He releases my arm and uses his hands to try and pry my legs apart. He'spanicking, forgetting whatever training he's had. He should be lookingfor ways...to cause me more pain than I want to experience. Instead, he'strying to use his arm muscles against my leg muscles. Not a good idea.His lips turn blue. He stumbles but remains upright. His work on my legsis slowing, growing weaker. I think he's giving up. I think he knows heis beat.I don't want him dead just yet. That would be no fun. And it. "After that I became more careful and kept things hidden. I didn't play dolls or dressed up. I just lay low and learned how to play boy games. That kept me out of trouble."When my dad died I was thirteen. I didn't go to the funeral because I was scared that he might be in heaven and would know my secret. Instead I stayed home and looked through my mother's closet."One thing led to another and I tried on some of her dresses. I knew then what I had to do. I guess it was the clarity that grief can. More

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