Michelle | Trans Scömìche

Chapter 4 - She

TRIGGER WARNING - blood, abuse

I felt like a prisoner in my own home and body.

I felt trapped in the skin that wrapped around my muscles and bones, in the walls that framed my shelter.

I held on to the feeling of acceptation from a woman who despised me, letting go of the only person who ever understood me.

So I took the hits, took the punches and kicks that came with abandoning Scott Hoying.

"And if I ever catch you hanging around that abomination again, I won't be as light with my punishments," she made games of how loud I could scream for help, how much blood could trickle down thighs before the scars could become noticeable below my shorts. It hurt, and yet I was so happy when it was over. I wasn't angry, and neither was she.

She was smiling. At me.

My legs felt stiff and my senses were numb, I nodded and smiled a crooked smile as I made my way up the stairs. My tear-ducts had emptied themselves, I couldn't continue to cry even if I tried. I wanted to sob away the pain, but I could now only forcefully smile to try to forget.

It had become routine for these punishments to happen every night, same words at the end: "and If I ever catch you hanging around that abomination again, I won't be as light with my punishments." The funny thing was, it got worse. It got longer.

But I hadn't even spoken to anyone but my mother, or gone outside for three months.

I felt like it was my fault, my fault for being the freak that I am. I had to choose between being my mother's picture perfect daughter and getting lighter punishments, or continuing to tell her I'm a boy and getting treated harsher.

I took the ladder because I was so tired of being pulled out of bed each night from a dreamless sleep only to have the hope of falling back asleep beaten out of me.

My skin had become sickly pale and consistently cold, my eyes had dulled and I knew my hair was falling out. I was sick, but she wouldn't help me. She just gave me water and smiled.

"Michelle, what is it?" I tumbled down the steps, coughing hoarsely.

"I c-can't breathe, mommy. P-please h-help," I can't breathe I can't breathe I ca-

---

I don't remember waking up. Then again I don't remember passing out either, or getting taken to a hospital.

I'd been malnourished, they told my mother and I. The uniform slashes on my thighs didn't tell the doctors that my mother hurt me, but rather I hurt myself.

"Your daughter seems to have starved herself, as well as self harmed on her thighs and wrists. Did you know about this?" they stared her down, and I wanted to scream. I could be free.

But my mouth was as dry as cotton, so I could only hope to whatever powerful being I could think of to help me.

"Of course not. I'm a single mom, Dr. Patrick, I work twelve hour shifts. I'm barely home, and my baby's dad died a few years ago. I didn't know anything about this," the lie slipped off her tongue.

"You had to have noticed how her-"

"his," I managed, "h-is. I'm a boy."

The doctor looked down and have me a strong smile, nodding before turning back to my mother, "you had to have noticed how his hair was falling out. Your son is practically balding, and noticeably thinner."