Reparative Pal Program Six

That ‘girl’ from the group ‘therapy’ session that we had earlier today. ‘She’ had a patch on ‘her’ hospital gown like I did. The transgender pride symbol. Something I hadn’t seen in a positive way in quite a few months. One that people are trying to convince us of is the worst thing in the entire world despite history saying other otherwise. Anyways. I’m very sure that person was a young trans man they brought in a bit before me. It was shown to us on a television screen in the Rec room that they allow us in sometimes. Quite possibly five months or so. The memory of that young man’s face flashed in my mind. Some ‘concerned citizen’ had been the one to physically keep the ‘Wrong One’ in place while bravely calling the proper authorities. Or something to that effect. I’m not sure if I’m remembering the whole story that well.

It was a while ago. At any rate, the poor man’s name was Gabriel Fontaine.

Those guys put it on the screen for at least three weeks. Him along with a few others that were at different clinics across the country. Some of which were like him. Trans men. A few were trans women like me. One of which was a nonbinary person. That’s if I can trust the way they spoke about this person on the news or not. And I never fully trust the news anymore. Thanks to several reasons nowadays. Each prisoner had their face put on the screen along with their ‘crime’. Nowadays there are several ‘crimes’ that we all commit. None of which used to be crimes before that terribly tanned ‘president’ got back into power. Stuff that I find too horrifying that it happened. But not surprising in the slightest bit.

That young man’s face was on the screen a lot during that time. He had short green hair from what I remember. Looked like he had lost around fifty pounds since then. Not good in my opinion. It made his already haunted eyes look more haunted. Those were what stuck to me the most when I looked at him. How haunted his eyes looked. Just how sad he looked as well. They took his ID for this picture. From what I could tell. And I thought that maybe it was just my imagination when I saw it during the program. When he was finally in ‘Group Therapy’, he looked vastly different from those five or so months ago. Eyes were bigger than that time. Along with bags under them it was like he hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep in a while. Which was strange since he had been technically ‘asleep’ or near it for so long. I’m not entirely sure what a coma would qualify as but, I’m sort of sure it would mean you slept. Right?

At any rate that look on his face when he saw me in group. I think it took Gabriel a long while to realize that I am trans as well. Probably not too sure if I am a trans woman. Since neither of us had a proper chance to talk to each other. What with Alya being there. Along with those other terrible brainwashed assholes. Then again, no one could really recognize me now with what had been done to me. My own mother probably wouldn’t be able to recognize me if she saw me. They shaved my hair so low that it was almost an inch long. Something that I had been so proud of growing for at least eight years now. It was so beautiful, and I had taken such loving care of it. Using so many products to keep it healthy, shiny, and such. After this, they have been forcing me onto a restrictive diet. That made me drop around seventy pounds within the seven months that I have been in the Woodrow Clinic. Along with this, they removed my implants within a few weeks into the exercise program they made me do. Something that was just as devastating for me to deal with as my hair being removed. As it had taken me at least five or six months to be able to afford any of them. Along with getting myself into the shape that I wanted.

Being the person that I wanted to be since I realized I was a woman. From around the age of four, I knew I was a girl. And before the overly tanned bastard in charge came into power, I was transitioning to be myself. My parents were hesitant at first. But they came around when they started to research more of it. They helped me change my name from being ‘Jonah’ to ‘Joanna’ when I was eighteen. Dad was the person to suggest it and help me pay for it. Along with a lot of other things. Mom helped me find a therapist to get my transition started. When it was, I was finally becoming myself. Joanna McClain. Now, thanks to this dehumanizing program, I’m back to square one. The only reason I got dragged to the Woodrow Clinic by my now ex-girlfriend, Lucille King, and all ‘our’ backstabbing friends. They all loaded me into Lucille’s van and made sure that I wouldn’t be able to escape. It isn’t hard to realize that they aren’t my friends. That they were never my friends in the first place. Since two of the guys that I knew for so long had manhandled me in Lucille’s van violently. One of the girls that I had been friends with took all my photo albums with them to show the staff. They would show that I had been a young boy when I was a teen and how I slowly transitioned into who I am today. Along with my laptop that had information on my surgeries that I thought I had hidden well enough. My guess is that she knew more about technology than I initially suspected.

They also took my now considered illegal hormones with them.

Which I’m guessing they had to tear the house apart to find. Since I had hidden them in my bedroom in the perfect spot, I thought would be great. Inside my underwear drawer under a false bottom. The idea that any of them went through my underwear drawer still causes me to shudder. It isn’t really something that I want to imagine. Especially when I never felt safe with some of them before all of this. Each time I let myself think about the situation that had brought me here, I keep wishing I had been in a coma.

Or whatever in the world had happened to Gabriel.

Unlike him, I was forced to starve myself in order to lose weight faster. They refer to it as ‘fasting’ but it was essentially just starving myself. No matter how much they want to tell me that tons of folks do this. It was still starving myself in my mind. They really tried to dress up the terminology to make it seem better than it is. Either way I have lost almost around sixty pounds during these past six or so months. Through these intense exercises to get into the shape they believe that I’m supposed to be. Running for at least three miles or more a day. Aerobics as well. But mostly stuff that was intensely working on cardio.

Mostly cardio.

It has been to the point that I’ve nearly passed out each time. Which has been a blessing that it hasn’t happened to me yet. Though I have a feeling that if I had passed out during a work-out session that I would be punished for it. For what? Being too weak to handle what everyone else can handle. I vaguely remember them taking someone out of the exercise session for that. But I can’t really be sure if my memory is correct or not. All I know is that the exercises have left me so thin and weak that I can’t walk right. Maybe I had lost too much weight in such a short amount of time. Or it could be there was too much stress on my joints or something. Either way, I haven’t been able to walk normally thanks to what they’ve done. And for now, I’m forced to be in a wheelchair for at least a few months. Sure, it may be temporary but I’m still not happy with how helpless I feel around these orderlies. Who can use and do the fact that I’m in a wheelchair against me for their own personal gain.

And amusement.

Some of which not only wheel me around the clinic but pet my hair. In ways that make me utterly uncomfortable. Especially when there’s this one young man that’s been wheeling me to therapy each day. Petting my hair like I used to pet my childhood dog. And speaking of ‘Group Therapy’, Alya has made going to it so damn difficult. As I’m the least mobile member of the group it makes me the best target for her. Looking at me like I’ve done something to her personally. Though I’m not entirely certain of her reasoning. But my best guess is that it’s from her own detransitioning that she sees those of us happy in our transition as an enemy. I might be grasping at straws but I’m certain that might be the case. I wasn’t entirely certain what other reason why else she would look at me like that. When she met Gabriel, Alya gave him the same look as she had with me. Well, I shouldn’t say she gave him the same look. From the second that Gabriel attended the group therapy session for the first time, she seemed fixated. A sort of odd fixation that I can’t quite understand. But the others seem to have an idea. Not that I want to speak with any of them. They’re not worth the time or energy to speak to them. I’m pretty sure with how deep they’re into the Clinic’s ‘therapy’ that they wouldn’t be worth it. I’m certain that they would rat me out to the higher ups for whatever reason they can think of. Such as not having the right facial expression when I’m asking any of them about Alya’s disdain for Gabriel’s existence. Or the fact that I asked questions in the first place as they probably see it as obvious.

And regardless of these facts. I wish that I had gotten a chance to speak to Gabriel himself. To warn him about the punishments that Alya had told us two months ago. The Woodrow Clinic’s punishments can be a lot of things. If another patient told anyone that they caught you doing something ‘immoral’, you would be isolated. Placed in solitary confinement. For a week or maybe more depending on what you had done. It doesn’t matter if you had done the ‘immoral’ act that the other patient had seen you do or not. You were to be punished thoroughly for it and put in your place like they believe that you deserve. A week is the light punishment. And for anything worse than that it would be possibly six months. Alya had shown us all a picture of what the isolation chambers for this place look like. They are similar in size to a small closet with several locks on the outside of the door.

No furniture of course.

You must sleep on the floor and have no contact with others for six months. No sunlight or anything else for that time as well. From what I remember of Alya telling everyone. This was a torture method that I’ve been afraid of. Most human beings would be afraid of something as terrible as this. Isolation as well as possibly more starvation. Since Alya didn’t mention that anyone would be fed during this punishment. It could just be me misunderstanding what she said when the group was shown this isolation area. Since I highly doubt that any human being can go six months without food or water. Not without water. Food would be around a month if you were lucky enough. I’m sure that they would feed the person in isolation. There had to be a small opening in the door to push food through. That way they wouldn’t have to interact much with the prisoner inside the punishment chamber.

I’m certain that I misunderstood her words when she spoke about that punishment. Reading too deeply into them as well. And allowing my fears to overwhelm my rational mind. At least I hope that it was irrational fear just clouding my thoughts about everything. We all know that no human being could easily survive that situation. Just a month at most.

These punishments are why I don’t talk to others much. If that weren’t obvious enough. It is also one of the reasons I don’t really speak my mind in ‘Group Therapy’. Never voluntarily speaking about anything or offering information about myself. Unless I’m put on the spot. Such as Alya demanding that I speak to any of them about what I felt or thought. Doing my best to mind what I say to the group at all. Omitting several facts about myself that I feel they don’t need to know. So not necessarily lying but not telling the entire truth as well. I know that an omission of the truth is technically a lie but it’s a necessary lie. Especially when in the Woodrow Clinic, it’s necessary to omit things.

As I’m sure that if I told the truth I would be in one of those punishment rooms. It would be horrific for me. I know for certain that kind of punishment would be what broke me if I had to endure it. Tight places like those are…scary for me. In fact, they’re one of my worst nightmares if I’m being entirely honest. At my current weight and poor health, I know full well that I wouldn’t be able to survive six or so months in that punishment closet. It’s one of the reasons that I try to not to speak to the rest of the group. Keeping my head down to avoid being singled out by Alya all the time when I can. And so far, it’s somewhat been working.

None of the other group members have called me out on it.

Which makes me worried for Gabriel. As only a few minutes into the stupid group ‘therapy’ that Alya did, she calls him out. Despite how hard I could tell that he was trying to avoid being noticed by our lovely ‘therapist’. And unfortunately for him he still was called out for it. Which he tried his hardest to correctly answer in a way that Alya approved of. God, I wanted to hug him so badly in that moment. Watching him shrink back into his wheelchair with how scared he looked. Those big eyes went wide as he stared at the floor. Like he wanted it to swallow him whole and never see the light of day ever again. Gabriel chewed on his bottom lip. After a moment Alya was satisfied with his answer to her demands. The look on her face was this disturbing cat that caught the canary when she continued the session. Soon as her attention was off him and looking at everyone else in the group, he looked up at me. With this deeply saddened look in his eyes. Reminding me vaguely of a kicked puppy. It was while I looked into his eyes, I was handed a notebook and so was Gabriel. His was a gross shade of pink. One that was super bright and sort of hurt my eyes to look at it. With a matching pen.

While the notebook that I was given was an ugly shade of blue. One that I know was supposed to be a ‘manly’ color. Vaguely reminding me of the stupid unnecessary gendered stuff before this program was even thought of. Something that I never thought I would miss. But I do. As it was funnier than this stupid notebook. With it’s stupid matching pen. That I sort of find hilarious as it doesn’t seem all that manly to have. It sort of makes me feel better about having it at all. Since it’s less than manly to have anything like that. Well, as far as my father wouldn’t feel manly if he had a stupid matching pen for this notebook. Then there was the whole idea that these people were going to be reading out journal entries. All of which I was somewhat worried about. Not afraid but worried about. Since I wasn’t sure how well I could write. So far, they could believe that I was acting right but I don’t know if I can write well. But I’ll do my best to write what I think they’re going to want from me six months into the treatment. Especially with the amount of intense exercise routines that I was being forced to do.

If I was careful as possible, I’ll be letting them see a sliver of my personality. Not enough to use against me or anything. But a small glimpse of it.

Allowing these pathetic bastards believe that I was slowly but surely converting. Becoming the ‘man’ that they would prefer I be. Hell, I channel my father’s personality if I absolutely must. As I want to come off as completely believable for this. The challenge here is to who is going to be reading my journal. If it’s any other staff member it might be easy for me to fool. Since my passiveness has seemed to ease them into believing that I’m converting. And I’m sure they wouldn’t be suspicious of any of my journal entries. At least, I would be hoping that my efforts wouldn’t be for nothing. It might be if Alya is reading them. Since I have the feeling that she isn’t easy to fool in the slightest bit. There’s something about the way that she acts that makes me believe Alya would be onto me in an instant. My gut instinct tells me that she’s going to be the one that reads all our journal entries. Which makes me wonder how many people here in the Woodrow Clinic must write in a journal.

I also wonder if she had volunteered to do this or not. And I’m pretty sure that she would. She seems like the kind to do this. And enthusiastically volunteered to do this. To keep us in line and make herself look good in comparison. Either way, I hope that my gut instinct is wrong.

I also have a gut feeling that Gabriel might have it worse. Especially with how Alya was glaring at him during the ‘therapy’ session. There’s this feeling in my gut that he would have it worse. Way worse than most of us. Alya already seems to despise him the second that she laid eyes on him. For whatever reason she can come up with. Maybe it’s because she despises trans men thanks to what happened to her. Reminding her of the years she transitioned before the Woodrow Clinic had been established. Since I can’t exactly, he really did nothing at all during the therapy. Just poorly masking while she spoke to the entire group during that hour. I can’t really blame him for not being able to at that moment. When I started group it took everything that I could to keep my expressions neutral.

Especially during her ‘Woe is me those trans people brainwashed me into transitioning’ speech. It took everything in me to not roll my eyes or try to call her out on her bullshit. Feeling so weird when the others just believed in it like it was normal. Hearing it when we get new members every two months or so makes it easier. Getting better practice in handling her attempts to get sympathy from us.

Well, sympathy from me.

While I’m seated in the cafeteria, I think about Gabriel being wheeled away. How I worried about him. Wondering how he was doing after being treated like that. His body tensing up when that orderly took him from group. I think that guy’s name is John. Either way, when I saw how he pushed Gabriel away from the session…I had a bad feeling about the whole thing. Anyone who tenses up is more than likely not safe at all. And clearly this creep is bad news. There’s something about him that worries me. It makes me wonder where he took Gabriel if he hadn’t taken him to his room or not. Just took him to his room and put him back on his foam mat thing that we all have. Which I still have unfortunately. I hope that he hadn’t taken him anywhere else but there. I’m not sure where else he would take him. Even though I have not been comatose like Gabriel has, I wasn’t allowed to roam any place. At least not as much as the others who are about nine months to two years into the program have been able to. From what I can tell you have to be around that deep into the program to be allowed to roam around. With supervision. Those folks still must have supervision, but they can move more freely than I can.

And obviously Garbiel can.

There is something terrible about that strange man. Sure, I haven’t been around him all that often thanks to the schedule they forced on me. Being forced to exercise. Even though I’m in a wheelchair from how much weight I have lost, I still must exercise. But the very few times that I had to be in a room with him, I felt unsafe. So very unsafe around him. Those eyes of his held something to them that I can’t quite explain. They weren’t empty like Eric’s eyes are. They just held this strange, disturbing, sense of loneliness, and some anger. It felt like I was staring into the eyes of a rather angry predator. One that I do not want to leave alone with someone as small and frail as Gabriel was right now. It was really worrying to me, and I wanted to voice this to someone. To anyone that would allow me to voice my concerns about John and Gabriel being alone together. Or rather Amelia alone together.

I have a feeling that he might be doing something to him. There’s something about his mannerisms that make me feel this way. His touching of Gabriel’s chair. The way that Gabriel tensed up when being wheeled away by him. That’s what won’t leave my mind when I watched John pushing him down the hallway. To whatever room he is supposed to be taking him. A few moments after that, someone pushed me into the cafeteria. I didn’t really bother to look at who it was that was wheeling me to the cafeteria.

They don’t really matter right now. I’m not making friends with any of them.

I know that it wasn’t Eric that wheeled me to the cafeteria. As for whatever reason he has no self-control when it comes to touching me. He frightens me a lot more than John ever could. As his eyes have this empty quality to them. There was something malevolent to them that I couldn’t entirely figure out. It made me wonder how in the world he got a job in a place like this. Where he has control over people such as me and Gabriel. Maybe that’s what the draw was to this kind of place was for him. To have control over someone that can’t fight back. Sort of like some nurses in the past had as well. A few that I had the misfortune to meet when I was getting my gender affirming care before the overly tanned bastard came back into power. Then again, I’m not even sure if this is his doing or someone else’s. Either way, I blame him for this happening at all. I’m sure if his opponent came into power, Eric wouldn’t be near me. At least I’m hoping that Eric won’t come anywhere near me.

It was odd how John and he are different in that regard. John does his best to not have to touch me if he’s near me. Opting to help the cisgender women or detransitioned trans men that are here. He isn’t overly sweet to them at all. Just prefers to help them with whatever they need. Something that I would much rather not dwell upon in the slightest. Since I’m sure my suspicions about what kind of person John is true. I just need more evidence to solidify them. But Eric is a completely different story in comparison. Whenever Eric volunteers to help me, he pets my hair. Full blown stroking it like I were a beloved dog that he adopted. Speaking to me in a similar tone that I had heard pet parents speak to their pets. Soft and slow. Like I was far too stupid to understand the words coming out of his mouth. He never stops commenting on how soft my hair was under his fingertips. Having the nerve to tell me that it was like petting a cute little lamb. Or something to that effect. And it took a lot of strength in me to keep calm.

Being compared to a damn animal is enough to drive me crazy.

It’s really starting to make me feel less than the human that I used to be. I suppose that’s the whole point of the Woodrow Clinic. It’s to turn us ‘Wrong Ones’ into things that are meant to help real people deal with their problems. By being there for the medical conditions that they have and treating them. Whatever that could possibly mean. I’m guessing either by getting them medicine, or having them sit down for it, and maybe preventing worse attacks. Though I guess that I’m not one of those people. As I haven’t been ‘trained’ to deal with that just yet. Then again, it’s only been around six months into the program. My best guess is that I could possibly be next to turn into one of those ‘Philia Pets’ or whatever they call us.

All those names make my skin crawl.

This place tries so hard to remind us that they don’t view us as human beings. Those names are just some of the things that they do to remind us of this. Mostly by calling us those names. Some of the people that are in better shape than me get called different things. Different names that would be suitable for a dog or cat. Like one time I heard a young woman get called ‘Cinnamon’ and a young man was referred to as ‘Mocha’. Which mostly disturbed me when these people passed me to wherever they were going to go. Whether it was going home or back to their bare room. I’m sort of curious as to what these people are going to call me. If I would ever be used to the creepy way that the orderlies pet me. Well, the way that Eric pets me when he gets the chance. Stroking my skin in a way that would make me shudder. If I wasn’t doing everything in my power to keep myself from doing such. It is a lot harder than I am making it sound. Since I’m sure that if I react by shuddering or pushing his hand away, I would be in a load of trouble. Quite possibly having to deal with the punishment room for an entire month. A whole month of starvation. Not dehydration, no. They wouldn’t want me to die as it would defeat the purpose of the program. They will only euthanize me if I fail to meet their extremely high standards.

Maybe.

Who knows what exactly would happen if I did that. Then again, I would rather not find out about any of the punishments here. Aside from the horrifying closet business that Alya has shown everyone in that group ‘therapy’ session. It makes me weary of disobeying any of the staff members here. At least not until I’m well enough to walk once more. If I could walk, I have this feeling that things would be easier for me. The idea of escape has been in the back of my mind the past six months here. Despite how tired, hungry, and how much pain I’ve been in. I still have some hope that I can escape here. If not here, then wherever they’re going to be sending me after my ‘therapy’ finally finishes. As this place might not be easy to get out of. But I’m certain that a normal American home can be easier to escape. I’m hoping that it would be a whole lot easier to escape since this place is more difficult. I have seen so many cameras in the Clinic that I can’t remember how many I have seen. My last count was around three hundred or so. There might be more that we wouldn’t be able to find in this place. Sort of like those hidden nanny cams that they used to have for children in the past.

Sitting up a bit straighter, I try to think of where they could be at. There were at least six in the cafeteria alone. One in each corner of the room. And there are two monitoring the doors to the restrooms. I’m not sure if there are any in the bathrooms. Since I haven’t been using the ones in the cafeteria. Just the ones in the built-in gym that they have for us. I think I spotted one in the shower room they got there. But I’m not sure if I was seeing things or not. Right now, I wish that I could go see it or not. Though I’m hoping that I had been seeing things when it comes to that one. That they would give us a little privacy in the restrooms here. What in the world could they possibly be expecting to see if they did?

My thoughts were interrupted by a tray being set down in front of me. One of the women from group went and got me a tray of food. I don’t know her name as I barely talk to others in the group. So, I don’t do much talking out of group either. She gently pats my shoulder reassuringly when I jump a little bit. Smiling at me like one of those orderlies does and it makes my skin crawl a little bit. It just now dawns on me that none of them are women. That all the orderlies are men.

I wonder why.

Instead of allowing myself to linger on this, I just quietly thanked her. She gives me a forced smile as she nods her head politely. Almost as if being around me disturbed her or something. I subtly glanced her over as I tried to think if I knew her or not. This woman was a petite redhead that was wearing a purple dress. Her hair was wavy and had a matching purple headband. The dress had a very modest neckline and went to her ankles. She wore purple high heeled shoes with about an inch heel on both. Very modest despite the bright coloring. The color worked great for her. But I could tell she disliked the dress despite how hard she tried to not look like she did. Her face was this forced sweet look. It made me think she was Daphne Blake come to life. There was also make-up on her face that didn’t suit her.

Personality wise at least.

It was well done and suited her skin tone. But I had this feeling that she didn’t like it in the slightest bit. Either way, she was wearing it. And as she turned from me, I spotted a small triangle on her shoulder. It was a patch like mine. The only difference is that it was of the lesbian pride flag. An idea of her being a butch lesbian slowly dawned on me and pity filled me at the sight of her walking back to get her own food. I know she won’t be eating with me. As none of the women from group ever sit with me. But it doesn’t bother me in the slightest bit. I didn’t need anyone or anything as I turned to my food. Dinner was as disappointing as lunch had been. Instead of unseasoned chicken it was unseasoned steak. A very small portion of steak that was probably around two ounces if I had a chance to weigh it. Along with some very bland white rice. Not terrible but it wasn’t great either. There were fruits and vegetables this time around. A few baby carrots along with some tiny grapes that look pathetic. There was also a cup of what looked like cold skim milk. I would have preferred just plain water instead of milk flavored water.

That’s what skim milk is essentially.

While I picked at my food, my thoughts drifted to Gabriel. That image of him tensing up was back in my mind as I ate a baby carrot. Making me wish that I had gained some courage to speak to him at all. Tell him my name…well, I suppose I could tell him the name that they gave me. ‘Landon’. The temporary name that someone in charge decided to give me. It wasn’t a great name, but it was something for him to call me. Maybe tomorrow I’ll have a chance to speak to him. I know it’s a longshot to be hoping for something like that. But it’s better to have a little hope than none. I’m going to just pray that we will. I need someone on my side and I’m sure that Gabriel is the right person for the job. I just pray that I’m right.