Synopsis: After awakening from the beating, Melissa learns of her new fate and life, little knowing about her future.

As I woke up on the floor after being dumped back into my room, I
found that I was stiff, and sore from the beating that I had received. If the police had seen me, I'd have been taken to the E.R. and placed in foster care. But such was not my lot. From an early age, I learned to deal with pain, deadening me in many ways as I became numb in my Spirit.

I was covered in my blood, sweat, and tears, and dust from the barn. The outfit that I wore of my mother's was ruined as was my hair, which was matted and tangled with my blood and sweat. As I slowly started to move, I saw and there were bruises starting to appear on my arms and my face. Seeing them, I was not sure how much of my now sore back was torn open from the abuse I had received.

I was kind of secure in the knowledge I was in my room where I thought I might be safe. I had my own room, full of what any boy would want. Rather, I should say what any other boy would want. I wanted things that would salve my need to be a girl. What I was not ready for was
the Hell to come when my wish was turned into my curse, a true tragedy.

I slowly got off the floor and went to my door and slightly opened it and immediately heard loud voices from the kitchen. My mother and father were in conversation about me, no doubt. I heard my father yell "He is a sissy and a fruitcake that needed to be beat," at my mother.

I started to cry and weep yet again and I began to wonder if there was something wrong with me.

I heard my mom say to my father, "No, no more beating, if I wanted to wear her clothes, then I was going to be wearing them."

My father said that, "Very well, that will be how we deal with the sissy. I would dress as a girl, and if I refused or back talked, I was going to get a whipping."

I crept to the washroom to attempt to clean up and wipe the grime off my body. I also knew I was going to be in a lot of pain when I stripped off the clothes that I had been wearing. I was
right, they peeled off of my body as the congealed blood, sweat, and dirt's glue released the clothing. I was dirty all over; even my shorts were grimed from my bowel movements.

The conversation was still going on in the kitchen although very faint but still audible. They were still going on about me and how I was a sissy for wanting to wear a dress. Never did they say that they were proud of me in any way, even though I was a very kind and considerate boy. Evidently, they wanted a tough bully instead.

I was scared and continued to think that I was some kind of sissy. Did I need help? Was I different? Was it true that I was a sissy? I only wish I knew. I slowly stripped off the blood clothes and could see the tears and rips that were in the fabric. I tried to turn to the mirror so I could see my back, I was so scared and I knew I was going to be so sore the next day.

The conversation stopped when I turned on the tap in the
bathroom and then I heard footsteps come down the hall. I could not lock the door, there was no escape, and I was trapped. There was pure anger and despise in my mothers face as she glanced at me. She said, get a bath or shower! I don't care how much it hurts you! Then, get to your room! I'll deal with you, later."

I literally cringed when she spoke to me; I had tears streaming down my face as she looked at me and told me to hurry up. My father unbeknownst to me was in my bedroom ripping out my clothes such as shirts and underwear. All of my boy clothes were gone, leaving that which a girl could wear.

When I returned to my room from my bath there on the bed was underwear, a short denim skirt and gray tank top. My mother said, "Get dressed and get to the kitchen."

While all this was taking place my younger brother was laughing his head off in the living room with his friends. I wondered 'Do I need to pray a lot more than I was doing
when I went to Church on Sundays?'

I would eventually drift off to sleep that night unsure of my future at such a young age. I began my journal writing after I was beaten by my father. I began to hate him and his lack of love for me. I also began to try and ignore what my parents said about me. I learned to realize that I had to survive in whatever way I could or my father would kill me........

Here is a bit of background on where I grew up, it was a farm my parents had inherited from his dad and it was a pretty big place. The house has four bedrooms with a large kitchen and living area. The barn was large to accommodate the horses and cattle and the chickens. I was given my horse when I turned 5 years old from my grandmother. She was to be my only friend and my only support in the years that I stayed on the farm.