Spencer

One more thing done. One more accomplishment. He always felt that satisfactory twang of comfort as he drew his pen across the words, crossing out another thing on his apocalyst of things to do. He never liked the term bucket-list, but most people didn't understand how he could have an apocalyst when he didn't actually believe an apocalypse was coming. Or was it? It kind of felt like an apocalypse had been biting at his heels for the past two years, the inevitability weighing down on him like an overhead anvil held aloft by nothing more than a fraying rope. ‘Bungee jump’ was number 22 on his list and it was a sweet one to cross off.

Flicking back to the first page, he looked at the all-important thing that held the number one position. That one most important thing that he wanted to achieve before humanity was destroyed – or before he was. He sighed as he ran his thumb over the long dry ink. The day would come, he knew it. It had to. Didn’t it? It was that, or the apocalypse. One day, he would finally be ready, he would finally have the balls enough to cross it off. He smirked at his own mind’s phrasing and ran his hand through his hair.

"Fuck."

Swallowing back his pressing thoughts that could only bring with them pressing feelings he didn’t particularly want to feel, he closed the book, pushing his palm firmly against the front cover as if it held all of his secrets. Because, of course, it did. He ran his fingers over the undulating black leather and wished for the words in there to somehow become real. He knew it was up to him, but how?

The familiar sting behind his eyes threatened, so he quickly sucked in a breath letting it out slowly. "Stop it," he said to himself because there was no one else there to hear it. He bit his tongue, clenched his jaw around it, and shook his head to fight off the well of emotion.

A resounding thump rang out and the book jumped on the table in front of him. His shoulders tensed and the sides of his hands burned where he had slammed his fists down on the table.

"You know what, fine!" he said between gritted teeth, his voice low and rumbling in that way he usually liked. He threw his head back. It wasn't a prayer he was about to say; he didn’t believe in a god, as such, but he believed in the universe. He believed it always delivered to him what he really wanted and fuck it, he was going to test the damn thing.

"I'll make you a deal," he offered, searching the roof as if the universe hung out there like an invisible spider. "Magically find me, I don’t know, like twenty grand, and I will do number one," he said as he poked at the little black notebook.

Laughter echoed in his ears and it took him a moment to recognize it as his own. It sounded slightly maniacal and more than slightly crazed. He took another deep cleansing breath and released it as slowly as he could willing his fears to flow away with it.

There. It was done. Now, it was the universe’s problem. Now, he could get on with his life, right?

Time to get some work done, make some money, just in case the universe didn’t come through. Number one wasn’t a luxury, or a hope. It was a necessity. It was life or death in every sense of the phrase. He flipped open his laptop. Number two on his list had been to become a freelance writer and hell, he’d achieved that. And with some level of success too. Not enough to make number one real, yet, but enough to live and that was a start. He clicked to open the websites he commonly wrote for and waited for them to load.

His heart stopped.

"No way," he said before his jaw dropped open. "No way," he repeated, this time with a laugh and an unbelieving shake of his head.

“Seriously. No. Way.” He read the words. And read them again. He huffed in disbelief and slumped as if he had been winded. A writing competition. The prize, $20,000. Unheard of. At least, he hadn’t heard of such a thing.

He stared down at his apocalyst.

He stared up at the roof.

He stared through his computer.

No. Freakin’. Way.

For a moment, his eyes refused to find focus as his heart stammered in his chest. His eyes rolled up to the roof again seeking out the elusive invisible spider universe.

"This?" he asked, pointing at the computer screen. “This is what you send me?”

His stomach churned with that feeling that he could never quite define between fear and excitement. But it was always an indication of something. There was no point fighting the pull of a smile.

"Okay. Yeah, okay," he nodded as if psyching himself up. "I'll enter." He leaned back and narrowed his eyes. "But you better not be teasing me."

It wasn't his best work, he readily admitted that, but he was nonetheless proud of his submission. Once he committed to doing the thing, he was as sure as hell determined to do it in style. The competition called for a short story, so his style dictated he’d write an enemy-to-lovers gay romance, because damn he loved writing those. And that’s what he did. It was real, honest, genuine. He felt it at his core and win or not, submitting it was an achievement in itself. He'd never submitted his fiction before, for anything. He was definitely putting himself out there. But, oh, my god if he did win? The thought sent a merciless attack of butterflies. If he did win, if the universe delivered $20,000 into his lap, he couldn't deny it any longer. He couldn’t hide from it. He couldn’t pretend money was the only problem stopping him from taking that leap of faith into himself.

He’d made a deal and if the universe kept its end, he would keep his. The moment he hit the submit button, a weight lifted off his shoulders. So many weights he didn’t even know were still holding him down, lifted. He felt light. Free. His stomach still fluttered but now, there was no question that it was excitement. This was it. This was how it would happen. Somehow, he knew it. After he downed a few glasses of reds because he freakin’ deserved that, he tried desperately to put the whole thing out of his mind. He’d done his part. With a sigh, he released the control he never had.

Somehow, he did manage to put the whole thing out of his mind, because a few weeks later, when he got a call, it took him a moment to connect the dots. And when they told him that his story had won, he thought, ‘That's nice.’ It took him a few more moments to connect more dots.

Wait, he won? He won.

The call was a blur. He was in shock and he knew it. The strange numbness in his body was familiar as his brain tried desperately to catch up, synapses firing and dispersing into nothingness. Was it just a dream?

"Are you sure?" That? That’s what he remembered asking on the phone. That was it. That was the only thing he could recall. Who was he even speaking to? He couldn’t recall their name, or their pronouns, nothing. He was still pacing his bedroom/office space, trying to reassemble his thoughts and decide if he needed to talk to his doctor about upping his meds when another call came. This one was quick. To the point. And it was real. Would he do an interview as the winner? Yes, he would.

It was real. "Holy crap," he said to the invisible spider universe. "I freakin’ won." And finally, he squealed.

"So, how are you spending the money?" asked a voice from the floor. Oh crap! He fumbled to pick up his phone having dropped it in his excitement. He forgot he was still on the call.

"What?" he asked. He heard the question, but he needed a moment to answer that in his own mind because. He knew, but was he ready to admit it?

“How will you spend the twenty grand?”

Spencer swallowed the lump in his throat as he stepped to his desk. He rubbed the corner of the leather cover between his fingers, feeling it, as though for the last time. With care he would afford his antique first edition of The Picture of Dorian Gray, he folded back the cover and stared at his number one. He turned to the universe. Oh yeah, he knew exactly how he was going to spend it.

"Well," he started with a smile, ready to say it for the first time ever. Ready to tell the first person he'd ever told. "I'm a trans man and I’ll be using the money to begin my transition.”

He’d pre-determined the moment in which he would cross off his number one. His top surgery was booked, but that wasn’t the moment. He’d already applied to legally change his name and gender, but that wasn’t the moment either. The moment, that moment, came a few weeks later as he was receiving his first testosterone injection. With the needle still in his thigh, he opened the book and looked down at number one, pen in hand.

1. Be me.

He smiled.