A feverish nightmare from the slumbering mind of Duncan Matthews…while totally awake.
“How can you stand to breathe the same air as that thing?”
“Hm?” said Jean, her mind had been elsewhere.
Duncan pointed to Essel. “That tranny garbage. I heard you and that are roomies?”
“Well, at least she doesn’t steal my clothes,” said Jean. Her tired voice and monotone said nothing to Duncan. Nor did the notes she clung to with a white-knuckled grip.
“Honestly, being in the same house with that thing would give me nightmares. If I could sleep at all.”
“Really,” said Jean.
Duncan ignored her glare of doom. “Yeah. Trying to figure out all the different ways it could try and rape someone. Has it got rid of the -uhm…”
Jean just raised an eyebrow.
“Ol’ chicken neck?” he made jerky motions near his crotch area.
“She doesn’t need to. She never had one,” said Jean. If Duncan had been listening, he would have heard the icy tones of death in her voice.
“Euw. I don’t even want to think about it.”
“You have no clue,” said Jean. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be trapped in the wrong body? Can you even imagine if you woke up in the body of a girl?”
“Yeah. Easy.” He quickly mimed shooting himself in the head.
“Thanks for telling me that my life is only worth ending,” she said. And with that, she stormed off to talk with the freak, without giving any kind of clue as to what he’d done or said wrong.
Bitch.
He didn’t quite remember the rest of the day. Only that things otherwise went better than expected. Plans did not muck up thanks to whichever lunkhead who had had a funny idea. He had dinner, argued with his parents, and went to bed.
And woke up with tits.
Big, bouncy, and surprisingly painful tits. And his junk had gone. Vanished. He was still himself. His face was still his own. But his body…
His body was now a target.
For every guy…
Just.
Like.
Him.
He opened his closet and found it full of frilly pink things. There were bras where he used to stow his wife-beaters. Panties where his jocks should have gone.
And -euw- feminine things and a helpful calendar outlining ‘trigger week’ in red.
“Are you coming down anytime soon?” said Mom, hanging around his door.
“I’m a girl…”
“Ah,” said Mom with some relief. “Progress at last. I knew this whole thing with pretending you’re a boy had to end sometime. Come on. Find something pretty and fix your face or you’re going to be late!”
She was gone before he could protest.
There were no belts. No necklaces. Nothing to wrap around his neck and no plastic bags he could smother himself with.
There was an optimistic card on his dresser. Apparently congratulating him for staying alive for three months. Someone had written, “Way to go girl!” and he had, evidently, crossed out the 'girl’ and written 'boy’ over and over again until there was no space left. Even inside the O’s of other 'boy’s.
“Dunc!”
Duncan snorted. He was still on the bench. Still staring at Jean and the tranny freakshow.
Graydon leaned into his field of view. “You okay, Dunc?”
He blinked. Shook it off. “Yeah. I thought those mushrooms on that pizza were a bit weird.”
“You trippin’? Seriously? Man, I should have some of that pizza tomorrow.”
“Don’t,” he said. “It’s a bad trip.” He did a covert check. Pecs. Junk. Normal. He was normal. A real boy in the body of a real boy.
“You wanna play Trash the Tranny?”
“Not… today. Listen, I’m not feeling great. I’m'a have to bail. Kay?”
“Yeah. Sure. Food poisoning’s no fun. Catch you later.”
“Yeah,” said Duncan. He went home. Said nothing, and went quietly to bed. Afraid to sleep. Afraid that once more he would wake up in the wrong body. And almost eternally grateful when he didn’t.
[Muse food remaining: 12. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]