between them both, and they had an affair. My Mum caught pregnant with me, and somehow ended up in a full time relationship with my Dad. My Mum told me he didn't want me from the off. She said that when he found out she was pregnant, he kicked her in the stomach, telling her "He didn't want any more fucking kids". Apparently, my Mum began to lose blood and ended up in hospital. The doctors told her she was losing me. But then something remarkable happened. The bleeding stopped. Then the doctors told her, if she continued with the pregnancy, I'd be severely disabled, and being a recovering stroke victim, my Mum risked her life to carry me. My Mum decided to keep the baby, obviously ...  Apparently, my Dad tried every trick in the book to get rid of me. Plying my Mum with Gin while pregnant, and then forcing her to take a warm bath. Some stupid old wives tale that he must have heard back in the day. I often wonder if that kick screwed up my gender development. Or maybe it screwed up my brain development, who knows. Course, he will deny it, but I reckon if we were to go back and check was my Mum admitted to hospital with a miscarriage, we will find medical evidence. 

How I remember him, he was a frightening strict man. Very tall, longish black hair, arms covered in shit tattoos. He used to make me stand in the corner of the room, facing the wall for hours with my hands on the back of my head. I was only about four, but I remember the cunt well. My arms would go dead from being held up in position for such a long time. I daren't even turn round to see what was going on behind me. I'd hear my Mum sobbing and pleading with him to let me out the corner. You can't even call it discipline, I was a tiny kid. Explain to me, how a toddler will benefit from standing facing the corner of a room all day, with their hands on the back of their head. I thought I remembered it all, but then I had a flashback that came back to me roughly five years ago. It was the last day I saw him as a child. I went many years without remembering the incident I'm about to discuss, but when it came back, it came back in ultra high definition. I remember everything perfectly now.

He'd been at work, I think he was driving taxis at the time. It was a usual day, nothing out of the ordinary. I was sat on the floor in front of the television, waiting for Thomas the Tank Engine to come on. Don't fuck with me when I'm waiting for Thomas the Tank by the way, serious business that. There was some drab mid afternoon documentary on, about some old fire brigade. I remember the camera panning over a black and white picture of all the men in the brigade. I remember we had a Cockatiel that was bald from pulling all its feathers out. There was constant screaming and shouting in the house, so they must have stressed the poor thing to death. I remember we had a little sausage dog that my Mum got rid of. It used to come in my bedroom every morning, and take a shit on the bottom of my bed. I'd be pleading with it not to, because my Mum didn't believe me that the dog was the one doing it. My Mum, genuinely thought I was taking a shit on the bottom of my bed every morning. She'd come in my room and give me a good hiding over it, every single morning. Until one day, after months and months of it, she caught the dog doing it. She got rid of the dog not long after that, the dog paid the price for her guilt and shame.

Thomas the Tank had started when my Father got home. He looked desperate, like a man on the edge. He was screaming and shouting at my Mum, while she pleaded with him to stop for my sake. That's when he pulled out a gun, and pointed it at me. I'll repeat that. My own Father, pulled out a gun, and pointed it at me. A tiny little child, and he pointed a fucking gun at me. He told her he was going to do me while she watched, and then he was going to do her. The gun had a long black barrel, with a dark brown handle. It looked like something out an old Clint Eastwood movie. I don't recall being afraid at the time, it was only years later when it came flooding back, that the incident became scary. My Mother was a grovelling snivelling mess on the floor, frantically putting herself between me and the gun, begging and pleading with him not to shoot me. No child, should ever have to see their Mother like that, it's soul destroying. He was moving the gun around my Mum, repointing it firmly in my direction, I just looked on blankly. My Mum was desperately trying to protect me, moving constantly with the direction of the barrel. He must have got bored with his sadistic game after a few minutes, because he eventually lowered the weapon, and headed upstairs to bed. And just like that, it was over. All because he'd had a bad day at work, and felt tired. When Mum was sure Dad had fallen asleep, she began packing an overnight bag, and we fled to my Nan and Grandads. My Grandad and my Uncle Sam chased him out of Oldham that evening. Apparently, they were smashing up his car with him locked inside like the coward he is. If Grandad and Uncle Sam would have got their hands on him that night, I have no doubt they'd have switched him off. He's very lucky to get away that day, my Uncle particularly, was very protective of me. That was the end of my Fathers involvement in my childhood, well directly anyway.

When I went back home to my Mums the next day, she was a broken woman. I didn't want to go back, I hated it there. I remember having the sense to be good, and as kind as possible. She sat at the back of the house all day, listening to the radio crying. I remember hearing Drive by The Cars on the radio, I've loved that record ever since. She told me if I was good, she'd make us some home made crisps, and The Wizard of Oz was on later that evening. She said she'd let me stay up with her to watch it. I sat on my Mums knee that night, eating soggy, horrible, home made crisps that my Mum had butchered, while watching the movie. I didn't really know what to do for her. Her eyes were visibly red from crying constantly. "It'll be alright Mummy" I told her repeatedly, as we snuggled up for the film.

There's not much trans stuff to mention in this part of the story, other than one thing that may have seemed like nothing at the time. Sometimes, my Mum would take my nappy off for me to have a breathe, and get some fresh air to my bits. You've no doubt been in a house somewhere, with a naked kid running round like a maniac, displaying no shame, having a mad half hour. Well I had shame. I didn't want to see my cock at all. Whenever my Mum would strip me naked, I'd go and hide under the dining room table at the back of the house, waiting for her to cover me up again. I can remember her bringing her mate round who lived next door, showing her how I went and hid. Cheers Mam, make my nakedness even harder why don't you !! This is about as much trans stuff that will feature in this part of the story. I was too young, and there was too much going on.

People often get caught up in the sensational side of a transition, the world's obsessed with it. There's a lot more to my story than that, This is more a story, of someone who's been through a lot, who happens to be trans. Even if I wasn't trans, it's still a hell of a story.

My Dad frightened my Mum long after he left. She directed my primary school to not let me near the outer layer of the fencing in the playground, for fear he'd snatch me. He'd made some idle threats to her, that he was going to have me snatched by some of his taxi mates, and I'd be took off to Pakistan. See he didn't want me, but he didn't want my Mum to have me either. I'd be stood in the school playground, watching the other kids run around free, shitting bricks, wondering if a stranger was going to bundle me into their car, and I'd never see my Mum again. That isn't a normal childhood is it ? 

I remember a police lady coming round taking a statement from my Mum about it. We were both scared shitless of him. Just the mention of my Father would send me into a hysterical meltdown. His impact would last a lifetime on my Mum. Maybe I'm only just realising, that she wasn't the only person he left his mark on. Like a yellow stain, that no matter how hard you scrub at, will simply not go away.

Shortly after the gun incident, we moved into my Nan and Grandads house. They'd taken a new job together, running a halfway house for ex cons fresh out of nick. So the plan was, Mum and me would be moving into their old place, and sharing it with my Uncle Sam. I was already familiar with 33 Wells Road before we moved in. My Nan and Grandad lived there for years before heading to the halfway house. I can remember sleeping over, creeping into my Nan and Grandads bedroom early in the morning. Stood at the door, peeping through at their false teeth in glasses of water on their bedside tables. My face a mixture of horror and disgust. Their gummy mouths wide open, snoring, lips flapping with the snores. My first taste of morbid curiosity !! 

I was made up to move in there, but sad to see my Nan and Grandad leave Sholver. My Grandad told me years later, that he and my Nan took me from my Mum for six months when I was a baby. Apparently, I cried a lot, and was at serious risk of my Mum hurting me. It probably explains why I was closer with my Grandparents, than I ever was my Mum. The halfway house they moved into, was about an hour up the road, in a place called Wakefield. I spent a good few summers at that house.

It was a big old Victorian style house, four floors with a basement. In the basement ? A POOL TABLE !! I'd usually be found downstairs in the basement, brushing up on my pool. I can still smell the chalk, alcohol, and stale cigarette smoke. All the lads living there were dead nice to me. God knows what they'd done to land themselves in the nick, but they were all sound with me. I can remember sticking my head in the TV room where they all used to gather, and them inviting me in to show me my first porno. A heavily distorted video, of a gorgeous curvy woman, on the screen of an old Ferguson TV. She was covered in blue feathers and pearls, occasionally flashing a humongous pair of tits. I covered my eyes in embarrassment, they all laughed and took the piss out of me the cunts. I felt like Danny from The Shining, going on adventures round the Overlook Hotel, only without the dead twins. I had some great summers down there.

So now, my Nan and Grandad had left Sholver, and my Mum, My Uncle Sam, and me, all lived together in Nan and Grandads old spot, 33 Wells Road. A few doors down on the same street, was my Aunty Jen. She also lived on Wells Road, with her at the time husband, my Uncle Pete, and my two cousins, Nina and Sam. My Aunty Sue lived in Oldham, but not on the same estate. Sue had two children, Paul and Tina. I used to fight like cat and dog with Paul, but he was by far my favourite Cousin.

I didn't see much of Sue Paul and Tina when I was little. I hated going there. The house was a complete shithole, no place for my cousins to be growing up. Tina and Paul had it much worse than I did. I won't get into it, because it's not my story to tell, but they had it hard. I had it hard in a clean home. They had it harder in a shithole. You'd not see them for months on end, then Tina would show up at the door telling my Mum she needed to go see Sue, and sort Paul out for being bad. Tina and Paul both acted up as kids, but who could really blame them, them kids got dragged up.

The incident that really sticks in mind, was Tina showing up saying Paul had bit Sues bad arm. Sue was disabled. Her mind was sound, but her body was fucked. She had no feeling at all in her left arm. I don't know if she had a stroke when she was young like my Mum, or if she was born disabled. Anyway, Paul bit his Mums bad arm. The one she had no sensation in. The one she didn't realised had been bit, until she noticed a bite mark on it. I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh, but I did find it funny, I still do. My Mum didn't make things better really, her answer to everything was always violence. It was always the same process. Mum would stop off at the shop, and buy me a comic book and some sweets to keep me occupied. I'd sit outside Sues house, reading my Beano and scoffing blackjacks, to the sounds of my Mum kicking the crap out of Paul. 

It wasn't just Paul that got beats, Tina got them off my Mum too, we all did at some point. We'd gone round one afternoon so my Mum could tidy up Sues house, when my Mum noticed some writing on the wall. It said "Auntie Shaz, is a slag". My Mums middle name was Sharon, the kids called her Aunty Shaz. Whoever wrote it, spelled Aunty, I-E. Tina and Paul were at school at the time, I knew they were in for it when they got home. Paul was the first home from school. My Mum sat on the sofa, sipping her tea, patiently waiting to greet him. No sooner had he got through the door, my Mum asked him to spell Aunty. "A-U-N-T-Y Aunty Shaz" Paul said. My Mum nodded and then let him go about his business. Next through the door was Tina. "Tina, spell Aunty" my Mum quizzed. "A-U-N-T-I-E Aunty Sha" my Mum had already began carting Tina off upstairs, before she'd finished her sentence the poor bitch. I never saw anything, but I heard my Mum beat that girls arse for a good ten minutes up in her room. I just sat on the sofa in Sues living room, looking at Paul. We were both smirking at Tina's monumental fuck up, just relieved it wasn't us.

My Mum was a fierce woman when she was younger. Violence was just a part of her nature. Expelled from secondary school for violence, it was all she ever really knew. Grandad used to talk about it with a smile on his face. He was a mixture of proud that she was his girl, and reluctantly defeated, that he couldn't change her. His Alison was his Alison. Noticeably his favourite of the five kids he had. 

Things were cool for a good while, I was living with my Mum and Uncle. My Aunty lived on the same street with my two cousins, and I was having some great holidays at my Nan and Grandads new place. Living with my Uncle Sam, we became very close. He had a lot of time for me. I didn't know what it all meant at the time, but Sam was a full blown alcoholic. Years before I was born, he dated a girl who's parents had their own pub. That's where he must have got the taste for it, because he didn't put it down after that. I'd get up to go to primary school, and he'd be sat in his chair, already chugging back the Strongbow. He never let that come between us though. I have nothing but nice memories of Sam from when I was little. I used to have horrendous nightmares as a kid, I still do. But he would always get up with me in the night, and sit with me colouring pictures, or reading a book until I was tired again. It seems my Mum would palm me off with just about every relative reflecting as I write. She didn't cope with raising me well at all. Sometimes it was as if she resented me. I remember my Uncle Sam grabbing her by her throat one day, after she'd belted me. He told her straight, never to lay a finger on me again. His days were numbered after that.

Like all things in life, nothing lasts forever. The game was about to change in a big way, and not for the better. I was upstairs in my room, when I heard my Mum call me down to the living room. I'd have been about six at the time. I went downstairs and was greeted by my Mum, who was sat with this strange looking woman. All the appearances of a man, but a soft female voice. She sat there with a big happy smile on her face, looking pleased to see me. I didn't really know what to make of this stranger, I'd never seen a woman like her before. Slightly overweight, seemed tall to me at the time, but actually quite small in height, short black curly hair.

"Dan" My Mum said. 

"I'd like you to meet my friend Karen"

The story continues next Friday, when I return with Part III.

I overdosed the night I wrote this piece. I was sick for days after writing it. I didn't want to kill myself. I just didn't want to feel the feelings, that remembering it all provokes. All the anger I feel towards both my parents. Then there's the abandonment to deal with. It's quite possible, my gender, and or mental health issues, are largely down to my Father kicking my Mum in the stomach. And he's out there, living his best life, getting away with it all. It's MY head in bits, MY gender I'm having to have surgery to correct. He discarded his child like rubbish, and moved on. Has he been there for me as an adult ? Has he fuck. He couldn't give a toss about any of his kids. I was talking to my oldest sister a few year back, and I challenged her to say one nice thing about him. The best she could come up with was "At least he didn't molest any of us". That's the closest to a compliment she could give him. I'll be going into him again, further down the line in my story, but for now, he was gone. 

I didn't ask to be born, I often wish I hadn't been. Neither one of them wanted me. It's a tough pill to swallow.

Roll Credits.

See you next week, but for now, Goo Goo Ga Ga x

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Butterfly (Part I) Broken Pieces

 Butterfly (Part I) Broken Pieces

Writer and Model - Lexus Bradbury

The first thing I can remember when I woke up from surgery, was the blurred image of Mr Musgrove, my face surgeon. All I could taste was blood, and I was in agony all over my face. I vaguely remember hearing the distorted sound of his voice, telling me everything had been a success. I'm not even sure if it was a dream. My body was well and truly sedated, but I was aware of my surroundings. I can remember thinking, hang on a minute !! What do you mean surgery has been a success ? It was only a moment before, I was lay on a bed in a little quiet room, after being wheeled down to theatre. Them two nurses that were in there, said they'd tell me when they were about to put me to sleep. THEY TRICKED ME THE BASTARDS !! They didn't even warn me they were doing it. We were having a laugh and a joke about the tin foil bed sheet they put over me. Next minute, I'm all bashed up. I was under for eight hours in total, it literally felt like seconds. When I had my boob job, they warned me when they were putting me to sleep, so I expected the same. The two blokes administering anaesthetic, must have a laugh doing that to people all the time !! I never saw them again, pair of cunts.

"We're just administering some pain relief Lexy, we'll let you know when we're going to put you under", yeah alright !! Bullshitters. Joke aside, I'm glad they didn't tell me really, I was terrified enough. It felt like I was walking the green mile going down to theatre. This was a moment I'd anticipated most of my life. Since being a pre teen, I was well aware that one day this moment would come.

I can't remember them wheeling me back to my room post surgery, I can just remember being there. My next earliest memory, is being thirsty, eyeballing a room temperature cup of water on my little desk. It sat just out of reaching distance, teasing me with its watery goodness. Seems like an easy concept to sit forward and grab it, but if you've ever been sedated and had major surgery, you'll relate and know, that this isn't possible. I couldn't even wiggle my toes yet, so I just lay back, glaring at the solution to my thirst.

I eventually got my drink when my girlfriend showed up. I can't remember much of her being there, other than seeing her sat in the chair to the right of my bed. I felt rude keep falling asleep on her, so I found myself fighting it, giving her a faint rub of her hand to acknowledging her presence. It was hard really, because we were going through a break up, which we put on the back burner, so I could get through my surgery. I was in and out of consciousness, but every time I woke, I could tell she didn't want to be there. I knew at some point, I'd have to continue my journey alone, without her. I knew she wanted out, she'd already made that abundantly clear to me, numerous times before surgery.

When I finally came to, she'd gone home, I must have been well out of it. I could now move properly, so I began to investigate my face with my hands. My entire head was wrapped in bandages, with thin tubes going into my face underneath, either side of my jaw. I felt the tubes and began to follow them slowly with my eyes. They were leading to two bags filled with blood, hanging on a stand at the side of my bed. Originally, I thought I might be having a blood transfusion, but turns out they were actually draining blood. Brief panic over. 

Being asleep for eight hours, meant I was bursting for the toilet when I woke up. Now I could move my limbs again, I decided I was bursting. I waited for a nurse to come, to help me up safely, so I could go to the toilet. I had a nice private little room, with its own en suite. The nurse came, so I murmured with all my strength, "Toilet". She told me that she needed to go get another nurse to help. I figured it was to help me to the bathroom, I was wired up to lots of medical equipment, someone would have to wheel that alongside with me. When she retuned, she was with another nurse, who was clutching a female bedpan. I took a deep breath, and reached within for the strength I needed to talk. "Toilet" I said again, slightly more confrontational than before. She told me in no uncertain terms, the toilet was off limits. I stared at them blankly, short of energy because I'd used it all on saying toilet. A few minutes passed, they stood there, looking at me like idiots, waiting on me to go pee. It was an awkward moment, they'd brought a female bed pan, I still had a cock. I figured a good plan, is wait for them to fuck off, then go to the toilet on my own. But they never left, they just kept staring at me. Finally I caved in, and dug even deeper for my next sentence. "I'm transgender pre op", I said aggressively. "We wasn't sure" The nurse replied. Seriously, how the fuck, at a hospital which does transgender surgeries, are they not aware of this. Instead of going getting me a male option to piss in, they continued to stare at me, waiting for me to go piss in this female bedpan. Even if I had a male bedpan, I didn't want to take a piss with two strange women watching me. In the end I flipped my lid. "I guess I'll just have to fucking piss myself in the bed then won't I" I slurred at them. They saw their arses and left. 

Perfect, I thought to myself. Now I can go to the toilet ! I waited a good few minutes to make sure the coast was clear, and began to fight myself out of bed. Saying basic sentences was a challenge, this wasn't going to be easy at all. It took me a good ten minutes, to move from being lay down, to sat up with my feet hanging over the side of the bed. I grabbed the stand carrying my trusty blood bags, and began to put weight on my feet. Instantly, I felt the ground go from underneath me. Fortunately, instead of falling all the way over, the wall in front of me stopped me, so I could support myself with my hands. It could have been real messy, head split open on the hard, unforgiving hospital floor. I was leaning against the wall a good half hour, before I began to make steps. I felt exhausted just standing up. In total, it took an hour to walk five metres to the bathroom. I was bursting to pee. I sat there, on my well deserved throne, sweating with exhaustion and pain, trollies round my ankles, ready to do the business  ... And nothing. Not even a drip. I was bursting to go, but the anaesthetic was preventing me from going. I shit you not, I cried. I sat on that toilet, and sobbed my heart out. After a good sob, I figured I best get back in bed. It wasn't as difficult getting back, because my body was waking up more and more by the minute. 

I'd had a hell of a lot of work done. The process before I got to face surgery took a while. Yet because I was so afraid of it all, time flew me right by. My mind flicked back to my first consultation. Private surgery isn't cheap at all. It cost two hundred and fifty pounds, just for the initial meeting with the surgeon. I didn't really know what work I needed at the time, I have gender dysphoria. I don't see my reflection, the way I actually look. Friends weren't reliable sources. Your friends are kind, and don't want to hurt your feelings. Mr Musgrove wasn't considerate of my feelings though. Not that he was rude, but it's his job to be honest, I was never going to take it personally. He asked me at the start, what I wanted and thought I needed. The truth was, I simply didn't know, so I asked him what HE thought I needed. I was not prepared for his honesty. 

"Well, obviously your nose is big", I burst out laughing !!

He quizzed me why I was laughing. I'd paid two hundred and fifty quid, to be told I had a big nose. It slightly amused him when I explained, but Mr Musgrove was quite a serious dude. He had the appearance of former UK Foreign Secretary, Jack Straw. His formal appearance was quite intimidating, but he was a lovely guy. He's helped hundreds of trans women look more convincing. I recommended him to a friend recently, but I think he's retired now.

I ended up having quite a lot of surgery all at once. The shape of the male skull, differs quite a lot from the female one. Men, generally have a brow bone that overhangs quite significantly. Men, generally have squarer jaws. And of course men, have Adam's Apples. This was the work I had done, along with my big nose !! I had to go for a scan on the bone density in my skull, because Mr Musgrove wanted to know if my bones were thick enough to shave. If he was able to shave my brow bone, instead of removing it, it would have made the process easier and cheaper. So I spend another few hundred quid on a scan. I never felt anything other than pessimistic, that the bones were going to be too thin to shave down. I'm not the luckiest of people, I expect the worst, that way, anything positive's a bonus. Turns out after the scan, my brow bone was too thin. What a shocker !! So now he couldn't shave my brow bone, he'd have to remove it completely. Meaning, he'd have to take the top of my head off, to then remove the brow bone. THE TOP OF MY HEAD !! AND, having thin bones, meant my bill just went up another four grand !! Another four grand for a shit load more pain. Think of it like a child's ring stacker. The top of the skull comes off, the brow bones come off, then the top of the skull goes back on, which they then screw back into place.

This sounds the most gruesome of the work I had done. It's not every day you have your face peeled back, and the top of your skull removed. The real bad boy, was the rounding off of my jaw. It was the most painful procedure I had, by some distance. You don't want scars on your face where they've gone in. I already have a little scar, where they shaved down my very predominant Adam's Apple. There's a scar a few inches long on my neck, where they made the incision. I actually thought, I'd have a sore throat after my Adams Apple being done, but it was painless. It's shaved down gradually with a surgical blade, until it's completely flat. Poor Mr Musgrove must have been there for ages, because mine was huge. The jaw's done differently, to avoid leaving scars on your face. The solution is, to cut the inside of the lip away from the gums, and go inside under the skin in your mouth. Then, they round off your jaw, and suck out the bone shavings. They then STITCH, the lip back to the gums. Mr Musgrove pulled no punches in the consultation, he told me I was going to be miserable when I woke up, and I'd be on smoothies a good while. Thing is, I'm quite a tough person when it comes to all this kind of stuff. Couldn't fight my way out of a paper bag, but I'm very resilient, when it comes to pain and things standing in my way. I figured my boob job was so easy, this was going to be easy too. I'd signed myself out of the hospital a few hours after breast surgery, because I hate waiting around in hospitals. Back then, the nurses told me I had to stay longer, but I insisted I was going home. Mr Musgrove told me I'd be in hospital for a week, recovering from the surgery. We'll soon see about that, I thought to myself. My mouth was in agony, I had to talk with a stiff jaw, because it was just too painful when I moved it.

The nose job speaks for itself, it's a more commonly known procedure compared to the other stuff I had done. If you've ever seen a nose job, they're not for the squeamish. I had a big strong nose before surgery. I'd took my share of punches to it over the years, and it never even so much as bled. Now it would be more pleasing on the eye, but probably not a good idea to be thumped in it anymore. My nose was painful to the touch, but not causing pain. It was however, very uncomfortable. Mr Musgrove had filled my nostrils with a dissolvable filler, to help the shaping ,and stop the bleeding. You don't realise how much you breathe through your nose, until you can't breathe through your nose anymore. The filler wasn't doing its thing anyway. My nose was dripping a lot of blood. It told tales on me for getting out of bed and going to the toilet. A red speckled trail on the floor, from bed to the bathroom. Drip, drip, drip, drip. I lost a lot of blood after waking up from surgery, it probably contributed to why I felt so tired.

A nurse came to my room about half an hour after my little adventure to the toilet, and noticed the blood on the floor. She left momentarily, and returned with a bandage that looked like a roll up sock. Edging towards me with her good intentions. I knew what she was planning on doing the bitch. She wanted to tape it under my nose to catch all the bleeding. I turned my head and tried resisting her, while saying no through my stiff jaw. She got her own way in the end, taping it right underneath my nose. I couldn't fight her off, I was too weak from the whole process.

I lay back in bed looking out the window, sulking at my new nose accessory. It was already bunged up, now I was overheating with my own breath. Great, just fucking great, I thought to myself. You think you're sleeping, with your nose being smothered with a giant bandage ? It's not the pain that keeps you awake, it's all the discomfort and inconvenience.

I lay back, wrapped up like a mummy, giant bandage under my nose, t shirt covered in blood, and turned my attention to the television. I had Sky TV in my room, one of the few positives from the whole situation. Other than having a more feminine face I mean. I hadn't seen myself at the time though, because I was all wrapped up. Spurs had played Brighton, so I figured I'd watch the highlights from the match. A dull, lifeless game in the end, think they drew 1-1. I don't particularly care for either side. I care for them even less after the night I was about to have. I must have seen Spurs vs Brighton, extended highlights, repeated a good three or four times that night. I was never getting to sleep.

They'd put my legs in a machine that moves them around every few minutes, to help prevent blood clots after surgery. So my nose is blocked, my jaws killing, and now I've got my legs being faffed around with by a machine. It gets worse. The machine was temperamental. It stopped working every hour or so, and then started beeping. So if there WAS moments I may have been drifting off, you can forget about it.

It marks the second longest night I've ever had in my life, trapped in a body, that I could hardly move. I was forced to confront my past, and live with my thoughts. My brain began to wander right back to the start of it all. I found myself thinking of the child I was in the eighties. All the wins, all the losses, and all the sacrifices that brought me to this point. A lot of laughter, and a lot of tears. The start of my story, where it all began !! 

Which I'll be getting into, in Part II of Butterfly next week.

See you next week, but for now, Goo Goo Ga Ga x

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