Whats in a name?

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"ITS MY NAME AND MY NAME IS SAMUEL!" I screamed at my parents.

"Samantha Jane Walker. How dare you talk back to me in that tone of voice. Go to your room young lady!"



My mother actually slapped me. I ran to my room in tears my makeup ruined, my stupid school skirt flapping away around my thighs and my budding breasts bouncing as I made my way up the stairs. I flopped down on my pink and white with lace trim canopy bed and just cried into my covers.

It hadn't always been like this. 6 Years ago I was a boy named Samuel John Walker. Up to that fateful day I lived a happy normal life.

I was 6 at the time young and stupid, and with my friend we had discovered my fathers shotgun behind the dinner cabinet. We were playing around with it when we both fell on the floor and it went off. My boy bits were totally blasted to hell. It was loaded with blank cartridges but at close range even a blank still expells alot of hot air and powder enough to wipe away a fairly small sex.

I was left with a small hole to pee out of since nothing else could be done. This hole would never be able to allow me to control when I would pee so I would have been left with having to walk around with a bag at all times for the rest of my life. My father was part of a lodge of some sort. Mother blamed him totally of course. But it was his friend of a friend of a friend of a slightly not legal organization whose acquaintance was experimenting with not quite legal cloning of body parts.

My parent were put in touch with this person and after 3 months of me being totally miserable in a hospital I was wheeled into his lab. He took various samples and tests to try and recreate my missing equipment. For 3 months all tries failed. During another tissue scan and collection he found purely by chance that I had an underdeveloped ovary that could have be dismissed as a cyst it was so small. Since all the tries to make a male organ had failed he removed it and used that to see what he could do.

It was 8 months after my accident with me in a wheelchair and that stupid urine bag that we were called in. My father had been supplementing his research with grants of funds. We were led into a room where in this tank was a very strange looking something. It kinda looked like a alien thing with two outboard eyes and a small slim tube at the bottom. I didn't know what it was at the time. The doctor explained how he had worked this out and it would allow me to live a normal life I being very young did not see how this tiny piece of weird tissue, it was about the size of a 2 year old's system, could help my but if it allowed me to get rid of the stupid bag I was happy. Because of the damage and scar tissue the catheter caused issues with me not walking.

All I knew was that I was put under 2 days later. During my time in a induced coma the tissue was installed with a bit of trouble as he had to do something to my pelvis as well that involved cartilage from my rib cage to reshape my pelvis opening to something wider. I was in this coma for about 6 months. I had turned 7 years old and never had a party.

When I awoke after all that time I was moved to a more conventional type hospital for physio therapy and was taught how to pee like a girl. I was still called Samuel though or just Sam during this so all I knew was that I could sorta walk and was free of that bag. Wasn't crazy about the diapers though but till I got the hang of my new equipment it was better than waking up in a warm stinky mess.

It took me till the age of 8 years before I was free to return to my home for regular schooling. I kinda missed the various tutors and teachers I had had at the hospital keeping me somewhat up to date with the rest of my age group.

My room had changed though from the blue walls and race car bed to a white walled room with a kinda delicate looking bed with white sheets. They were alot more comfy than the hospital though. It took me some time to adjust to living at home again. I got to play with my legos and action figures so I was essentially happy. Mom kept trying to interest me in of all things barbie dolls. I used to tie them up as the damsel in distress for my action figures to rescue. A few of them never got rescued before the death happened though, Mom was not impressed.

Dad wouldn't play ball with me anymore which I found strange as he used the be almost pushing me to pitch this way or catch a ball that way. He said it was not proper for me anymore and to listen to my mom. I didn't understand and threw a few tantrums.

I remember the day things changed to hell for me. I was playing in my room with a new damsel ready to be chopped up with my makeshift torture table when mom and dad came into my room. They both had a very serious look on their face. I was sure I had somehow done something wrong. They held me on either side and told me that in 2 months I was going back to school with kids my own age again. It sounded scary but didn't seem all that bad at first till they dropped a big one.

I was registered legally as a girl now with the name Samantha and would have to attend school as a girl. I pleaded with them to let me remain as the boy I was and not make me into a girl. They consoled me, or tried too. The next few days are kind of a blur for memory as it was spent with me doing not quite rational things. A therapist was eventually called in to help me. I spent alot of time with her. By the time school rolled around I was mostly well not upset about it but sort of resigned to having to be treat like a girl because of my new bits. I was shown pictures of what a girl looked like below and it was what I now had. As much as I hated those lips I had to, extremely reluctantly, admit I was to all appearances a girl.

Mom and dad enrolled me in a public school at first but that didn't go well. I was punching and kicking the girls and a few boys after two days. Anytime someone called me Samantha I would get really upset. After talking with a few private schools, who also got more than an earful from the public one, they found a private school for wayward girls. I was brought there kicking and screaming,literally, and spent way too much time being force to wear the most girliest of outfits. Its very hard to kick and punch in ballet slippers and a pink poofy dress with a number of stiff petticoats.

It took me about 4 months to wear the fardling girl uniform properly. I still hate it. Grey pleated skirt, black knee socks with grey flats, starched white blouse with fake pearl buttons peter pan collar and ribbon tie. The sleeves were short and sorta fluffy at the top. There was a grey waist length top coat, and when going out on school trips a small straw hat with ribbons. I got used to the taste of soap. But I was somewhat civil in public at least.

The girls that started to develop up top earlier got camisoles to wear under their blouse, or in the case of two girls bras. The girls all knew that I claimed to be a boy, I spent many a time laughing at the actions of the girls who were developing. Many of the girls started to take an interest in boys and makeup. I wanted nothing to do with this stuff but eventually was roped into at least learning about makeup by peer pressure.

Every holiday we were allowed to go home to our parents for the holidays. Everytime I pleaded with my parents to let me go to a boys school or even a miltary one. I tried to refuse to be *a good girl* for them but my heart wasn't all that in it anymore and did what I was told with some resistance. Some of my extended family gave me looks, two uncles, but the rest were always throwing "pretty" comments at me.

It was two months before thanksgiving this year that my chest started to itch around my nipples that also started to puff out. To my horror I was growing breats buds. I tried to hide it but the school marms issued me first camisoles and then the much hated training bra. I found I was also getting really emotional and would cry for almost no reason. It was like my maleness was slipping away from me and I hated it all the more. My skin got soft and delicate, ie I got a number of cuts and bruises, and had to learn new ways of doing the same old stuff.

Like all the girls in my class who developed I was put into the sex education and hygiene class. I learned about how girls develope and why. When I was made to take care of the "baby" for 4 days my teachers were not impressed. I was then stuck with it for 2 weeks. Apparently the thing keeps track of if you ignore it or in my case bury it under clothes to keep it quiet. The shoe bag also had the liquid stains telling the teachers where I had stuffed it when it did the poopy thing. The girls all made fun of me because I was the only one to fail the baby course....twice. I grudgingly passed the third time. Ok maybe using newsprint as a diaper wasn't the best idea but it worked.

I was on my way home for thanksgiving today when I felt wet down below. I though I had peed myself somehow. It was when a few minutes ago that mom shocking pointed out that I was having my period, the course taught me that one, and I didn't take it well. I shouldn't be having this and its all their fault.

Dear diary please keep this secret but lately I have found that those pictures of boys are not quite as bad as they used to look and I find my dreams filled with me in a amazing dress twirling about some blank faced boy. I do not know why but that darn baby is almost always crying in the dream as well.

Yours trully

Samuel John Walker.

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