I’m just a girl!

"I know I used to be a freak. That's what you called me. But I’m not any more. I’m just a girl." I argued.

An AP-500 story.

“Don’t be silly, Daddy, back when I tried to be a boy!” He tried to hit me but I stepped back just in time.

“You ugly little guttersnipe. You microscopic pile of piss and pus. You gobshite. Birthing you killed your mother and you’ll be the death o’me.“

Tangent : There were times I had admired his control of English insult. But rather than his usually equally drunk opponent-friends at the pub, this time it was aimed at me. The tough ex-miner was more than a foot taller then me. Six foot four to my five foot three. With years of expenditure on his beer-belly, he weighed well over twice what I did. Eighteen stone to my eight.

Bigger, faster, nastier. I was more intelligent and nippier. But those times when he was angry and he succeeded in getting me within reach – then speed and intelligence were not enough.

Abuse – I could give lessons.
Physical abuse – not every day but so very often. And almost always without visible bruising. Arm-twisting, Chinese-burns, nipple-twisting, hair-hauling (no mere girly hair-pulling for him). This was dragging me around the house by my hair. Ouch. Sometimes he laughed if I screamed.
Financial abuse – even Christmas or birthday gifts from uncles or whatever, if any, were taken and sold.
Emotional – don’t make me laugh – or cry. I did enough of that.
Sexual abuse - he never went that far.
Neglect - although I was too often the centre of his attention.
Abandonment - I almost wished for it.

So, back to real-time without the backstory – Isn’t Christmas FUN!?

“Come ‘ere yer little bastard. I’ll teach you about being a freak. Pretendin' t’ be a girl. No way. Not in my house. Gotta be wrong that. Boys don’t change into girls. No way. C’m ‘ere, y’bastid.”

Again I ducked and wriggled away from his drink-blasted grasp. “Dad, you’re pissed and you’re being thick. How is it that you can’t see how little like you I am. And how everything I do and how I behave is exactly how Mum used to be. I’m that much of a girl – except for this useless, ugly piece of flesh between my legs.”

“Dad – I’m a girl. Look at these things on my chest. On a girl, they’re called breasts.” And I pulled my shirt open. Why was I trying logic against alcohol.

The Beast roared and tried to reach me. Was he hoping to rip my breasts from me. Or was he wanting to ‘teach me how to f**k like a woman if that was what I was pretending to be’.

I knew so many ugly stories. Some might be true. Some were just stories. Some were anecdotes. Some were anecdata (stories repeated so often that they became ‘real’ and used as data), some were lies.

He stumbled and fell. Hitting his head hard on the wood-stove corner. Blood. So much blood.

What should I do? What was most important?
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Maybe the last AP-500 of 2018. I'm thinking I might try and do a story on some of the TG elements I haven't done much of!?
AP