|
You are only seeing a fraction of my work. If you want to see it all join my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/itsmetoo If you are already a supporter, go to the Table Of Contents on my Patreon and click the proper link to get the new password. |
Captioned Images Series: All He Could Do
Created: 03/21/2026
Bobby sat cross-legged on the edge of his old twin bed, the same faded blue comforter still bunched up from years of restless sleep. The body he now inhabited—his mother’s body—felt both familiar and impossibly foreign. The off-white button-down dress with its short puffed sleeves and delicate floral print hugged his frame in ways that made every breath feel borrowed. Suntan pantyhose whispered against his legs with every small shift, and the black pumps he’d slipped on to “look proper” pinched at the toes he no longer owned. His hair, pulled severely into a low bun, tugged at his scalp like a constant reminder. In his manicured hands rested one of his favorite comics, the bright cover slightly creased from a dozen previous readings. He stared at the bold panels, the speech bubbles, the caped hero frozen mid-leap, and felt a dull ache bloom behind his eyes. He wanted to devour the story the way he used to—sprawled on his stomach, chin propped on both fists, lost for hours. But the words swam. The letters refused to hold still. His mother’s mind had never learned how to read comics; they were just colorful noise to her. Bobby’s own excitement, his old fluency, had no place left to live.
He turned another page anyway, hoping muscle memory or sheer stubbornness might bring something back. Nothing came. The dress’s crisp collar chafed against his neck, and he caught himself reaching up to loosen it—then stopped. Mothers didn’t fidget with their clothes like impatient boys. Mothers sat straight. Mothers kept their hands folded or busy with useful things. He closed the comic slowly, almost reverently, and set it face-down on the bedspread as though hiding evidence. The room smelled faintly of the lavender candle his mother always burned on Sundays, mixed now with the dusty plastic scent of his old toys. Everything was the same and none of it was his anymore. He glanced at the poster peeling at one corner above the dresser—his favorite superhero team staring back with determined grins—and felt his throat tighten. He couldn’t even hum the theme song that used to live in his head. That sound belonged to a voice he no longer had.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway—slow, deliberate, the soft creak of someone wearing sensible flats. Bobby’s heart lurched. Without thinking, he shoved the comic under the pillow, smoothing the fabric over it as though concealing contraband. He stood quickly, wobbling for a second in the unfamiliar heels before catching his balance. The mirror across the room showed a woman in early middle age with neat makeup and calm eyes, looking exactly like the person everyone expected to see. He hated how convincing the reflection was. He hated more how automatic the next movements felt. Bending at the waist—careful, ladylike, knees together—he began gathering the scattered toy cars that still littered the carpet. Red Mustang, blue pickup, black racer with one wheel missing. He placed each one into the old plastic bin under the desk, arranging them in tidy rows the way his mother always had when she “straightened up” his room. The motions were hers, borrowed without permission, and they fit too well.
By the time the footsteps paused outside the door, the floor was clear. Bobby straightened, brushing imaginary lint from the dress’s skirt, and turned toward the sound with the pleasant half-smile he’d watched his mother wear a thousand times. The doorknob turned. Light from the hallway spilled across the threshold, catching the faint sheen of pantyhose and the modest gleam of the pumps. Whoever stood there would see only her—composed, tidy, maternal. No trace of the boy who once raced those same cars across this carpet at top speed, making explosion noises and laughing until his sides hurt. Bobby felt the comic’s absence like a missing limb beneath the pillow. He wanted to reach for it, to tear the pages open and read until the world made sense again. Instead he clasped his hands in front of him, fingers laced just so, and waited. The door opened wider.
No one spoke right away. Bobby kept his gaze soft, eyes slightly lowered in that practiced way his mother had when she was listening. Inside, something small and furious kicked against his ribs. He was still here, trapped behind the bun and the button-down dress and the polite smile, watching his own life become someone else’s memory. The comic waited under the pillow like a secret heartbeat. One day, maybe, he would find a way to read it again—not as her, but as himself. Until then he would pick up the cars, smooth the bed, answer in her gentle voice, and pretend the story still belonged to him. For now, that was all he could do.
Made with Vivago Generator