Your memory of the next few moments is blurred. You feel your head impact against your father's leg as you charge through him. It hurts a lot, but he screams and falls down. The world spins around you as you tumble down the stairs, and you are pretty sure that one of your new wings has gotten injured as you crash hard against the landing at the bottom and charge for the front door.
You find opening a door with draconic paws to be not as easy as it might sound. They are built a little bit like a cheetah's paw, being cat-like but with the claws permanently extended, and your claws catch several times in uncomfortable ways as you scrabble at the doorknob. You know that you might never type or write again, and you wonder if a horrible abomination like you even has the comfort of being able to read. With the gentle words of authors that had comforted millions before you, it was always impossible to really feel lonely, and the thought of losing this comfort, having turned into some goblin-like abomination, cuts into your heart like a wicked knife. Frustrated, you try to slow down, and you focus your mind as tightly as you can as you try to force the non-cooperative digits to move individually like fingers, which is as uncomfortable and unnatural an act to perform as doing the same with human toes.
Just as you are figuring out how to turn the knob, though, you hear the discharge of your father's revolver, and splinters of wood fly. You instinctively duck, and just as your head moves from in front of the door-knob, another shot blows it clear off, with pieces of hot shrapnel flying into your scalp and neck but fortuitously missing your eye. The door, with the mechanism blown off, swings open on its own, and you charge out into the night, not slowing down as adrenaline-induced flight takes you. As you tear blindly through tangles of briers, your body eventually tires.
As you crouch in some dense growth that might or might not shield you from being seen, you begin to sob more heavily and more forlornly than you ever have before, feeling more alone than you have ever imagined that you could be. In a moment, everything has been destroyed.
You also realize that, by attacking your father as you fled, you have cut yourself off permanently. If your parents see you, knowing that you can and will fight if you are threatened, having time to explain yourself can never be in the cards. That life is gone forever. You are a monster now. You are an ogre. You are a devil. You are a sick, perverted creature that lurks, feared and hated, behind bushes.
You fall into a haunted, fitful slumber.
Even despair can only last but for so long, though. When immediate danger has passed, it is only a matter of time before hunger and exposure ultimately drags the rational, thinking mind back to itself. This actually takes you a long time. The human body and the draconic body have a few things in common. One of those likenesses is that they can go for about seven days without any water without noticing any serious ill effects, just as long as they are lying completely still and can remain cool. You come to your senses well before that, though.
A few options eventually occur to you.
First, there is an old childhood friend that you fell out of contact with after he was sent to a private academy by his parents. He is far away from where you live, and you have never tried to get back into contact with him. However, it is a long way across town to get to him, and you are not even really sure you remember the route. Even if you found him, he might just be as afraid of you as your parents are. Your friend was always nice to you, but he was always terribly afraid of things that went bump in the night. He tended to see supernatural things as being inherently hostile. Friend or not, he might or might not be very friendly under the circumstances.
A second option you could pursue is to appeal to the aid of that lady that owns the local new age bookstore, which is a bucolic-looking place that your father, a pious man who is terribly fearful of witchcraft, ardently refused to allow you to enter one day when you asked about it out of curiosity. However, even though you have become a monster yourself, you are afraid of witches, perhaps even more so now than before. After all, if little boys can turn into monstrous entities with demonic, bat-like wings, then black magic might also be real. You are not sure how you feel about going to meet someone who might be a genuine, demon-worshiping, spell-casting witch. Even if she didn't turn out to be evil, you are certain enough that getting a witch involved in your situation would just make a weird situation even weirder.
A third option is to just try to seek the help of a police officer, who will probably shoot you but who might also help heal you afterward if you survived long enough to get a word in edgewise. Then again, he might not shoot you after all. You remember your father calling a police officer about a family of raccoons in the area, and the officer had pointed out, tartly, that he is automatically put on administrative leave anytime that he discharges his firearm within city limits. However, most cops usually didn't deal with hellish-looking monsters in their day-to-day work.
You mull over these and other possibilities. You think carefully about what kind of person you are. You ultimately choose to seek help from: