I don't know why my mom bought me a prosthetic head of a boy for my 13th birthday. But four years later I desperately wish she hadn't.

I can’t begin to explain how I got here. I don’t know how it all happened; I don’t even know where I am. But I can tell you how it started. It started about four years ago, the day I turned 13. I had been begging my parents for a new head for my upcoming Bar Mitzvah. Not just a normal head - a prosthetic one. You see, living on the small space colony I live on, a Bar Mitzvah isn’t a strange thing to hold. Being a man-made planet, we didn’t have a reflecting pool to look into, so they had to get a little more creative with the whole “examining myself and becoming the man I am meant to be” thing. That’s how prosthetic heads were invented. It took a while, but they finally figured it out. And it worked! From the first person who ever used one, it has worked. No one could explain why, or how, or what exactly was happening, but it worked. And it was a tradition you wouldn’t dare to miss. I had been waiting for this day for the past 13 years of my life, and when my birthday came, I couldn’t wait. My parents held a huge party for me, and everyone came. And after it all, when everyone had left and I was alone in my bedroom, I opened up my final present: a giant box from my mother. She had put a card on top. “Happy Birthday!” it said, and then “I hope you like the color. There’s a little something for you to do to celebrate if you want to, that you can give to your wife when you get older. Love Mom.” I tore the box open. “What the fuck,” I muttered. There, sitting upon a bed of soft Styrofoam that had been sitting in my room for the past three years, sat a baby blue boy’s head. It was perfect. I couldn’t have asked for anything else. I cradled it in my hands, reminding myself it was just a plastic model, that it wasn’t alive. I looked at it in awe. The shade was on point, the face was perfect. I couldn’t wait to take it to the ceremony, I couldn’t wait to use it, I couldn’t wait for my wife to put it on and see this side of herself. I called my mom in. She smiled at me, and I could tell she could see the joy in my eyes. “Do you like it, honey?” she asked. “It’s perfect!” I looked at her in confusion. “What’s perfect, Mom?” Then I realized what she meant. I felt a strange pang of sadness, along with a deeper pang of confusion. “Mom, I don’t think I’m gay.” “Then why is he colored blue on the inside of his lips? I thought blue lips would be a cute touch.” “Mom, why are his lips blue on the inside?” “I said, why are his lips blue on the inside?” She didn’t respond. I could tell she didn’t want to. “Why are his lips blue on the inside?” “I mixed it up with the blue I used to paint the inside of the lips for the girls heads. Don’t worry if you’re not gay, honey. It’ll be fine. I’ll just give it to your sister when she’s older.” “I thought she was getting the green one?” “Don’t get me started on that. I mixed the wrong paints up and I couldn’t get her the shade she wanted. I thought you liked blue?” “I do!” “Then you get this one.” I couldn’t believe her. I couldn’t believe she was doing this to me, and I couldn’t believe I wasn’t going to get my head. I couldn’t believe she had mixed up the paints for my sister’s head. I couldn’t believe I was going to have to tell my sister about it either. I could see the disappointment in my own eyes as I looked at the head, I felt it in my chest. No. No, I couldn’t do that. This couldn’t be happening. This had to be some sort of sick joke. I looked at her, saw the sincerity in her eyes, and I knew it wasn’t a joke. I knew what I had to do. I knew it would hurt, but it was worth it. I took a deep breath, and spoke. “Okay.” I couldn’t see her face where she was standing, but I saw her shoulders move in a shrug. She mumbled something under her breath and left. I sat on my bed, trying to think of a way to convince her to go to the ceremony with me. But every time I thought of something, a voice in my head said it wouldn’t work. I tried. I begged her, I pleaded her, I haggled with her. She said no. I asked my dad, he said no. And so I waited for the next Bar Mitzvah. It finally came, and I came with it. I nervously approached the elder holding the ceremony, and quietly asked him if I could still use it. He said yes. The next part is a blur. It’s not as vivid as the rest of my memories. But I remember it, and I always will. I put on the head, felt the familiar sensation of not being in my own body. The elder called for my father to come over. I obeyed, no questions asked, no words said. I was too busy experimenting with the lack of senses around me to do anything else. The elder told my father to give me a thorough examination, to make sure I was ready. My father agreed. He looked at me, and started to look over the head. I felt his fingers rub gently over my skin, and his eyes look through mine. Then I felt him put his hand on my chin, and pull it down. My father is a sick, twisted, disgusting man, and he should rot in hell for all of eternity. I don’t know why my mom bought me a prosthetic head of a boy for my 13th birthday. But four years later I desperately wish she hadn’t.

I don't know why my mom bought me a prosthetic head of a boy for my 13th birthday. But four years later I desperately wish she hadn't.

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