Into the Forest

Chrysanthemum

     It was at age four that I told my parents I felt different. They had thought it was cute in a laughable way, but corrected me, letting me know I was a boy. At age seven I told them I thought I felt more like a girl. This they did not find humorous.
     "Adam," they told me, scowling with judgement, "you're a boy. You're not a girl. God made you in His image, and to deny the way He made you is sin. God doesn't make mistakes."
     I was put into conversion therapy at age ten through some sketchy church. Yes, this is highly illegal. Yes, it happened despite.
     Two years I was subject to that torture. Two. Years. At some point I told a stranger of my troubles, because it all hurt so much. It was that kind of pain you sometimes unwillingly overshare, because your mind knows it has to be rid of the trauma somehow. It must have been that person who reported that group I was in.
     The conversionists wore the disguise of a Baptist Church. I was on a trip with them the day I told the person. A gas station attendant, at a pit stop we made on a "field trip" to another church.
     "How's it going?" a bored looking girl asked in the typical 'I-have-to-do-this' fashion.
     "Oh, just on a trip with my church, who think it's ok to try to force me to be a boy." I had shaken violently as I'd told her this, scared of what I was doing. "I'm a girl, yet they tell me I'm a boy and say I've been tainted by Satan." I paid and left, horrified that they'd know what I told her.
     It must have been her.
     Soon the Church was investigated and ultimately shut down. My parents lost custody and I became a ward of the state.
     That was when I was twelve. I was fifteen now, a grown woman. Except the family I was placed with wouldn't let me transition, or even dress like a girl, either. They didn't put me through hell like my birth parents had, but they still didn't let me be me. In my mind, though, I knew I was a girl, and no amount of pressure could have ever convinced me otherwise.
      For example, they forced me to be in football. I knew literally nothing about football. So I'd pretend I was sick every practice, and ditch every game. I wanted to be able to cheer at football games, not be in the game itself. But cheer "was for girls," and I was sent out on the field far too often.
      Today I'd come home to my worst nightmare.
      "Adam," my adopted parents said in a cheerful tone - they refused to use my pronouns or a female name - "your biological parents are getting custody of you again!"
      They had said it like it was a good thing, like I should be happy. But this was the worst thing they could have told me. I felt like I was about to vomit. The two of them kept on talking, but it was all drowned out. Everything sounded like those stations on older televisions where it was just static.
     "You'll have to excuse me," I eventually said, retreating from the situation. I flew to my room; I heard them say how I was 'too excited' on the way there. Quickly, I packed the essentials. Clothing, charger ,snacks, what little money I had.
     Their house was a single story and my room faced the backyard, so leaving would not be too hard. Truth be told, I had this all planned in advance, in case this day happened.
     I slipped through the window. I'd checked long ago, and the screen could be easily removed from the inside. I threw my pack out and wriggled myself up and out the opening. I landed lightly on my hands and forearms; catching myself after my fall was also practiced. I brushed myself off, and slunk through the back yard.
     This part was the hardest, for their house was all windows. It was daylight as well, which was to my advantage because they had motion sensor lights everywhere outside. They were also still chatting in the living room and I was around the back; as such, I went the opposite way around the house.
     But this as well was planned, and went smoothly. I slipped around the side of the house and into the neighbor's yard. He was very old and not likely to see me, or care if he did. The man kinda just sat in a chair all day wheezing; he posed no threat to my escape.
     What I had not planned, however, was where to go after I left. I had been so caught up in thoughts of escape that my destination had never been planned.
     This was bad. I'd never made friends here because everyone my own age made fun of me, or thought I was weird. Kids who talked to me we ostracized, as well.
     The first day in school here, I had made a fool of myself. "Introduce yourself, Adam," the teacher had said.
     "My name's not Adam," I told her defiantly.
     She looked confused. "Oh," she apologized. "What's name do you go by, then?"
     And that's when I had frozen. I had tried to be brave, to express who I really was in a new town, and had forgotten to come up with a name! "I... I don't know."
     Cue snickering from my classmates. I could feel a prickling feeling in my eyes, but tried to ignore it. I couldn't cry, not in front of all these new people.
     "You don't know your own name?" she mocked, now laughing along with the kids.
     I started to tear up despite my best efforts. How could I not have a name?!
     "Ok," she said after a few moments of awkward silence. "How about we just call you Adam, since that's apparently your legal name."
     I slumped into my chair in shame, red in the face. My peers had all laughed at me, said mean things. I knew that was just part of growing up, but it felt more malicious since I knew I was not 'Adam.'
     My walking was brisk from nervousness, both at the horror of having nowhere to go and the excitement of running away. I left the neighborhood I'd lived in for the past three years, heading from suburbs to the city.
     There, I planned on buying a bus ticket to someplace far away, where I could restart my life as the young woman I knew I was.
     The bus station was packed. Apparently a bus had broken down, and all the stranded people were transported here. The next bus, in two hours, was meant to pick up the stranded. I was told the next outgoing bus would be in approximately four hours. I had had a long day, had walked something like sixteen miles, and fell asleep on a bench at the station.
     I woke in the middle of the night with nothing. Every last thing I had brought with me, the clothes I was wearing being the exception, was missing.
     The station had closed long ago, and no one had bothered to wake me to tell me so.
     Realizing that the police were most likely looking for me, I began to walk once more. If I couldn't report my stolen items, I had two options: go home and admit defeat, or hitchhike and risk being murdered.
     'Death would be better than home,' I thought as I hurried down the dark sidewalk.
     The bus station was not in a good part of town, and I was incredibly paranoid. Dover, Ohio had never seemed like a scary place until today. Every sound sent adrenaline shooting through my veins. This is why I got robbed, because the city had to put the one bus stop right outside the most dangerous neighborhood in town. I began to sprint, then run.
     A large man in dark clothes stepped out of an alley. "Sir," he called, "you dropped your wallet!"
     That made me stop. My wallet? But it was gone, wasn't it. I turned around, about to yell at him to ensure it wasn't my wallet, when a shooting pain ran up my arm.
     I swung back around to face a second man with a baseball bat. I cried out as I saw it swing toward me, colliding with my temple and turning the world to darkness.