Free Keeping by Sarah Masters

sit and take it all in. Sally was a good girl, the only one who liked him stroking her cheek, her hair.
    Euphoria spread through him, making his steps lighter. He closed his eyes and let the music take him away, to that place where everything was fine and nothing mattered except what he was feeling. He was aware, deep in the back of his mind, that Cheryl would be watching him, wondering what the hell he was doing and why, but her opinion wasn’t something he cared for. He didn’t think he cared anyway.
    The imaginary music came to an end, Sally’s perky, “Goodnight!” filling his head, and he smiled, slowed his steps, then stopped. He remained where he was, eyes still closed, and lowered his arms to his sides. Took a moment or two for himself, to soak in the warm feeling of being exactly where he needed to be.
    He snapped his eyes open and found himself facing the door, Cheryl’s gaze hot on his back. She could stare all she liked. Maybe she was secretly admiring her bra and knickers, how they fitted him so well. Wondering why they’d never looked as good on her. That would be nice.
    Mr Clever had questioned him once as to why he wore them over his own clothes, why he didn’t strip and wear them against his skin. He hadn’t been able to answer because he didn’t know why. He’d thought about it, though, but nothing had been forthcoming. Mr Clever then suggested he was entertaining his feminine side while at the same time retaining his persona as a man, but David didn’t know if that was right either. He did know that he liked wearing them, and that explanation ought to be enough. He shouldn’t have to explain.
    “Why do you think I like wearing your things, Cheryl?” He gave Sally a knowing look because they all answered the same way.
    “Dunnow,” Cheryl said.
    Ah, she hadn’t called him a freak, a weirdo, a nutcase.
    Interesting.
    “Aren’t you curious?” I am. I wouldn’t wear them as my other self. I’d call any man wearing them a fag prick.
    “Your biznizz,” she said, voice slurred.
    Her response threw him. His business? He quickly turned to face her, to catch any facial expression that belied her words, but her vacant stare was glued to Sally and she exhibited blankness, as though nothing mattered anymore.
    The next phase could begin, then.
    He sat on the mattress again, leaning down, and pushed his lips out through the mask hole so they were millimeters from her cheek. “Have you had enough yet, Cheryl?”
    “Enough o’ wot?” she mumbled, eyes drifting closed.
    “Of me.”
    “Had nuff o’ this,” she said.
    Oh. Right. She hadn’t had enough of him?
    “What about me, Cheryl?” he sing-songed. “Have you had enough of me yet?”
    “Remember your mother, David?” Mr Clever asked. “I’ve had enough of you, you little bastard. Get the fuck out of my sight!”
    Cheryl shook her head.
    David held his breath. Frowned, unsure what to do or say. He tried a different angle. “Do you want to leave here, Cheryl?”
    She sniffed. “Wan go home.”
    “I see.” His hot breath bounced off her cheek. “Home to where you live, or home-home, the place where we all go in the end?”
    “Where I live.” She’d sounded like a slowing gramophone record.
    “Oh. That’s a shame. It isn’t possible, good girl. Mr Clever wants you to go home-home.”
    Her eyelashes fluttered. A tear spilled.
    He withdrew sharply and stood. Went to the chest of drawers and picked up a new syringe full of medicine. He’d have to visit The Stick again soon. His supply was almost gone. He looked at Sally and smiled, letting her know she must play her part now. He’d swear she wiggled her toes in excitement. He scooped her up and went to stand beside the mattress.
    “Now, Cheryl,” he breathed. “You can go home.”
    He handed her the syringe. She held it in a loose-fingered grip, staring at it as more tears fell. She appeared uncomprehending, as though not knowing what the syringe was doing there, how it had