There once was a time when I would introduce myself by my identity and situation: "Hi, my name is Esther, I'm 16 years old, and I'm an orphan." I wasn't exactly an orphan, but I had been adopted by abusive people who only wanted me for the tax deductions they could get. I refused to call them my parents.
My only friend, Shirley, offered to save me from my situation after I came to school with a broken arm and a black eye. She had shown me her magical potential before, when she turned a squirrel into a bracelet she tried to give me (I refused because my parents would've taken it away and destroyed it). The only spell she knew at the time to help me would come with consequences.
Shirley told me the conditions of the spell beforehand. After it was cast, my soul would be placed inside a random piece of clothing in her family's house. The chances I would end up belonging to her were astronomically high. She asked me at least a dozen times if I was okay with this, knowing there were no guarantees or take backs. I said yes every single time without a second thought. I couldn't stay with my so-called 'family' until they eventually threw me out onto the streets. I accepted the possible consequences, and passed out as my only friend cast the spell that changed my life forever.
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Shirley's assumption was solid in theory. She did, in fact, have the most clothes out of anyone in her family. I should've ended up somewhere in her wardrobe, whether it was as a blouse, bra, or bobby pin.
Neither of us could've predicted me becoming a bright red polo for her little brother, Alex. I can only assume what Shirley's going through having lost her best friend, as I don't really see her too often. She was never going to know what I became anyway.
I stayed there, motionless, on the white plastic hanger supporting my entire weight for two weeks. The entire time, I dreaded the day Alex would finally wear me. What would it feel like to have his tiny 7-year-old body giving me form? I hung in not-so-eager anticipation as he chose shirts other than me to wear to church on those two long Sundays. Finally, on the third Sunday after Shirley cast her spell trapping me in this fabric body, it happened. I felt Alex's little fingers roughly pulling me off of my hanger, throwing me carelessly onto his bed. I watched as he stripped out of his pajamas in front of me, completely unaware he had an unwilling audience. He put on clean underwear and pulled on a pair of tan khaki shorts.
Finally, with an odd look of disdain, he roughly grabbed me, pulling me over his head, stretching out my neck hole in the process. He let my body fall around his skinny torso, where I would spend the rest of the day staring out at the world from his chest, where my sight was coming from. Looking in the mirror, I decided the bright red fabric I had become made him look... adorably handsome? He proceeded to leave his bedroom to meet his family at the dining room table to eat breakfast, quickly shoving my sight into the bottom of Shirley's blouse as he gave my old friend a fast, reluctant hug after she fixed my collar. Alex went through his day with me as a little passenger hanging from his shoulders.
You know what? I loved every second of being worn. I loved the feeling of his body heat warming me up from the inside. His actions throughout the day gave me much-needed motion after hanging completely still for so long. Most of all, I relished in being able to see the world outside his closet again. Being able to see my old friend's family, albeit from a new perspective.
That night, Alex pulled me back over his head, throwing me on his bedroom floor. I had to watch him strip down further to get ready for bed as his warmth quickly left my fabric, leaving me to lie cold and lifeless through the night. The next morning, he carelessly stepped on me on his way to his closet to pick out a normal T-shirt for the day. I stayed on his floor, being slowly buried by his other dirty clothes, for two whole weeks before his mother finally told him to put them in the laundry basket. I was roughly thrown into the washing machine with other colored dirty clothes - I recognized one of Shirley's favorite tank tops that I wouldn't have minded becoming - and sat there as it filled with soapy water. As I was thrown around in the dark, I decided that this crazy roller coaster ride was at least better than being buried in little boys' dirty socks and underwear. Afterward, even being tumble-dried in the drier wasn't too bad, as it left me feeling clean and, most importantly, warm. I was finally taken out, sorted into Alex's clothes pile, slipped onto a plastic hanger, and finally hung back up in his closet to await being worn again.
The bad news? I haven't been worn again since. I'm easily Alex's least favorite nice shirt to wear. The only reason he wore me that time was because he was told to. Time and time again, he picks shirts that aren't me, robbing me of warmth and motion. Even worse, I have to put up with feeling his actual favorite polo rubbing against my back whenever he picks it to wear most Sundays.
I certainly don't look forward to the day the weather turns, making it too cold for him to wear short-sleeved shirts like myself. I can't bear the thought of hanging in his closet motionless for so many months in a row as he slowly grows out of me. He's already picked me as the first shirt he wants to sell. I probably only have another year at most to be worn by him again before I'm sold at a garage sale to some kid I've never seen before, taking me away from Shirley once and for all. Just wear me already!
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