EXCERPT: Hormonal Health (True Faith), Chapter 13 (by Adam Lehrer)

An excerpt from a novel that Adam has been working on for a long time and will publish soon

Chapter 13

Friedrich rode the Amtrak back to New York, trembling. Fidgeting. Avoiding his cell phone. Time had frozen still. He hardly remembered what transpired between the time that he’d left Katrina and gotten to the train station. He was in limbo, suspended between one life and the next.

Even at home, on 10MG of Xanax and a half gram of fentanyl masquerading as heroin, tingling ran up and down his spine and arms. His mind, burdened by circular, intrusive thoughts, congealed as one amorphous black abyss. His body, however, was alert. His body knew that he was in trouble. His body knew that drastic action must be taken. Fight. Flight. He was trying to listen to his body, but he couldn’t quite hear what it was trying to say.

Friedrich had expected to be arrested at the station in Philly, but perhaps he should have known better. Katrina was less interested in justice than she was spectacle. Indeed, It would be far more advantageous for her to take to the Internet and post unprovable accusations. She was, like him, empty of most human characteristics, and it was unlikely that Friedrich’s attack on her even left an indelible mark of trauma. Even if the cops picked up on her online statements, it’s unlikely that she would even press charges or give them a statement. This didn’t mean that Friedrich was out of the water legally, but it meant that his energy would be better spent preparing for a battle in the court of proverbial public opinion. The nine bodies that bared his mark wouldn’t ever be found, however, which game him some peace of mind.

He was lying in bed but any attempt to actually sleep would have proved futile. His phone lit up with notifications – there wasn’t much time.

He had to formulate a plan. He had a TRIS meeting the next morning but it was probably already too late to send an email excusing his absence. He had a few text messages from Tommy Turner, the drug addict fool and likely the one person on Earth who thought of Friedrich as a friend, and they read as sincere in their concern:

“Hey man, are you OK? What’s going on?” asked Tommy in the first message.

“I can’t say this in public, but I don’t believe a word that’s being said,” said another.

“Anyways, reach out if you need to talk. I’m just hanging out here.”

It was sweet how wrong Tommy was about him. Friedrich almost wished that he had the emotional capacity to treat him like a friend. He didn’t message him back – he needed to focus.

Friedrich shot out of bed and turned his light back on. He couldn’t sit around idly all night. He took 60 MG of Adderall, swallowing it back with a diet coke, and shot up up the rest of what was left of his heroin. He texted his dealer to see if he could deliver another bundle.

“20 minutes,” dutifully said the dealer.

Friedrich felt a lift in his spirits. He would not let Katrina ruin his life, or at least, he wouldn’t let her prevent him from starting a new life. He would not lie down and die.

Something must be done.

Friedrich turned his laptop on and hovered over it at his formica top table. He listened to The Brainbombs’ “Die Your Fuck” on his headphones, an artifact from his more authentic, younger self.

Smashes his face

He didn’t move

I hit him again

He didn’t scream

Cut his throat

He didn’t bleed

He turned it off. He felt embarrassed by it. Was it more humiliating to hide his private interests from others publicly or to pretend that his private interests were things that he actually liked privately. It’s all shit. His public interests were lies to others and his private interests were lies to himself. At his core, he was no one. He was blank. An amorphous collision of desire and impulse absent cohesive form or identity. A stranger to himself as much as he was to others.

Before he could sink into depression upon this insight, he realized that there was strength in it. If he was no one, then he could be anyone. If he could lie to himself as well as he could lie to others, then there was no end to the amount of lies that he could get away with. If he was void, then he could cut and paste any persona into his being that he chose, and make it work. A plan was in the process of formulating.

It’d been a long and violently ideological 15 years. How many men endured the proverbial accusations? Assault? Abuse? Racism? Sexism? Misogyny? Rape? Homophobia? Transphobia?

How did they respond? How did they weather the storm? How did they survive? Questions raced through Friedrich’s mind and he desperately sought answers. His first instinct was to escape and disappear, but that wasn’t a viable option in the digitized world. He’d be found. No, he needed an excuse. He needed rationalization and, more importantly, rationalization that would invite the sympathies of the weak minded public. That was the notion that he tried to cling to: there was a portion of the population that had been primed to believe anything. 30 percent of Americans completely under the influence of an ideological campaign that he helped pioneer. His excuse, he realized, would only be one more lie stacked onto infinite falsehoods that they’d already internalized. What’s one more?

Who was accused? Who was forgiven? Bruce Jenner and vehicular manslaughter. Caitlyn, however, was forgiven. Ken Wark, the academic that wrote the “Writers I Want to Fuck” list, would have made a terrific fall guy for the public push to penalize lascivious academics. But McKenzie Wark, beloved and respected transgender theorist, is all that anyone remembers of Ken. Friedrich was afraid, yes, but newly stirred and scintillated by the direction that his strategic thoughts were headed in. He didn’t care what people thought of him. He hated all people. The point was to be able to live without the threat of losing livelihood and, even worse, having his life of time discovered and going to prison. He just needed the right people to believe him, and those people were weak.

A buzzer rang. Friedrich looked on his security intercom and buzzed in his dealer. The interaction was quick and the nigger of South American origin was a man of few words. Friedrich always kept a blade nearby during drug transactions.

As soon as the dealer was out the door, Friedrich shot two more bags of heroin. While nodding off, his anxiety broke and he attained a steely resolve. His lingering doubts about his impending decision melted away with the warm and itchy euphoria of the drug.

Boldly, he opened his laptop and logged on. He had 43 new emails from his contacts, all of which he avoided reading but nevertheless got the gist of. A 17-year-old #MeToo or sexual abuse advocate had made some startling accusations against him involving sex and violence. Whatever. X had gone batshit in his absence. 1,433 notifications. Friedrich eye-balled the cultural mood and wagered that at least 90 percent of respondents had condemned him. Some of the arrogant commies and delusional dissident right wingers sneered and laughed. They were ecstatic to see someone they regarded as a political enemy fail to live up to the very narrow moral standards that he arbitrated online and in his political life.

“Makes sense that the woketarded loser whose tarred and feathered at least a hundred men with accusations ranging from racism to perversion would in fact be an actual pervert.”

“Color me shocked that the male feminist hates women.”

“Hey, at least he’s not a racist. LOL!”

There were some who defended him beneath the the constitutional principle of “innocent until proven guilty,” but Friedrich was too smart to know that that principle would save him in the 2020s. Polarization would win out, it always does.

He braced himself before clicking on Katrina’s account and reading the thread that had already been shared thousands of times. Fame whore that she was (and that he admired her for being,) she had it pinned to her X profile.

“I’d been secretly messaging with the well-known activist Friedrich Brooman for about four months. I admired his intelligence, and he made me feel valued and respected as an activist and as his equal. I now realize that this was all manipulation.”

Next post: “While I knew it was wrong, I felt that given what I had already been through that I knew how to identify predators. Fred made me feel mature, and I invited him to my parents’ house knowing they’d be gone. YES: this was a mistake. But I didn’t deserve what happened next.”

Next tweet: “As soon as he got to my house, Friedrich was sexually aggressive in a way that I didn’t anticipate. After multiple instances of intercourse, which up to that point had been consensual, I decided I needed a break and asked Fred if we could just relax.”

Jesus fucking christ, Friedrich thought. Even when this bitch is telling the truth she sweetens it with lies.

Next tweet: “At this point, Fred became enraged. He punched me several times, and forced himself on top of me. I was in shock. I thought I knew this person, but now realize that despite all my experiences, I am still in many ways an innocent teenager.”

With this tweet, she pinned a selfie of herself with notable bruising. Friedrich had really done a number on the bitch. Thrill. Pain. Sex. Cum. Sweat. Guilt? Friedrich was so overwhelmed by contradictory emotional and physical sensations he felt that he could combust.

Playing up the victimhood. Denying her own role in this degradation. She’s brave. She’s a hero. She’s a role model for all young girls.

Final tweet: “To my parents’ dismay, I won’t be pressing charges. It is not my wish to ruin Fred’s life or see him in prison. Instead, I want women to be warned about interacting with this man. And I want Friedrich to seek help. And as always, I stress the importance of WOMEN COMING FORWARD!”

It was perfect. Divine. Friedrich was in awe. This young girl could destroy kingdoms and conquer civilizations. She was simultaneously a worldly young woman, a sympathetic victim, an innocent child, and a nurturing maternal figure all at once. She had him. The damage done to the entity that is Friedrich Brooman would not be undone.

Friedrich Brooman was dead. As a construct, a work of his divine will, Friedrich ceased to be.

He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing his body to feel the full force of the amphetamines and opiates until his mind became a still ocean, perfectly flat and neutral, with limitless possibilities beneath its surf. The panic was gone. There was nothing left to fear. I know what I have to do.

Would it really be so difficult? He’d imagined himself, jerked off to the idea of himself eve, as a woman for as long as he’d had a conscious sexuality. Maybe the next stage of his life would be one long erotic fervor? He’d been performing his whole life; why not break his typecasting and embrace a new character?

The show must be flawless…

I can do it fuck it I’ll do it corner me and I’ll break free I’ll slip away because I’m capable of anything…

Without much intentionality, he let his fingers dance over the keyboard. As if in a fever dream, channeling a cosmic spirit that was beyond his understanding, the words trickled from his fingers and drifted into the eternal mainframe. He logged onto his X account.

“People have probably been wondering what to make of the accusations made by Katrina, who I respect and am so deeply sorry for hurting. Though I might have some discrepancies in the way in which Katrina remembers the event, the crux of her statement is true.”

Heart palpitating. Blood rushing towards cock. A tingly sensation at his temples, spine and finger tips.

Next tweet: “I haven’t always lived up to my own principles. Though I stand firmly against sexism, racism, homophobia, violence and oppression, I have been flawed in my interactions with women.”

Ecstasy. Power. Friedrich felt in control once more – no turning back.

Next tweet: “Though it’s no excuse for my actions, I want to contextualize my behavior and give it possible explanation. I have long been confused about who I am. For years, I have felt trapped in my own body.”

I can’t believe it. I’m doing this. The idiots will lap it up. The idiots will free me. The end of an era. I’m the master of my own destiny.

Friedrich was undeterred.

Next tweet: “I want to thank Katrina for her radical honesty, because she has finally made me have to confront who I am. I have never felt affirmed in my identity as a man. All this confusion stems from one truth that I now see clear as day.”

Silence.

Final tweet: “I am a woman. From here on, my pronouns are she/they, and my name is Frederica Brooman.”

Cover by Kevin Tobin

Hormonal Health (True Faith) is a novel written by Adam Lehrer. It will be published by Broken River Collective soon…