- (sonrisa) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-05-27 22:32:00 |
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As Lin Alesi awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a regular-sized woman. He was lying on his soft, as it were cushioned, chest and when he lifted his head a little he could see his black, silky tendrils of hair divided down in front of his eyes. His suddenly shapely legs (very nice, very nice)*, which were foreign to his usual thinness, kicked helplessly at the quilt at the foot of the bed. Sure, that paragraph would make zero sense to the current population of London, given that Kafka wasn't yet born, let alone publishing books (though wouldn't that be a feat), but—tbh and fair, it would make very little sense to the world Lin Alesi had left behind a few months ago, the type of world where, okay, yeah, sure, there was a creepily, seemingly sentient hotel bent on sadism, but where, generally, cute boys didn't metamorphosize into cute girls while they slept (and with no say in the matter). But, well, sense wasn't the strong suit of Victorian London, the hotel, or much of anyone the boy (girl????) had been in contact with recently. It was a peculiar feeling, um, to understate more than Sir Cosmo Duff Gordon on the Titanic, which, as it happened, hadn't been built (or sunk) yet. What the fuck ever. Lin was himself, but he knew from the moment his consciousness rose from its grave of the REM cycle, something was off. It was like waking up after sleeping on your arm for the night—you know, how it tingles as the blood returns to the muscles and the tuberous roots of vascular constellations—but, there was none of that weird flopping you had to do to get everything moving again, circulation here automatic, just… tickling for a moment or two. Instead, Lin just sat up, shrugging off the heavy silken quilt, to feel at himself. He pressed the hard tips of his fingers into the new flesh of his thighs, the soft curves that added a slight bit of weight just below his waist and above his ass, his… uh, breasts, tucked under the cashmere of his night shirt. Look, universe, he liked nail polish as much as the next guy, but… it wasn't because he wanted to be a lady particularly. I mean, he had no problem with it or gender fluidity or any other forms of expression people chose, but… what the fuck? He almost screamed (and wouldn't that be feminine and fitting. You know, if you prescribed to binary bullshit gender norms). Because what the fuck? But the black-eyed thatch of Daniel's hair that poked out of the blankets next to him caught his eye as he wildly looked around and made him swallow the sound in a squeak, a hand clamped down over his (still) decidedly feminine mouth. The boy all but slid onto the boards of the floor—thump!—ass to cold wood (the poor sleepy cat got dumped off with him and ran away hissing) before he hopped up on woolen socks and rushed out of the room in a spray of newly sprung coils. Sometime later, Lin found himself at a tailor down Savile Row, his heart clanging in his chest. Pretending he only knew Italian, he stood carefully off to one side as the proprietor of the shop disappeared into the back to find some bolts of fabric for pantomime demonstration. And as he idled, watching himself in the silver glass arranged as an accordion under a lamp, it came to him: the Cat. It was his fault. Or it was Mouse's fault. Or the hotel, via the Cat. Something like that. After all, Lin had been in the Cheshire beast's mind countless times as the man transformed and he knew how it was done, didn't he? It was a matter of will. Lin screwed up his face a moment, trying to think REAL hard about being a real boy. The bespoke tailor yelled a curse at Lin, something the boy didn't catch—something about a demon? a homosexual demon? (was that an insult? bc he thought that was actually kind of nice)—as a heavy few yards of some very nice fabric whizzed past his head. He opened his eyes and caught sight of himself in the looking glass—well, fuck. He picked up the stupid skirts he'd been tangled in ("trying on") and high-tailed it out of there, looking just as ridiculous as he felt. He The-Little-Train-That-Could'd as he ran away from the high-pitched shouts of the tailor, ordering a constable to seize that boy!—and imagined those nice boobs of his and muttered aloud in a gibber: I think I can, I think I can, I think I can! By the end of the block, past the pasty fronts of nook-and-cranny'd buildings, all the foul-smelling crowd of the street could see over each other's heads was the long trailing hair of a pretty young woman as she dashed, ungainly and not graceful at all, in foppish skirts. If they were listening closely, they might have heard the accompanying, but hushed whine of, "Fuuuuuuuuuuck!" * this part is more license—an homage to the self, rather than Kafka. js. |