Golden Gloom - POOR - Part Four

The Boy

 

10

 

Barbara

 

 

I took stock of this new form as I had originally done: by touch; running the slender fingers of my smaller hands up the backs of my slim arms, across the slightly rounded midriff, the smooth legs, this new face.

 

The compact mirror hadn’t done it justice: the experience of looking into the mirror and seeing an entirely different identity looking back at me. In this big expansive reflection I could see every detail within its proper context. I’d never before felt myself sidestepped from my normal reality like this; shunted so completely from the sensations I was used to.

 

But most profound of these changes wasn’t the physicality of it, the encompassing reality of being twenty five years younger; it was that I didn’t recognise myself in this young woman’s face. That wasn’t my expression staring back at me, half smiling in wonder. It was a stranger’s.

 

“Shit me,” I whispered. “This is really whacked.”

 

The bathroom door was closed but it occurred to me that I might have cried out when I changed; might have woken my husband; however there was no peep from in there. I opened the door a crack. His body hadn’t moved, lying on his stomach diagonally on top of the covers of the double bed, head resting on his folded arms.

 

I closed the door silently and sat on the closed toilet, only belatedly noticing that it was something I normally wouldn’t do. That didn’t matter now. All the old rules didn’t matter. I was jittery with excitement. This felt so unreal and so entirely real at the same time.

 

The tickling gloom was still present, holding back; waiting. I could feel it. I could still change back whenever I wanted to. That was good.

 

“That’s a big frikkin relief.”

 

It had been rash to change again without knowing that would be the case but I’d lost myself in it. I’d wanted it from the core of my being. Now it had happened I was presented with waves of glee and waves of panic but I couldn’t feel anything but glad that I’d done it. I wanted to experience this now while I had the chance.

 

I knew that I could get trapped in this form but I couldn’t make myself care. I was on such a high, like I knew I might regret it later but couldn’t be concerned with that now. I wanted to get out there, pretend to really be Lorraine Parker.

 

Really be her.

 

I wanted to knock back a bunch of shorts and get pissed then go dancing. I wanted to snog a few guys, maybe shag one at the end of the night; see how it went.

 

“Oh God.” I put my head in my hands. “What’s happening to me?”

 

This wasn’t who I was. I wasn’t like that. But it felt so enticing, so nice. I wanted to give in and be like that. I wanted it with all my soul.

 

The little pink handbag had appeared on the edge of the sink. I got up and popped it over my shoulder, holding it back in place with my hand as I opened the door again by a crack. Charles hadn’t moved. He was deeply asleep.

 

I stepped out fully into the bedroom and studied him with my new eyes, my free hand resting limply on my hip. He looked... old. Fat. Kind of gross. An... adult. But he was also Charles; my husband; the man I’d spent my life with; brought up children with... twins the same age as I was now.

 

I put my fingers to my forehead, stepping away from the bed, starting to lose it again. This wasn’t right. None of this was right. I shouldn’t be wanting this. I needed my children. I needed to get back to them.

 

The light shone on Charles’s balding head, on the glistening sweat on his thick bare arms, his hairy legs. My lip curled to look at it, an immediate contrast forming with the boys I’d seen, the ones with the girls I’d spotted with their six packs and chiselled features, their brazen attitudes.

 

And as I thought of that, the corners of the room darkened.

 

I looked at the gloom gathering there and then back at Charles and realised in a whitewash of understanding what it meant; what it was lurking for.

 

The Gloom: it didn’t just want me.

 

It wanted Charles as well!

 

 

11

 

Barbara

 

 

My husband was asleep. Utterly defenceless.

 

And this power that had had its way with me, enticing me to let it in, was goading me again now with the vibration I could feel with my teeth, the pressure building up under my fingernails; telling me that I had power over it now; power over Charles.

 

I could change him too now if I wanted to, to be anything I wanted.

 

It was my choice. He wouldn’t even feel it happening. I could tell it what to do, how to transform him and it would do my bidding; do exactly what I asked of it; perfect him; give him a better life; a simpler life.

 

Make him match me as I was now so I wouldn’t be alone.

 

All I had to do was desire it and my dreams would change reality. They would change him; remake him in the image of my dearest fantasy.

 

And he would like it; surely he would. He’d welcome it. Why wouldn’t he? He’d be young again. Free again. He’d be the perfect match for me.

 

I sat on the seat at the desk, head once again in my hands, pressing hard on my temples, pushing into my eyes, then got up, paced to the door, paced back, sat again, then stood. The darkness had crept back into the corners, back under the bed, but it was there, whispering to me soundlessly, urging me on, letting me know how good it would be.

 

I looked at Charles again, still sleeping; at his portly body, the wrinkles on his face, his receding hair. Who would choose to look like that if they didn’t have to? Even if they were rich? And riches could always be regained for a man like him. Charles had such a wonderful intelligence. He could reclaim our riches any time he wanted, especially with decades more of youth ahead of him.

 

It was obvious. It had to be done. I had to do it. And in anticipation the gloom started to gather again, closing in from the corners of the room, billowing up behind me like a dark cape, creeping into the fronds of my hair, running down my arms to curl around my fingers.

 

I didn’t want Charles to be old. I wanted him to be young. I wanted the fat to wither, his hair to grow back. I wanted the wiry frame and hard muscles of a young man to wrap around me. I wanted the passion and will of a boy the same age as me. I didn’t want a middle-aged husband to trap us in our gilded cage anymore. I wanted someone with fire inside him, with power over me; a boy who knew what he wanted and took it, who didn’t worry about sobriety or propriety.

 

And as I thought these things, as I pictured this Adonis, the light took on a golden cast, the shadows seeping toward his sleeping form like hungry tentacles, slithering over his helpless body, stroking back his hair, penetrating his flesh and clinging to it, obscuring him from me.

 

I wanted this boy. I wanted a young man to take me and fuck me and show me a good time. I wanted a real man, not this flaccid middle-aged fool. I needed this. I needed it now.

 

And the golden gloom did its work, constricting around him, lifting him from the bed, consuming his face in blackness. And suddenly Charles wasn’t sleeping anymore, he was fighting it, struggling, reaching out, clawing at his face, his moans stifled; suffocated.

 

The game was broken. The trance I’d been under snapped. Suddenly I didn’t want this. I didn’t want any of it. It had been tricking me. All of this was wrong. But it was too late! The transformation was occurring now and nothing I did would stop it.

 

Charles cried out for help but I could barely hear him anymore. His entire body was covered in the shadows as he kicked and tore at them, and then there came the flicker of blackness and the explosion of it and I threw up my arms to protect me as the light crashed back in with an audible twang and Charles plummeted back down onto the bed, crying out in alarm.

 

Except it wasn’t Charles. Not anymore.

 

It was a nineteen year old boy!