Damn alarm clock. Rolling over both feet are planted firmly on the cold hard oak floor as I sit up on the edge of the futon. Thong sandals are slipped onto the feet and I shuffle to the other side of the room, sliding the switch on the face of the little black plastic dictator to turn off the noise. The mind silently plots rebellion against the body for forcing it into activity before it is ready. The television remote control finds its way into my hand and a button is pressed while in route back across the floor. The TV blares into life as the remote lands on the mattress and I enter the bathroom.

"That’s what we have in store for the next half hour. Now, over to Al and the weather."

"Thanks, Matt and Katie. Today, there’s a winter storm war…"

The roar of rushing water in the shower drowns out the broadcast. I’m cold; the water’s nice and hot. Why do I have to go to school today? That thought is quickly dismissed. Because I want, I need a degree in education so I can do something I really want to do: teach.

It’s an amazing thing. A person hits forty, takes an assessment of his or her life and suddenly that person realizes life is half over and nothing that was wanted to be accomplished has been. In my case the first and greatest accomplishment was to stop living a lie, to stop living as a woman just because I had a woman’s body. It’s frustrating, and at times humiliating to have to live like someone you know you’re not just so the world around you is comfortable and accepting of you. When I told my husband I couldn’t live anymore as his wife, he freaked. His blood pressure rose so high I had to take him to the hospital. Poor man. The shame of it is that before we married we would have long heart-to-heart talks in the middle of the night. He knew I felt like a man trapped in a woman’s body. The funny twist was that he felt like a woman trapped in a man’s body. But here I am, my spouse and children stripped from me because he couldn’t handle the fact I could not live as a woman any longer. The deep near suicidal depression I used to experience has been replaced by utter loneliness. Even my mother, the person who said ‘At least I’m not losing my child’ doesn’t even call me anymore. There’s always the excuse ‘I’m sorry I lost your number. So, how are you?’

Shower done, body dried and quickly clothed, I’m out the door hoping the bus hasn’t been missed.

The school day goes by as usual: one three hour-long class. I actually don’t mind it. My mind seems to wrap around the information the professor has to impart a lot easier than trying to cram and understand everything in one hour.

Five minutes to three, class is over and I’m outta the building and on the next bus home. It’s Friday and that means a weekend of constant role-playing with new friends on the Internet. I’m rapidly becoming a role-playing junkie. It has taken away the loneliness. Sometimes I find myself wondering what other people think if they hear my laughter, knowing there’s no one in the little one room apartment but myself. But I can’t help laughing. Some of the things that happen to the characters are hilarious.

The sky is growing dark with thick gray snow laden clouds. The chill in the air bites through the patched winter coat I’ve worn for four years now. The six-block walk from the elevated train to home isn’t too long, but today it feels like an all day hike. Through the rundown neighborhood a pair of dogs rush out at me, teeth bared and lips curled back. The backpack is swung at them in self-defense, and gradually they back off. As I continue the walk home, I notice a driver had stopped his truck in the middle of the one-way street and had reached for the rifle that hung of its rack behind his head. Seeing that I was going to be fine he nodded to me and then left.

I rush up the rickety uneven wood stairs at the back of the red stone Victorian building and through the private entrance to my own little single room utopia. That’s what I think of it. A place of my own in the middle of the roach infested slums of north Philadelphia. It’s not unusual for there to be a drive by shooting. Matter of fact, there’s one almost weekly. Back last Halloween the cops discovered the aftermath of a satanic ritual just a couple of blocks away. Dead cats and chickens were scattered all round a dirty back alley, along with burnt candles, symbols drawn on the walls and other creepy stuff.

The backpack is dropped by the door. The coat peeled off and hung on its hook. A mug of water stuffed in the microwave for a quick cup of hot tea, and soon I’m set for my own new weekly ritual. Before I sit down in the ripped nagahyde recliner my hand drops on the telephone answering machine, pressing the messages button.

"Mister Neuman, would you please give Doctor Watson’s office a call. We have the results of your breast biopsy, and the doctor would like to speak with you as soon as you receive this message. Thank you." Beep.

Feeling like a lead weight I drop into the recliner, staring at the machine. I knew it. The operation went too smoothly. I reach for the receiver of my black antique 1943 Bell telephone and call the doctor’s office.

"Hello? This is Xavier Neuman. You asked me to call?"

"Hi Mister Neuman. Yes, please hold on. I’ll see if the doctor can speak with you." There’s that stomach churning elevator music while I’m on hold.

"Hello, Mister Neuman?"

"Yes, Doctor. I got the message about the test results. I’m almost afraid to ask, but… what’s the verdict?"

"Mister Neuman. I’d really like to talk with you more in-depth here in the office. Would you be able to come by early next week?"

"Sure, I can do that. But what’s the result?"

"Well, I’m sorry, but I have some bad news. That lump we found was malignant. I’d like to speak with you about chemotherapy treatments."

I want to cry, just… cry. "Are they really necessary? I mean, do I have to have chemo?"

"I’d really much rather not talk about this over the telephone. I’ll put the receptionist back on and she’ll give you an appointment." I can hear the reluctance in her voice.

"I know, and I’ll make the appointment, but I’d like to know now. Do I have to take the chemo, or can I do without it? My grandmother had chemo, and I really don’t want to go through that if I don’t have to." There’s silence at the other end. This worries me more.

"No, Mister Neuman. You don’t have to do anything you don’t what to. However, I must tell you that if you choose not to take the treatments…," there is an audible heavy sigh on the phone. "It’s a good probability you won’t live to see another year. According to the blood work the cancer has spread to your lymphatic system, and that’s why you need the chemotherapy." A knot grows inside, and I fight back the tears. She talks on about other important bits of information, but I don’t hear any it. None of it is worth bothering about.

"Thank you, Doctor. I’ll call on Monday for that appointment." The receiver is hung up.

I want to cry. I so very much want to cry. But the river of tears that have been shed over the past three years has been so great that now there is nothing but sorrow in my heart. A single tear manages to escape as I sit in the recliner, drained of any emotion. What’s there to do? Nothing really. Life begins. Life ends. And the sum of it all is how we live it.

I sigh again and then reach over to turn on the ‘puter. The Internet connect button in the top middle of the keyboard is pushed and instantly I’m connected to the larger outside world. My familiar and oh so common screen name of MSmith is entered on the log-on page of the role-playing site. In just a few minutes I’m in and the role-playing addiction takes over. A weak smile tugs at my mouth at the greetings from my RP friends.

"Hey Michael!"

"*silly smuts mi cowboy*"

In private messaging I receive, "*curls up in your lap* Hi Michael. I’ve missed you."

And the reply in private, "*snuggles up with you* I’ve missed you too, Gorgeous. How you doing?"

Do I tell them? Any of them? Why? It wouldn’t make any difference. They don’t know me from Adam other than the false online character I use for myself. They all have their own troubled lives; mine isn’t better, or worse for that matter, than theirs. No, I’m not going to say a word. Then an idea hits me. Back to the private messaging.

"Hey, Beautiful. Would you mind if I make up a character as a love interest for your immortal but likeable heel of a mage?"

"No, that’d be great! Who do you have in mind?"

"A young human mage named Xavier."