...apologies to the photographer and subject, I suspect you may not approve.
I stared at my stockinged lap guiltily
and cursed every strand of nylon which clad my freshly shaved legs.
No more than two minutes ago I felt fantastic... like these tights
and this dress were made just for me. Like they were meant just for
me. But now, as I sit with shame coursing through my veins I feel
like an imposter. A fake. A fraud. A freak.
Mother let out a long audible sigh. I looked up
towards her as she slid her underwear drawer shut before exhaling
sharply through her nostrils as she closed her wardrobe doors. As she
turned to look at me I returned my guilty gaze to my lap, unable to
look her in the eye. “Well... let's have a look at you.”
I gulped and for the first time in god
knows how many moments, our eyes met. I gulped again.
“Stand up.” she said. “I want to
have a proper look.”
I cringed. All I want is to be left
alone. Just for a moment. Just long enough to peel off this hateful
outfit and...
“Please.” she insisted. “If
you're going to borrow my clothes I at least want to see how they
look.”
I removed my palms from beneath my lap
and placed them flat on the mattress. I slowly and shamefully stood.
I swear I felt myself physically shrink as my mother's eyes ate into
me. Mother let out another sigh. I don't blame her. Words fail me
too.
“Well stand up straight.” she
asked. “I can hardly see what you look like stooping like that!”
I looked up at her, gulped and croaked
an apology.
“I'm not looking for an apology
Peter... I want to see what you look like... come on, head up.” she
insisted in an almost chirpy tone.
I raised myself to my full height but
still wanted nothing more than to shrivel and die. My eyes flicked
between the middle distance and my mother. Her eyes flicked from my
head to my feet and back again before something else caught her
attention. “And I suppose you were planning on wearing these?”
she asked knowingly as she crouched and picked up a pair of her
shoes. Shoes which normally lived on the rack in the bottom of her
wardrobe.
I gulped and nodded.
She sighed again. “Well I don't know
whether to make you change or let you stew in your own juices.” she
said in a disheartened tone. I murmured my preference, which I fully
believe to be the most reasonable of the two options, but this only
encouraged Mother to go the other way. “Well I think you should
stew for a while.” she suggested. “Do these fit?” she asked,
referring to the pair of black heeled sandals I’d selected.
I nodded. “Please mum.” I pleaded
when she suggested I put them on. “I don't want to.”
“Well I assume you wanted to before I
came home.” she retorted. “And you know how I feel about you
doing things behind my back.” she added. “Now please Peter... put
them on, and then we'll talk.” she insisted.
