Am I Still Asleep?

The sound of the slap is loud in the empty space of the bathroom, echoing off the stained and dirty tiles of this bus station refuge.

Burning then, the burning feel of my skin in the wake of my slap and I'd done it in the hopes that I could wake up but all it did was make me groan. Clenching my eyes shut as my mind continued to reel and I continued to try to find some sort of explanation for things.

Nope, I thought as my eyes opened, still a woman.

Slap again, watching in the mirror this time as she was rocked to one side. Grabbing her hair afterwards with her fingers and then tugging just enough that I could feel the burning fire in my scalp and while all of this was supposed to shock me out of this moment that had to be a dream all it did instead was make the world around me more solid.

Bit by bit I was pushing off the fuzzy blanket of sleep, feeling everything in me and around me far more present. The lights were getting brighter, were getting sharper. The dreary details in the corners of this seedy bathroom were settling in and coming into focus. The smells and the sounds of the world around me, the panting breath that was coming from me but was so unlike anything that I'd ever breathed before.

And the feel on me. The pain of my futile attempts to wake myself there but beneath it a present sensation of the world as felt through the skin of this body. The weight of the clothes on me and the way they wrapped around the soft swells of my body. The absence of some parts, the presence of others, the flush running beneath it all and the subtle throbbing deep in my belly which spoke of something more.

Everything felt so different now. Everything was so much more intense.

And I could confront that. I could recognize it and accept it and realize that somehow and some way the reflection in the mirror was me. That I'd been given this body and that it was mine.

But acceptance wasn't really on the agenda at the moment.

Clearly I preferred denial, executed by pinching and pulling and prodding myself out of some vain hope that doing the same act over and over and over again would somehow result in a different outcome. What's that people say about insanity?

Until finally, feeling the burning in my skin and realizing there is only so much I can do, I fall forward and place my hands on the sink. I breathe in hard, gulping in air as I lock eyes with my reflection and try to process what is happening to me.

There is one small bit of hope, one little piece left in the heart of me that thinks that maybe, just maybe, I've misinterpreted things. It is that little bit of hope which drives my fingers on, which makes me peel my hands from the sink and reach with trembling digits for the proof that touch can only know.

Because eyes can be deceived, can be lied to. Because every last sensation you have can be tricked and yes, touch is no more immune than any other sense but touch is the last refuge I have. Touch holds this sort of mythical position where you can maybe, just maybe, close your eyes and go by touch and touch alone.

So I do just that. My eyes flutter shut and my breath catches in my throat and my fingers slip up under the bottom of my hooded sweater. I press under the layers of shirt and find the bare skin of my tummy and I do my best not to shiver with anticipation, knowing from that first touch that everything is laid bare and clear.

But I can hold on. I can press up over the smooth skin of my stomach and feel the soft yield of her stomach. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, wondering what it is pounding beneath and wondering whether the weight I feel on my body and that I've felt this whole time is truly what I think it to be.

And my other hand presses downward, slipping beneath the waistline of my jeans and feeling the soft unfamiliarity of underwear that are far too tight to be boxers. That hand presses down beneath the surface as the other presses up and all of me holds for one last instant, hoping for something and not knowing in the least which option I'd prefer.

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