As the smile in the mirror looked onward, no more than a second later, were tears streaming across the wrinkles in my cheeks from my oddly rigid smile. The reality sank in, and I crumbled to my knees. It hurt to be in that position, I learned that quickly, so I pathetically maneuvered myself just to get comfortable in my misery. I honestly felt bad for Larry, despite his fairly stoic personality, he seemed at a loss for what to do with me. I was hardly the ideal result he was looking for.
"I can't stop crying..." I mumbled into my massive breasts which nestled my head and sat on my knees. "W-well, yes, this is a dramatic situation. It could also be -- indeed, possibly, you are a woman now, of 41, she could be in her premenstrual cycle, or -- perhaps, she is in perimenopause, both are very likely to cause these sorts of mood swings. The hormone levels can be--" I cut him off. "Shut up! I've heard that line -- I get it, I'm a woman, I'm old, just... just shut up about it!" I hated that my words came out hysterical, in this woman's voice -- my mother's voice. I couldn't get away from it. There was no place I could find just myself, pieces of my mother would be everywhere I could go.
The one way I wasn't like my mother was her ability to go with the flow. I had always liked that about her, that she just kind of let most things slide. Sure she'd yell at me every now and again, and I did think she was lazy -- but that's because she was. She never really did much, everything just slid off of her. I didn't think that trait would somehow make her alright with taking her son's own life, laughing it off like anything else... "Oh, well, you're me now, deal with it."
Yet there I was, staring at my mother's face, watching her wipe away blackened tears of makeup, while laying in the fetal position on some cold floor. Somehow I calmly watched. ('Maybe Larry was right, maybe I am experiencing mood swings.') I thought to myself as I tried to gather myself. Really, it was like 60% of me was my mother, basking in the terror that I was becoming her more and more, and the other 40%, basked in the hope that I was still me, that I could still be me. Needless to say -- well, 60 is stronger than 40.
Eventually, I had to get it together, to pull myself up. I lightly apologized to Larry, and told him I'd keep in touch, both for his own interests with my experience in my new body, and with the potential for me to gain a new one. When I walked out of the room into the hall, I was alone for the first time. I took the moment to breath a deep sigh, finding myself flooding with small sensational differences in my mother's mouth, to how her cheeks moved and everything else as I did such a simple action.
"There you are! What took you so long? I was getting worried something might have gone wrong." After only a moment of peace, my mother came stomping up to me. I felt myself inches from tears at the sight of my own body again, but my past tears were enough for her. "Have you been crying again? Your makeup is a total mess, Mom. Hold still." He dug into my purse and made a quick fix to the face I tarnished. I was surprised she cared, it wasn't her problem anymore. "Good."
"Now let's get going. I've had enough of hospitals or clinics. It's time to go home and start our new lives, Mom." I could tell she took extra delight every time she called me "Mom," like it siphoning bits of her life onto my each time. Unfortunately, I think it was.
When he started to walk off, I watched him at first. It was hard to say if it was how I walked or not, but my mother certainly had a masculine stride to her. When I took my own first step, I felt lost. I was consciously aware that I might walk like my mother again, so I froze, and I just... sort of locked up. I didn't know how to move, what wouldn't be like my mother? It was hard to say. The steps I took were so awkward, I almost felt like laughing. When my mother saw, she just raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing? Let's go."
Soon my own dad was looking at me, but it wasn't me, he looking at me like he looked at my mother. His eyes gravitated to my chest first, then my face. "It really worked, eh? How's it feel?" He asked the both of us. "Absolutely amazing, Dad! Being young and a boy is soooo nice." My mother boasted, leaving them both to turn to me, as if I had anything as wonderful to say. A part of me just wanted to tell Dad off -- tell him I hated him and his dumb idea.