Decoy

At age 17, a young man showed up on my doorstep. He greeted me pleasantly with an honest grin. For no good reason, I let him inside. He seemed like a pretty stand-up guy. I took him in, showed him around, and made him feel welcome and comfortable. I introduced him to my friends. They all really loved him. He met my family too. They loved him. I loved him.

Our friendship matured to the point that I couldn’t venture anywhere without him by my side. I began to grow infatuated with him. He was everything I could ever hope to be. I remember we were laughing together one night and he escorted me back to my room. He sat me down in front of my television set and left the room momentarily. He asked if I was comfortable. I was. He began to run a rope around my arms. His knots were impressive, I was secure. My legs were lashed to the chair’s feet equally so. I looked up to him. I also looked up at him. He assured me I was in good hands. He knew best. He clicked on the TV and left.

I watched the program tuned for me on the screen. It was him, or at least, it was his view. The picture was grainy at first but soon became clear and vivid. He was with my friends. They were laughing at something he had said. He’s quite agreeable. They didn’t ask about me. They didn’t need to. I was happy that he was happy, and even happier that they were happy. My heart swelled with a foreign confidence, a strong but assuring confidence. It was a power that exuded beyond the confines of my ties. My family took him in too. Only my mother’s glance displayed a worry in him. I replayed her complexion on my screen. A tinge of concern bore within me. I hoped she would reconsider. I needed her to come around.

He eventually returned to my residence. He searched within me; my mind, my body, all of me. What he’d seen in my eye was outdated. He began to alter his appearance. There were remnants of me in it but the figure in my presence was no longer recognizable as the man who first arrived at my doorstep. He turned to go but I called to him. I grew concerned for his transformation. He took no heed in my warnings.

More and more he assimilated to my group. They had grown and changed. He had changed in parallel. My view from beyond the screen became troubled. My family invited him first to Thanksgiving, then Christmas. They hadn’t meshed this well in years. He was their catalyst for success. I cracked a half smile for him. I couldn’t help but notice my mother though. Her smile that once held a glass half full, now spilled its contents on the hardwood floor of my grandmother’s late 1800s home. She refused to interact with him. Why? He was so spectacular, so charming, so much, well, better.

I watched a single tear trickle down my mother’s cheek. My restraints grew a tad itchy. They had begun to chafe. My seat sagged and the cushion felt pressed and worn. I squirmed in the armchair. All I wanted was to change the channel. The most frustrating part of a good television series is seeing your favorite characters turn to villains. I must’ve struggled in that chair for years. Watching. Gnawing. Chomping at the bit. He had my friends. He had my family. I was worried he would lose me. That was a frightening thought. He had developed so much in such a short time. His evolution became my extinction. One leg freed. I kicked out and fell back. The bare ceiling looked down on my situation. His circle of influence grew. It grew exponentially, and his demeanor adapted to accommodate it. Not everyone in this new circle was what I would’ve deemed favorable. My oldest friends vacated the circle to free up space for new additions. The other leg freed. I ran past the set, knocking the screen over in the process. I paid no mind to the shattering behind me. The picture was unrecognizable anyway.

My family adopted him. He gained the blessings of a father whose daughter would not have given me a glance in my own lifetime. She was quite taken with him, but I no longer was. I thrashed my body rapidly, sweat pouring from my terror struck face. The remains of the chair swung wildly against the wall. Both arms freed. I dashed through the front door into a wall of blinding light. The soft air rubbed on the flesh that had grown stale from the tethers. I confronted him, horrified and accusatory. He glared in my direction. The man in front of me was mutated and malformed, no longer a hint of what I once knew. I withdrew his welcome.

He looked at me blankly, wondering when my doubt would set in, waiting for me to rethink my actions. He asserted that his exit would be certain. He warned of no return. This made me sit back on my heels for a moment. He had my friendships and my family under his brazen thumb. In a game of checkers, he had jumped me at every turn. I thought I was trading in my piece for a king. A king though, when you look at it, is just those same pieces but stacked. The same piece but doubled. Any scrutinizing look would show no physical difference in the two round pieces of plastic. But the worth has changed. The rules change because the piece changes. I don’t feel like a king. I just miss my mom.