My name is Eileen Watson. At least it was yesterday. This morning when I tried to get up, I couldn't. I was still in my body, but not in control of it. I can see, hear, feel, smell, and taste, everything my body is doing. But it is not responding to my commands. Somehow someone named Mike is in control. He doesn't even realize I'm still in here. I know every one of his thoughts. I know the answers to his questions, but he is ignorant of the fact I'm sharing my body with him. Unfortunately he is in complete control of our body. He doesn't realized yesterday, I was foreclosing on the same little old lady Mike had hit with his car. The old bat cursed me too.
This morning as I was trying to turn off my alarm, and couldn't move, I heard his thoughts for the first time, "Where am I? This is not my room. Why do I have pain in my back? Why is there long hair on my face?"
As he sat up, he felt the weight of my breasts, and touched them. He was scared as he realized these were part of him. I felt violated. How dare he fondle my chest? I had no control of my eyes, as he looked at my hands. It was making my body cry as he made me stare at the bright red nail. When Mark took my hand and started down my panties, exploring my beaver, I tried to scream. Only a soft sob came out, that Mike initiated. His mind was near snapping as he realized the old bitty's curse was in place. He picked up the ringing alarm clock and threw it against the wall. He made me go and look at the full length mirror at myself. He looked at the reflection of a middle aged woman in her nightie. He kept looking at the exposed cleavage. He stared for almost a minute, before breaking down, into a whimpering heap. I know I'm not the prettiest woman in the city, but for a 40 year old, I've held out pretty well. I never had trouble getting a date. To him, he felt like he was trapped in the body of the "Bride of Frankenstein". I'm a size 12. Mike thought I looked like a discusting fat old cow. He was getting sick in the stomach. It was 10 minutes before he found the strength to get off the floor and throw a blanket over the mirror.
I wanted to tell him, "It's not a bad life, being a 40 year old bank manager. I had a good job, a nice condo, a sporty Mazda, nice clothes, men always buy me drinks at bars, and I have lots of friends." The phone was ringing, probably work wondering where I was. He just sat down on the bed, doing his best, to put the pieces together. Realizing he could no longer be a football star. That the first breasts he touched were of an old woman, and that he would die a virgin. He ignored the phone, and just kept on crying.
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