|
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: Like Lucky Necklace
Created: 09/27/2025
Dr. Morrison’s 3:00 appointment walked in right on time. The man was in his early forties, though the bright pink puffed-sleeve dress and playful pigtails made him look like he’d wandered out of a middle school slumber party. His tights were pale blue, his shiny shoes squeaked on the polished floor, and a small silver necklace with an aqua charm caught the light when he tilted his head.
“Good afternoon,” Dr. Morrison said, forcing his professional calm to remain intact. “You must be Paul.”
“Yup!” the man said brightly, dropping into the chair opposite the psychiatrist’s desk. He crossed his legs with a little bounce, his pink shoes glinting. “So, like, my wife said I should come here. Dunno why. She’s being sooo dramatic.”
His voice had a singsong quality, pitched high, laced with the slang of a cheerleader. The psychiatrist had seen countless unusual cases in his thirty years of practice, but he had never encountered something quite like this. He noticed Paul’s painted nails drumming on the arm of the chair. The gestures were casual, practiced, as though he had lived this way for years.
“Your wife thinks something may be wrong?” Dr. Morrison asked carefully.
Paul twirled a pigtail around his finger. “Yeah, she’s, like, totally stressing. She said I’ve been… off? But honestly, I feel amazing! Like, this is just me, you know? Been this way forever. Duh.” He giggled.
Dr. Morrison adjusted his glasses. “When you say ‘forever,’ you mean—how long exactly?”
Paul blinked at him, confused, as if the question itself was strange. “Umm… like, always? Since I can remember? Men wear dresses, right? And tights, and cute shiny shoes? This isn’t weird. It’s just fashion.”
The psychiatrist leaned back. “Paul, I want to make sure I’m understanding. You believe what you’re wearing is ordinary men’s clothing?”
“Of course,” Paul said with a shrug. “What else would it be?” He smoothed his dress across his lap. “I mean, guys always wear pink dresses. It’s totes normal. Gosh, you’re, like, funny, Dr. Morrison.”
The psychiatrist felt a familiar prick of clinical unease. His instincts told him this wasn’t delusion in the traditional sense—it was too consistent, too… embodied. The man wasn’t pretending. He truly believed. Morrison’s eyes drifted to the silver necklace. The aqua charm glittered faintly, almost unnaturally, like a drop of frozen sea.
“Paul,” he said after some notes were scribbled. “I have to ask—do you recall ever dressing differently?”
Paul gasped dramatically, covering his mouth with painted fingertips. “Oh my gosh, no! That’s, like, sooo silly. I’ve always been this way. Always.”
“And your wife?”
Paul rolled his eyes. “Ugh, she’s just jelly. Like, she doesn’t get it. I mean, she’s cool, but she doesn’t remember stuff right, you know? People forget things. I don’t.”
Dr. Morrison studied the man a moment longer. He was convinced Paul wore undergarments to match, though of course that was speculation. The affect, the speech patterns, the posture—it was all seamless. And yet, something about the necklace gnawed at him.
As the hour closed, Morrison leaned forward. “That’s an interesting charm on your necklace. May I see it?”
Paul brightened. “You like it? It’s sooo cute! Okay, check it out.”
He unclasped the chain and slipped it off.
The change was instantaneous. His posture slumped, shoulders sagging as if a spell had broken. His giggly, high-pitched chatter fell silent. When he spoke, the voice was deeper, gravelly, unquestionably that of a middle-aged man.
“…what the hell am I wearing?”
Paul looked down at the puffed sleeves, the pink skirt over his knees, the tights hugging his legs. His face drained of color. “Oh no. No, no, no.” He tried, with fumbling hands, to cover himself—palms pressed against his chest, tugging at the hem of the dress as though he could hide it all.
“This isn’t me! I—this isn’t—oh, God!”
Before Dr. Morrison could say anything, Paul bolted upright, chair screeching against the floor. He stumbled toward the door, dress swishing around his thighs, shoes clicking like castanets against the linoleum.
“Mr. Turner—wait!” the psychiatrist called, standing as Paul burst into the hallway. “What about your necklace?”
But Paul didn’t stop. The last Morrison saw was the frantic figure sprinting down the corridor, hands clutching at his dress, the sound of his shiny pink shoes echoing—click-clack, click-clack—until they faded into silence.
Dr. Morrison sat back down slowly, the aqua charm resting on his desk. It seemed to shimmer faintly, even without the light. He tapped his pen against the paper, then wrote only one word in his notes:
*Enchantment.*
Dr. Morrison remained alone in his office after Paul’s frantic departure. The necklace lay on the desk, the aqua charm catching light in a way that didn’t seem entirely natural. He leaned closer, squinting, as though it might reveal its secret if he stared long enough.
It was ordinary silver, and yet… not. The charm shimmered with a soft, pulsing glow, like a droplet of ocean frozen mid-splash. Morrison’s hand hovered, hesitant. Then, without deciding, he found himself unclasping the chain and slipping it over his head.
The cool metal settled against his collarbone.
A warmth spread through him, quick and intoxicating, running down his spine and into his fingertips. His back straightened, his lips parted in a breathy giggle. He blinked once, twice, and when he opened his mouth, his voice came out bright and bubbly.
“Okay, soooo, like, can you totally cancel my next appointment?” he called out toward the door, sing-song, with the chirpy cadence of a cheerleader. “Thanks a bunch, bestie!”
His secretary froze mid-keystroke in the outer office, eyes wide.
Dr. Morrison—no, someone entirely new—stood, brushing invisible lint off his jacket with exaggerated flair. He checked himself in the mirror, tilting his head this way and that. “Ugh, these colors are, like, sooo not working for me right now,” he muttered, pouting. “Gotta fix this, pronto.”
Without another word, he swept out of the office, the necklace gleaming brightly against his shirt. His gait had changed—lighter, bouncier, almost skipping down the hallway.
By the time he reached the street, he was already planning. The drab browns and grays of his wardrobe wouldn’t do. Pastels. Soft pinks, baby blues, mint greens—clothes that would complement his new favorite charm. Dresses, accessories, shoes that sparkled.
He giggled, covering his mouth with his hand as though he’d shared a secret with himself.
The afternoon sun caught the charm again, dazzling, as Dr. Morrison headed off toward the nearest boutique.
And he didn’t look back.
End.
Made with Freepik Generator