Mitch paced around his kitchen in the dark, the tile cool under his feet. He'd pause now and then to open a cabinet, on the hunt for a midnight snack, only to sigh and close it again. He knew he wasn't really hungry, just bored and unable to sleep, but he thought that maybe something crunchy or salty would take his mind off of the emptiness of his drafty apartment. Mitch reluctantly ignored his cravings and continued to wear circles in the floor.
He'd taken to doing this almost nightly. The dreams wouldn't stop, and his back ached from lying stiff in bed. His thoughts, though scattered, always drew back to Scott like a magnet.
Mitch walked six more loops around his kitchen before wandering back to the mirror by his bed. He looked himself up and down, from his now purple hair, to his tattoos marking his arms and chest, all the way down to his legs, clad in thinning plaid pajama pants, rolled over at the waist. He noted his strong jawline and his septum piercing, glinting in the moonlight.
This person he had created, the image he offered to others every time he stepped on stage-- it was so new to him. He was proud knowing he made an impression everywhere he went. He drew stares walking down the street, and he liked it.
He liked that people stared at him, marveled at him, for what he had done to himself. This body is a choice. This body is mine, and it is my choice, Mitch told himself. His clothing, his tattoos, everything-- he put it there and he owns it.
It's nothing like the stares he got in high school. No, those stares scrutinized a part of himself that he had no control over. Those questioning eyes were searching him like he had the answer. He wasn't the answer they were looking for.
---
Mitch's depression and anxiety in high school had caused him to put on weight. He was very uncomfortable with himself. He barely socialized, instead choosing to hole himself up in his room with his notebook. By his final year of high school, especially the incident at the end of the year, he had very little hope left.
College allowed him to hit the restart button to some degree. He had a new best friend-- Kirstie, the pint-sized blonde sprite who lived down the hall from him. She joined the Slam Poetry team just so that Mitch would have a friendly face in the audience, but she started writing and was surprised to find that she was a natural. Her specialties were verse and songwriting, and Mitch completely adored her.
She would often sit on the floor of his dorm room, messing around with different chords on her ukelele and scribbling lyrics as she went. Mitch would perch on his bed, notebook in his lap, and freewrite, just enjoying the creative space they shared. Sometimes they would study for literature finals together, or crowd together on his twin bed to catch up on assigned reading.
"Mitchy, are you happy?" She asked out of thin air one day. They stared at the ceiling together.
"Right now? In this moment?" Mitch responded. Kirstie nudged him in the ribs and rolled over, propping her chin up in her hands.
"No, silly. I know you're happy whenever I'm here," she snickered, kicking her feet back and forth in the air. "I mean... on the whole. Grand scheme. Are you happy?"
Mitch turned his head to look at her, and sighed. "I'd be a lot happier if someone looked my way once in awhile," he remarked sadly. Kirstie's face fell.
"What are you talking about? You are a smart, funny, and kind person, you are a killer writer, you're my best friend, so clearly you have good taste..." Kirstie trailed off, grinning. Mitch smiled and returned his gaze to the dusty ceiling tiles and hummed thoughtfully.
"I guess you're right. I don't know what I'm talking about." Kirstie rolled over again and snuggled into his side, rubbing his stomach. Mitch picked up his novel and pretended to read for a while until Kirstie fell asleep.
The next morning, Kirstie still dozing on his bunk, Mitch stood in front of his mirror and decided he needed a change.
---
He didn't get the courage to take control of his image until his senior year of college. Mitch was really shaken after seeing Scott at the coffee shop. His old friend had recognized him right away. Had Mitch not changed? Had he not come so far from the Mitch that Scott once knew in high school? The Mitch that he had left behind?
Mitch needed a change, and he needed one now.
Kirstie went with him to the tattoo parlor. She told herself she was just there to hold his hand, but she knew that deep down she was worried about Mitch.
"Mitchy, you know this is permanent, right?" She asked tentatively, worrying her lip between her teeth.
"Yes, Kirst, I do. I need to start fresh, and I want something to remind me that I can always start over. I want something to remind me that today, I chose to start over. Hence... the cicada." Mitch pulled up a picture on his phone of the design he had decided on.
"A bug?! You're getting a beetle tattooed on your body?" Kirstie asked incredulously. Her eyes widened. "I mean... it's gonna be beautiful!" she attempted.
Mitch grinned and rolled his eyes. "It's fine, Kay. I know not everyone's going to get it. But I'm doing this for me."
Kirstie grabbed his hand tight. "Okay, Mitch. I'm proud of you."
---
Many more tattoos were added to his collection in the year following his graduation. Mitch found that he smiled a little brighter knowing that his body was a canvas covered in beautiful art.
A nose piercing, an interest in fashion, a vegan diet, and two bottles of hair dye later, Mitch finally felt like the Mitch he wanted to be.
It was his best disguise.
