Feminine Fugue
View Story Details
Feminine Fugue
Feminine: (fem e nin) adj. 1 female; of women or girls
3 suitable or characteristic of a woman
4 effeminate, womanish
Fugue: (fyoog) n. (2) Psychiatry a state of psychological amnesia
during which the subject seems to behave in a conscious
and rational way, although upon return to normal
consciousness he cannot remember the period of
time nor what he did during it; a seemingly temporary
flight from reality.
Prologue
1998
"Mitchie?" she asked. I turned to look at her, just to acknowledge that I
had heard her.
"You were acting really weird yesterday. Are you feeling okay?" she
asked.
"Yeah," I said, feigning surprise at her question. "Why do you ask?"
"You wanted to go shopping, and then get your hair done. You ordered
stuff I normally eat when we ate out, even dinner. You didn't complain
once; not while we shopped, or at the salon, where you looked like you
wanted the works. You even asked for a manicure, and a pedicure. The
look on your face said you enjoyed it. "You even looked envious as I got
my roller set, the whole entire time!
"You felt the fabric of every piece of clothing I bought, and the only
reason I did buy the things I did: was because you said they would fit.
The stuff you said you didn't like, and I did; I tried them on and didn't
like them! That's weird! Don't you think?"
She said, in the form of a question, "Sweetheart, I was trying to give
you a good day, a day just for you," I told her as I was driving the rent
car. A weekend trip out of the city to: well, another city. From New York
to LA, to be exact. Going out to eat, shopping, events, museums, local
landmarks, etc. Why not a Lakers game? I want to at least see the Tar
Pits.
"But, you know what's really weird? It seemed like you wanted to dress in
something different when you woke up yesterday. You picked up one of my
tanks and a pair of panties and shorts from my suitcase before I stopped
you. When I pointed out your duffel bag and garment bag to you, you
seemed perplexed that it was yours. I even heard you say: 'But I am
Misty' right before I got in the shower, what was that about?" She
queried.
"I was probably just messin' with you," I said in my best Texas drawl.
"That Texan in you didn't show up once yesterday, you sounded like you
were from Malibu, or a cultured girl like me, from Connecticut, or..."
"I do like to act as well as write, you know," I cut her off.
"Yeah," she said, looking at me while biting her nails.
"But, you seemed different. You weren't you, well, never once you. You
weren't 'My Mitchie.' You were like... someone else or somethin.' That's
kyn'a weird."
ONE
2006
The doctor informed me that it was more than likely a mental disorder.
What is it with me and women doctors, I asked myself for the hundredth
time.
"How long have these... 'episodes' been happening?" she asked.
"I guess maybe sixteen years now; since I was twelve, thirteen maybe."
"How long does an episode usually last?"
"Between several hours, to maybe a day, or two usually, maybe sometimes
even three."
"What is the longest period of time that you don't remember?" she asked.
"I guess, when I was in college. One summer an episode lasted four days.
I was fired from a job for not showing, or calling in," I confessed.
"And then, afterwards, you just wake up? Is that how it happens?"
"Yes," I answered.
"Dressed in women's clothing?"
"A majority of the time," I was very embarrassed. "Yes," I said, shyly.
"It's okay," she told me, with a general woman's voice and tone of
reassurance. "Where do you get the other clothing?" she asked, rather
sweetly.
"I don't know," I replied bluntly, cutting her off.
"Have you ever woken up hurt or injured, in any way?" she probed.
"No," I answered, honestly.
"Has anyone ever told you they have seen you and you can't recall it."
"No." Then it came to me and I cut her off, again...
"Have..."
"Wait, a girlfriend once told me I didn't answer my phone for a day, or
two maybe, I don't remember. She stopped by and I didn't answer the door.
She told me she peered in the window and saw a woman in the kitchen with
music playing loudly. She broke-up with me, thinking I was cheating on
her," I told her. "That was well after I awoke, which, incidentally was
three days later, I was in bed wearing a nightgown, I don't know where it
came from. Or the breast-forms."
"Well, there isn't really anything I can do. I'm going to put you in
touch with a psychiatrist. Her name is Doctor Jennifer Wyatt. Here is her
contact information, please do set up an appointment. In the meantime, I
will call her and discuss our conversation, to give her some insight
towards looking into your dilemma. As I am sure you are aware I will
never discuss this with anyone outside of the medical field, there is of
course the principle of confidentiality," she said, as I left.
My name's Mitchell Dawson. I'm a normal guy in most respects.
With the glaring exception that I sometimes wake up days after I've gone
to sleep and I have no recollection of what I've done for prolonged
periods of time.
I'm an author. Some would say accomplished by having published six
novels.
I'm very modest and quite humble, I attribute that to my parents.
I'm not filthy rich, but if I keep it up at the rate I'm going I will be
with a half-dozen more books. I live an extremely comfortable life in
Texas. My lake estate is not too far outside of the city but not in it,
so I can concentrate on writing.
My parents passed away while I was in college at the University of Texas.
They were my only family. I've no siblings, aunts, uncles or cousins.
I've always seemed to strike-out with every girlfriend I've ever had.
Usually, the cause is one of my 'episodes.' More on those later.
TWO
Dr. Jennifer Wyatt seemed like a nice woman on the phone. When I walked
in her office I saw she was also extremely beautiful. She wore a smart
beige pantsuit with a white blouse coming out over the lapels. Her blonde
hair was taut into a ponytail, nearer to the top of her head than her
nape. The glasses she wore, a simple gold wire-rimmed pair, didn't
distract from her eyes. In fact they merely enhanced her beautiful blue,
jewel-like eyes. They were intelligent eyes, almost scheming.
We shook hands and she pointed me to sit on her chaise -lounge, I think
that's what it's called.
"It's nice to meet you Mr. Dawson, I've read several of your books,
you're a very good writer," she told me.
"Thank you," I said, as I would to any fan, but I hoped this was
different.
"I've talked to Dr. Simmons about your experiences, but in order to get a
better feel for you and what happens to you during this, and before I can
even attempt to begin thinking of treatments, I need to spend a few
sessions going over your past with you, okay?" she asked; her voice very
reassuring; even calming.
"Okay," I told her.
"Do you mind if I record our conversations for further analysis by me
later, and perhaps my colleagues, whom might be beneficial to your
diagnosis and treatment?"
"Um, no, I guess not," I replied, seemingly unsure.
"As I am sure you know, there is Doctor and Client privilege. This also
pertains to anyone who might peruse the recordings with me. Also, if the
tapes are ever released for research purposes your name, as well as mine,
will be dubbed over."
"Okay."
"I have done a little research into your problem and, well there isn't
really much out there to help me diagnose you, so I'm going to have to
spend more time than I usually do speaking with you and getting a sense
of your problem. I really don't know where to begin, so we'll just start
at the beginning..."
I heard her click on the tape recorder.
"When was the first time that you realized this was happening to you."
"Uh, I guess the first time I became aware of it was when I was about
twelve. I woke up one Sunday during the spring of the sixth grade. I
remember going to sleep the previous Friday, I had gone to the movies
with a couple of friends. I was scared at first, wondering what had
happened to me. I didn't remember anything from Saturday, not one single
thing. My mother woke me up for church, and I thought she was kidding at
first. I tried to tell her it was Saturday, but she insisted it was not.
She thanked me on the way to church for helping her with all of the
chores around the house the day before. I remembered nothing at all about
it," I told her.
"Okay. Did you have many others when you were young?"
"Yeah. Up until I was about fifteen or sixteen, I would be missing a day
sometimes once every two or three months. I wanted to ask my Mom about
it, but was kind of scared to."
"Why were you scared, did you not trust her?"
'No, I mean yes I trusted her, I just wasn't sure what would happen."
"Where was your father?"
"He traveled a lot. I think I saw him once a week, no, two weeks at
best."
"Did you ever resent him for not being there?"
"No. Not at all. Well, when I was young, maybe a little.
But, in high school and after I respected him, revered him. He was only
providing for his family. He just had to travel a lot for work, he was in
the oil business."
"During high school, did your memory loss increase in duration?" She
inquired.
"Well, there were one or two instances where I might forget one,
sometimes two days. It oddly never happened on a school day. It always
seemed to happen on the weekend, during school breaks or in the summer.
The summer between my junior and senior years I didn't remember three
days for the first time."
"You never told your parents about any of this?" she asked.
"No, but," I paused, "I was always curious if my Mom knew."
"What do you mean 'knew?'"
"Well I do wake up in women's things," I said.
She nodded and asked, "Did anyone ever say anything to you, that maybe
they saw you."
"Yes, in college I had two neighbors in the same duplex. At a party one
night Samantha came up to me and said I had never told her I had a
sister. I asked her what she was talking about and she told me she had
met my twin sister Misty the weekend before. I asked her where and she
said right outside the house, at the bus stop. She said she was carrying
a bunch of shopping bags when she stepped off the bus, and that she
smelled like she had just come from the salon. I said yeah, I have a
sister. I asked her if she thought she was pretty, just being curious,
and she replied: 'are you kidding? She's sooo gorgeous!' Thankfully we
never really talked about it again."
"I see. When did you first wake up dressed in women's clothing?"
"My senior year, my parents were both gone, on a vacation. They trusted
me, I think, and left me home while they were gone for a week. They left
on a Thursday. I remember going to bed that Friday night, having dropped
off my girlfriend after a date. When I woke up, it was Monday morning, I
was dressed in some of my mother's clothes. My hair, which was a little
longer than most other guys, about down to my shoulders, was very curly
when I woke looked in the mirror. My face had been made up too. That was
the first time," I confessed.
"I see. Did it happen more frequently after that initial time."
"Just about every time after that," I told her. "Matter of fact, the only
time it doesn't happen is when I might take a nap. Sometimes I get tired
writing and I might nap later in the day, I pretty much always wake up
normally about one to two hours later. Only once have I woken up several
days later after a nap."
"Do you ever feel depressed, and then suddenly very happy?"
"No. Not really. I'm pretty much always happy, in a good mood."
"I see." She paused. "Have you ever heard of fugue?"
"No, is it some sort of plant or something?"
"Noho." She chuckled. "It's a term. It's a state of amnesia. You don't
remember anything at all about a period of time, but you are totally
aware during that time. Later.... Well..."
"Like, schizophrenia, or two personalities?"
"Schizophrenia? No. Dual personalities? Maybe. But, you are a very
rational person. Bipolar is out of the question because you seem to have
no sudden mood swings." She was quiet for a few moments.
"We are almost out of time for today, but before our session next week I
want you to think about the times this occurred after you were fifteen or
sixteen. Any details from that time that you can recall."
"Okay."
"Thank you for coming, I hope I can help you, and I'll see you next
week."
"Thank you, till then."
I went home and thought a little about the later part of high school,
then college, then up to now. I thought a while about my last 'episode',
where I woke up in a hotel room in Dallas, dressed to the nines, almost
clad like a hooker or stripper would.
My hair had been colored. The last thing I remember was going to bed five
nights before, two hundred miles away.
THREE
When I was called in to the doctors inner-office I noticed a very pretty
young-woman walking out. I wondered if it would be immoral to ask the doc
about her. But I knew it was definitely unethical for her to tell me.
This time the Doc wore a brown suede skirt to her knees, a white sweater
with a mock neck and dark hose that showed off every curve of her legs.
"We will spend this session going over anything you can remember from
high school on," she said after I sat. "Next session I'm going to bring
in a hypnotist; and I want you to know that I personally don't really
like to do this, but after some consultations with some colleagues, they
persuaded me that it could be a valuable tool."
"All right."
"I've just had a cancellation right after your hour, so if you are free
we can make this session two hours, if you like?"
"Sure. I don't have anything planned this afternoon."
"Well then, lets get started where we left off. Did your mother or father
ever say anything to you about the days you don't recall?" she asked
after turning on the tape recorder.
"No. It never really happened when my Dad was home. My Mom, basically she
just said thank you for helping me out. I didn't know what to think."
"What about your girlfriends, or any particular girlfriend for that
matter, did they ever say anything?"
"I never said anything to them about it. And, thankfully, it never
happened when they were around, or when we would sleep together, spend
the night," I lied.
"Even when I was around friends, or stayed at their places, it didn't
happen," I told her, honestly.
"I see." She paused for a few moments. "Have you tended to gradually
become more, oh, how should I put it? Have you awoken in a more feminine
appearance, in a gradual way? A progression, so to speak?" she asked.
"Yes. It started out with my mother's night robe. I never really woke up
like that again until college. Then one morning I woke up in panties, bra
and a short sleep dress, or whatever that's called. Several months later
I woke up with makeup on, and found makeup in the other bathroom of my
apartment. I told my parents that it was a one bedroom and they were
footing the entire bill for the place. Gradually I would find more and
more things in the other room, over the four years I lived there by
myself. I would have an 'episode' more often, during those times.
I would wake up two or three days later and find new things in the
closet, and in the bathroom," I told her, and kept going. "I've always
worn my hair longer, and one time I woke up and my hair had obviously
been trimmed in a, well, feminine style." I waited for her to react, or
respond, and she didn't, so I continued with my thoughts,
Isn't that why I'm here? Is she even listening to me? I thought.
"I once woke up with a card pinned to my fake breasts that read: 'Thank
you for the good time, Carl.'"
"Really?" she asked, incredulously.
"No, I'm just seeing if you're really listening."
"I am," she said, clearly not amused by my joke. "And, it's not a sleep
dress, it sounds like you were wearing a chemise or baby doll," she
added.
"Since you hit on it, are you bi-sexual, or have any kind of homosexual
feelings?"
"No," I turned to look at her with that answer, "I'm strictly straight in
that respect. I was only joking," I repeated.
"Are you transvestite, or transgender?"
"No. My name is Mitchell. A man with a healthy sex-drive for the opposite
sex," I said.
"So, when you wake up wearing the feminine things: you don't feel
anything? No sensations, or any sort of arousal, at all?"
"Uh, a few times I have felt something when I wake up like that."
"Describe the last time."
"Well, I woke up about six months ago and my hair had been colored and it
was full of perm rods. My face looked like it belonged to a model and I
was wearing a corset, garter belt, hose, I was wearing breast forms I had
never seen and my nails had been done. That was the first time I really
felt any uh, stirrings, down there."
"I see, have you ever woken up somewhere else, besides the bed you went
to sleep in?"
"Yes." I replied quickly, seemingly not wanting to elaborate about it.
"It's okay Mitchell, I'm your therapist."
"About three weeks ago I woke up in a hotel room in Dallas."
"How long did it last, your 'episode'?"
"Five nights."
"Wow! And you have no recollection at all, of how you got there?"
"No."
"Were you wearing other clothes?"
"Yes. I had a pink tube dress on, a pink bra and thong panties. And my
hair had been dyed."
"To your present color?"
"Yes." I grabbed a tress of my hair. It was now a sandy blonde color with
lighter blonde highlights and darker roots.
"You weren't hurt in any way?"
"No."
"Did you have any other clothing with you?"
"Yes. My suitcase was in the closet, or her suitcase, I mean. It was like
I had left home and packed up only things from the other bedroom. There
was makeup and everything."
"How did you get back to home?"
"I rented a car, and well, I drove home wearing some of her clothes."
"How did you rent a car without a license and credit card, yours I mean?"
"Actually. My third year of college, I woke up one morning and I had a
driver's license bearing the name of Misty Dawson. It had my birth date
on it."
"Interesting," she commented.
"To say the least. After the next 'episode' I had a purse. About three
weeks later a Social Security card came in the mail with Misty's name on
it."
"Hmm. Have you ever thought of installing cameras in your home, to maybe
see if you can capture Misty?"
"It's funny you mention that. I've been checking into updating my
security system at home. I might have to set up something for that
bedroom. Maybe a motion detector attached to a camera." I thought aloud.
Then I thought: You really do bear all in these sessions, if you were an
unethical doctor you could blackmail someone.
"That might be a good idea." She paused. "Tell me about this spare
bedroom. We'll call it Misty's room, what does it looks like?"
"It's really like another master bedroom, it's pretty big. It has a queen
size bed in it, a TV..." I began, she cut me off...
"Be a little more specific, it's important because I might pick up
something. Like, did you buy anything for the room, or was it solely
Misty's doings?"
"No, I, as in Mitchell, didn't buy anything in the room."
"How did it all get there?"
"Well, the furniture, one day about two years ago, I've lived in my
present house for five years now, a furniture company guy showed up with
it. I told him he must be mistaken. He showed me the invoice, the
signature said Misty Dawson, and it looked a lot like mine. Plus the
credit card number was mine, so I signed for it. It's nice furniture.
There is a canopy bed with mesh draperies hanging from the top. It came
with a large dresser and a sit down vanity with a huge lighted mirror.
Also a computer desk and a small entertainment center. All of it is a
white, flecked-textured wood. It looks like it is marble."
"Is there a computer in the room?"
"Not when I first set up the furniture. But after my next 'episode' I
found a new Macintosh sitting in there, it's pink. It matches the new
silk bedding, and curtains. And just about everything else in the room."
"Describe the bathroom, and any closets. Do you have lots of things."
"Well, I'm starting to think that; what's that old saying? 'If I don't
have it, they probably don't make it.'" I paused, seeing if she was on to
what I was saying. No? Guess not.
"It's a big bathroom. It has two sinks, a lot of drawers and shelves, two
walk-in closets and a Jacuzzi garden tub."
"Please elaborate for me, describe what is in there."
"Well, in the dressing mirror area, there is of course makeup, a ton of
it actually. I've been with girlfriends in the cosmetic section before,
and they are sold to like a used-car-salesman would sell. I must be a
pushover," I told her. "There is everything a girl needs for doing her
hair: curlers, curling irons, a chi iron, brushes and hair dryers. There
is also a sit-down, domed drier. There are all kinds of feminine products
I guess you call them."
"What about clothes?"
"Oh goodness. Everything."
"Like, what? And how much?"
"I have never really counted all of it or anything, but, there are three
drawers full of panties and bras; and one full of hosiery and such. In
the closet there are probably fifty to sixty, no more dresses than that,
maybe a hundred, there's a bunch of jeans, shorts, skirts and a lot of
shoes. From heels to pumps to boots to sandals and slides. Probably at
least fifty or sixty pairs. In the other closet there is a lot of
lingerie. Things for sleeping in and sexy things."
"What do you mean 'sexy things'?" she asked.
"You know, naughty outfits and things like that."
"All of this had to have cost a fortune, you have to notice that as
Mitchell, when you are checking on tour finances and such, I'm sure you
are probably well-off, but..."
"Oh I do notice that, it's usually one of the first things I do when I
wake up after an 'episode.'" I told her. "See what the damage is, so to
speak."
"What do you do when you wake up after an episode. Take me through it."
"Well, the first thing I do every morning that I wake up as Mitchell is
check the date. If there are no missing days I just go about living my
life. Usually I know right off, because I am dressed in women's clothes.
But I have woken up and missed one day, and I am dressed in my own
clothes. If there are some days missing I go to my computer and check my
bank statement, credit cards, etc."
"What is on the computer in Misty's bedroom?"
"I don't know, I don't know the password," I said.
"Hmm. I see." She paused for a moment. "I want to try something," she
said as she wrote something on a piece of paper. "I want you to take this
home and tape it to the mirror in Misty's bathroom."
I looked at the sheet.
call me:
Dr. Jennifer Wyatt
585-3782
"Maybe Misty will call, maybe she won't, but I don't think it will harm
anything to try. If you ever need to talk to me at all, even as Mitchell,
call that number. That's my cell phone."
"Okay, thank you. I'll see you next Wednesday then?"
"Yes. And I do stress, call me if you need anything."
FOUR
When I got home I went straight to work, I fired off two chapters of my
then upcoming novel. That night I took a girlfriend to dinner, and then
to her house.
I told her I had to get up early for a flight, for obvious reasons, you
know.
I thought for the hundred millionth time: Just once again I want to wake
up with a beautiful woman, instead of waking-up looking like one.
I finally found a home security company I could work with. I had them
install an elaborate system; some of it under the guise that I was
concerned about my seventeen year old daughter, and I was sure her
boyfriend were sneaking in when we weren't home. The installer actually
laughed a little when I told him, and I thought if I really was doing it
for that reason I would probably kick his ass for laughing.
The main hardware for the system was stored in a closet under the
stairway. I accessed the network from my PC; or through my laptop and PDA
wirelessly.
It would record up to 120 hours on any one of the twenty-five motion
activated - and infrared detecting (for body heat, he told me) - wireless
cameras around the house.
I could move those anywhere I wanted to pretty much, they were no bigger
than a fingernail. The system recorded on one continuous loop.
I played with it a little, becoming familiar with the software, and then
began to place the cameras around the house. I put one at each of the
main doors I used into and out of the house: the front, back and garage
doors. I put one in the kitchen, two in the living room, one in the bar
area of the living room and as I went upstairs I placed one in the
stairway. I put one in my own bedroom facing the bed, then I went to
Misty's room.
That meant I had sixteen more. I put them all over the bedroom, bathroom,
closets, and even one facing the garden tub. I figured there wasn't a
spot in the room where you could be and not be recorded. I taped the note
from the doctor on the bathroom mirror and went to sleep.
FIVE
I stirred awake and knew right away that it was probably not the next
morning. I was in Misty's room. I had not even opened my eyes and I could
feel my hair in curlers. When I did open the peepers, I saw that my chest
was protruding out from the covers. I rolled over, the clock on the cable
box said 9:30a.
I pulled the covers off and saw what I was wearing: the white bustier
with the little pink bows, and the garters were attached to light pink
hose. I could barely make out the bulge in my white, silky panties from
my friend. I noticed my nails were done again, French ones this time,
pink and white, that was new.
I had the biggest of my breast forms in the cups of the bra. As happens
sometimes, well pretty often, I felt my friend stir. I couldn't help but
become aroused. How could someone not looking like this, feeling this? I
thought.
I rose from the bed and went into my, Mitchell's, bedroom. I checked the
computers date: Sunday, November 2.
The last thing I remember was going to bed on Wednesday night, the 29th
of October, this meant it was a Sunday.
So three full days and nights. What did she do? Or, did I do? Hell, I
missed Halloween. I thought.
I went into the software for the security system and hit stop and save.
A little window popped up saying it would take fifteen minutes to
complete.
I went back to Misty's room and went into the bathroom. I found the boxer
shorts I had worn to sleep lying on the floor. I looked in the mirror.
The face staring back at me was mine, I guess. It was very beautiful in
the makeup, it was flawless actually. Almost like a professional had done
it. If Misty did indeed do this, or did anything as a career for that
matter, she had to be a makeup artist, or a hair stylist maybe.
I took off the net covering my curlers and looked at them in the all of
the angles of the many mirrors. I could see the highlights winding around
the small rollers. The rich brown tone contrasting with the gold's, and
purely natural blonde highlights. There must have been fifty of the
rollers in there. Most of the time, when I awoke like this, I mean really
looking good, I didn't mind it so much.
But every once in a while I would wake up looking like hell. As if I had
been up all night partying. Still wearing the same clothes that I had
worn the night before, it seemed. I just wish I could remember something!
I felt a little chilly, so I grabbed a robe, pink of course, and went out
to see if maybe I would finally get lucky and find Misty's computer on.
It was, but it prompted me for the password. I tried typing in a few new
ones I had wanted to try, but nothing. When I thought about the note I
had taped up to the mirror, I got up to go look and saw something: a
disposable camera. Well, well. I thought. Perhaps I might find something
there?
With camera in hand I found the note wadded up in the wastebasket. It was
under what looked like half weeks worth of used makeup removal pads. I
sat and wondered why she would do that, not be curious about it. The
note, I mean.
Who is she? I mean, she has to have feelings, because I don't feel
anything, or remember anything, when I am her. What does she like? What
does she do?
Not for the first time, I thought a repulsive thought; has she ever, you
know, done anything sexual with anyone? I shivered at the thought of her
being with a man.
I went back to the computer in my room and saw that it was still saving
the long feed of video. I checked the statements of my credit cards and
saw quite a few charges.
The first was for gas at a filling station. Followed by a few stores at
the outlet mall down the highway. Then there were some new ones I had
never seen before: several bars in the downtown area. There were a few
more on the following night, Halloween. On the afternoon of the 31st
there was a charge at what I saw was a costume shop, then a drugstore and
then a Target. There were no charges after the two small tabs at the
bars. They were called Spring and Cloud 9 Club. I had never heard of them
so I Googled them.
Spring had a website that showed it to be a restaurant and lounge. There
was no site for the other, but the search results showed a couple of blog
links. I clicked on one and read the entry from a few weeks back. She
talked about meeting:
'a woman at cloud 9 club and she took me back to her place and did things
to me that I would never, ever dream of. It's by far the best Lesbian bar
I've ever been to in the south, perhaps the States.
I scrolled to the top and noticed she lived in DC and was a reporter for
some political magazine.
"So she's a lesbian, is Misty?" God I hope. I thought.
I closed all of the open windows on my PC and noticed the file was saved
on the security system. I clicked on the play icon and watched.
I saw myself walk into Misty's room, wearing boxer shorts. I went into
the bathroom. I was rummaging through the drawers until I pulled out
panties and a bra. I started a bath and picked out clothes and hung them
in the dressing area.
I poured something from a bottle into the bathwater. I pulled out a razor
and got into the tub with it. I watched as I shaved my legs sticking out
from the steaming water, then rose to my knees while shaving my rear and
my pubis area. I ran it across my abdomen and chest and then under my
arms.
I then sat in the tub for several moments and finally pulled the drain.
I soon hopped in the shower and began washing my hair. When finished
rinsing my long hair I dried myself, wrapped my dripping-wet hair in a
towel, slipped on the panties I had chosen as well as the bra, placed the
smallest of my breastforms into the cups and went to the vanity mirror.
On the way I tore off the note on the mirror and threw it in the waste
basket, shaking my head. The camera angle then switched to the bedroom
where I turned on the computer and typed something in.
When I watched that I paused the video and went and placed one of the
cameras that was redundant right next to the keyboard, and returned to
watch.
I saw myself sit at the vanity and tighten my turbaned head. I rubbed a
creamy makeup all over my face, plucked my eyebrows, rubbed them with
some sort of pencil and then brushed my face all over with a large fluffy
brush. I then rubbed eye-shadow around each eye, followed by two or three
different shades.
Then I used some kind of other pencil to rub around each eye, right at
the inner lid and then applied mascara. I then rubbed my cheeks with a
red powder, lined my lips with another pencil and filled it in with
lipstick. I pulled the towel from my head and saw my hair fall down over
me. I then began to brush it.
I couldn't believe it at first. It was weird watching myself, not having
any recollection about it, whatsoever. I looked at myself in the full
mirror on the open bathroom door. I really looked like her, but, the way
she moved.
I, or Misty, sat in her room and brushed her hair out and then pulled it
taut into a ponytail. Then the camera angle switched when she entered the
closet area. She slipped on a pair of form fitting jeans, slid a white
cashmere sweater over herself, that even I have to admit I like because
I've woken up in it, and slid into a pair of white boots with two-inch
heels. She then went and sat at her computer, typing away.
I clicked the button on the screen for the next camera angle and it fast
forwarded to her grabbing a coat off the rack by the door and the cameras
followed her out the door to the garage. In an instant the view then
changed showing a UPS driver at the front door dropping a package. A few
seconds later it showed Misty walking into the house again from the
garage, she hung the keys to the Mercedes convertible on the hook by the
door; fumbling a bit as she had several shopping bags in tow. The camera
followed her up and into her room.
This definitely isn't me, I can't walk like that! No way! I thought.
I felt my stomach grumble and went downstairs. Rummaging through the
fridge I found the basics for a sandwich, built it and sat down at the
table in the breakfast nook. I picked up the sandwich for the first bite
and the phone rang; land line, I thought, Shit! I walked over and picked
it up, hitting the curlers with the handset.
"Hello?"
"Mitch!" I heard, it was Rob, my agent. "How much you got done?"
"Uh, I don't know, maybe bout a third," I replied.
"C'mon buddy! I don't want to stifle your creativity, but a deadline is
looming. They don't write those million dollar advances for nothing!"
"I know Rob, but I'm not going to put out a mediocre book, I gotta do
research. The reason they sell: is because they're realistic novels,
Rob."
"I know, I know..."
No, you don't. I thought.
"The release date is May, that means it's got to be on my desk in two
months." He seemed agitated. "We have to get this out for the summer
reads Mitch...."
"It will be, I promise you. And tell them that," I interrupted.
"We gotta hit those beach readers Mitch! Okay? Where are you headed for
research this week?"
"Not sure yet, the story may have taken an unexpected twist," I told him,
purposely being vague.
"Call me if you go anywhere, I'm tired of not knowing when I can book
appearances for you."
"Okay, will do," I said, and hung up. I went back to the sandwich. Then I
went back upstairs and hit play.
SIX
Mr. Dawson, have you ever been hypnotized?" the woman asked.
"No I haven't," I replied in the same dry manner.
"Mitchell, Doctor Smyth has done well over a thousand hypnotism sessions
and she is very well respected in her field. It will not take long and
you will not feel a thing. As I've told you before: we are bound by
doctor client privilege, no one will know what happened in this room
today. I feel, as your therapist, that this could prove to be beneficial
in diagnosing your problem so that you might be able to live a normal
life, to know what the next morning is going to bring," Doctor Jennifer
Wyatt told me.
"Okay," I finally relented.
I was asked to lay back on the sofa, I closed my eyes and tried to keep
my breathing long and deep. She started off by saying: 'Mitchell
imagine...' and everything else was kind of a mumble.
"Mitchell?" I heard Dr. Wyatt's voice, concerned?
"Mitchell?"
"Yes?" I blurted. "What is it?"
"Where do you live?" Doctor Smyth asked me.
"Uh, out on the lake," I said sarcastically.
"Mitchell, you were in a hypnotic state for the last fifteen minutes. We
asked you many questions and we got many answers. But, they were all
about you."
"Me?" I asked.
"Yes. It's as if this Misty, wasn't even there," she said, sarcastically.
SEVEN
I went home after the session with the doctor and sat and thought about
what the hell I should do. Should I go through with this... psychological
shit!?
Or should I just forget it altogether? Just live my life, see where I go
or what happens?
No. I couldn't just wait and see. I had to do this. In fact, I should
have done this when I was twelve or thirteen. Buck-up! I told myself.
It's gonna be harder now.
I resumed playing the video of my last 'episode'.
Misty sat at the vanity and worked at her computer. I finally fast-
forwarded the video after twenty minutes of her at the computer. It
resumed with her getting up and going to the bathroom. She let out her
pony tail and brushed her long hair...
To be continued...