If you like my art, sketches, stories, transformations you can find more like this on my Patreon page or in DeviatArt Premium Early Access folder for subscribers here. Every bit of support is truly appreciated, but just having you here means the most to me - without you, none of this would have been possible. Thank you very much!
Check also my shop at DeviantArt for other works
— Careful, it's hot, — Clara muttered, and I turned my face to her with a smile, accepting her concern. But she was looking at me with empty eyes, rubbing a bruise on her wrist that I hadn't even noticed at first. The purple mark had bloomed like a rotten fruit. "God, what the hell is going on here?"
Somewhere in the living room, a bottle crashed to the floor. John was yelling something about "Polish whores," and Marek responded with a muffled grumble. My fingers clenched the edge of the baking sheet so hard that my nails dug into the metal.
— You... — I jabbed a finger at the bruise, then toward the door where John was raging. — Him?
Clara jerked her hand away, quickly pulling down her sleeve to cover the marks. Her eyes widened as if I had just suggested she jump off the roof.
— No! — she shook her head, too fast, too hysterically. — I... fall. Stairs.
The lie hung in the air like thick smog. I remembered how, a month ago, Marek had grabbed my arm too roughly when I tried to tell him that I was Mike—or at least hint at it. That was the first time I felt fear in this body and ended up sleeping with him in our bed for the first time... But what if he were like John? A shiver ran down my spine, and I couldn't hold back.
— That’s not true, — the sharp words flew from my mouth. Clara flinched as if I had struck her.
The kitchen door slammed open, and Marie appeared in the doorway. I froze, dropping the ladle into the bowl of salad. It was her—Stephanie. Or rather, her face, crammed into a teenage body. The same sharp cheekbones, the predatory slant of her eyes, even the mole above her lip. But now, all of it was packed into the frame of a fifteen-year-old girl: messy hair, ripped jeans, a T-shirt with a "Fuck the System" print. In her hand—her smartphone, blasting some rap song from the speakers.
— Mom, I'm starving like a damn dog! — she snapped, throwing her backpack onto the floor. — You making this crap ag—
Her voice cut off as her eyes landed on me. For a split second, something familiar flickered in them—fear, recognition. My fingers curled into fists on their own.
— Oh, it's that school janitor! Mrs. Tits or whatever! — She snorted, looking me up and down.
— Marie, watch your mouth, — Clara tried to scold her daughter, but her voice came out weak, with no authority. The girl just rolled her eyes without even glancing at her.
— Relax, Mom, — Marie muttered, pulling out her phone. Her fingers slid quickly over the screen, and a smug smile appeared on her lips. — No one here understands me anyway. Don’t stress.
I stood there, afraid to move. A storm was raging inside me. On one hand, I wanted to say something, but the moment I opened my mouth, a strange sense of helplessness washed over me. As if my voice didn’t belong to me anymore, as if I… wasn’t Mike. Apolonia. Especially after yesterday’s revelation and watching that video, something inside me had shifted.
— Hey, tits, what’s it like carrying those melons around? — Marie snapped her gum, grinning. Her finger jabbed my chest so suddenly that I flinched back. — Your back must be killing you, huh? Or do guys carry them for you?
Clara gasped, clutching her chest. I, however, stood frozen, feeling heat spread from my neck to the tips of my ears. Stephanie, what the hell? You were never like this. Why are you acting so cruel and crude? I was your Mike. You should’ve recognized me, and yet you’re treating me like this. You were tough, sure, but it was always in a playful, teasing way, and in our relationship, I was the one who got to joke like that. You used to scold me for even hinting at shit like this. And now...
— Marie! — Clara shrieked, but her daughter just rolled her eyes.
— What, Mom? She doesn’t understand me! — Marie spun on her heel, dramatically taking a selfie in the microwave’s reflection. — Have you even seen her ass? Imagine how much she eats...
My fingers clenched the hem of my dress. "Stephanie would never say that," I thought feverishly, watching as the girl arched her back for another selfie. But the mole above her lip, the way she bit her cheek while focusing the camera… God, it was her. The one who convinced me to do this. Except now, she was trapped in the body of a bratty teenager.
— Proszę... przestań... — I exhaled, surprised at how pathetic I sounded. My voice trembled, just like on that first day when I saw my own reflection. I was already ashamed of how I looked, of my body, and I thought about it constantly. And now, she had just reminded me again.
— Shit, do you even speak English?! I can’t understand a damn word, tits. — Marie adjusted a strand of hair and, grabbing a chicken drumstick from the plate, added, — They say all kinds of stuff about you at school, you wouldn’t believe it...
Clara let out a strangled cry and rushed toward her daughter, only to freeze halfway, her eyes darting toward the door where the sounds of male laughter echoed. She lowered her gaze and hesitantly reached out to take Marie’s hand.
— Marie, stop, — she whispered. — Please, don’t...
Marie scoffed and yanked her arm away. She hated when her mother tried to act strict. It was always the same: shaky voice, tight lips, a quick glance toward John. How much longer was she supposed to put up with this pathetic display? But despite everything, some small flicker of warmth still fought against her stubbornness. She could see that her mother was trying to hold on to some semblance of normalcy. And that pissed her off even more.
— Fine, fine, — Marie sneered. — Chill, Mom.
Marie, seeming to realize she had pushed too far, twirled her phone in her hands, gave a nervous chuckle, and loudly, for show, snapped a couple of photos of herself in the kitchen. She glanced at the screen, and her face split into a sly grin.
— Oh, Eric texted. Eric! — She snorted, reading something on her screen. — What an idiot, says he misses me. Misses me! God, boys are so dumb.
Marie snapped a few more selfies, her poses becoming more exaggerated, her comments about Eric getting meaner. Then she huffed, grabbed her jacket, and stormed out of the kitchen. A strange mix of irritation and confusion swirled inside me. Where was all this venom coming from? Or was it just for show?
When the door slammed shut, Clara let out a sigh of relief and, staring at the linoleum, hurriedly began gathering the dirty dishes. Her fingers trembled, but this time, she didn’t bother trying to hide it.
— Please forgive her, — she whispered, glancing at me. — She’s… just a teenager. She only just came home.
— From where? — I blurted before I could stop myself.
Clara hesitated, lowering her gaze to the ragged dishcloth in her hands.
— Please forgive her, Apolonia, she’s just a teenager, — she said softly, shaking her head. — She’s not always like this. A few days ago, she came back from… — Clara hesitated, searching for words. — Well, from a youth center. They sent her there because of… trouble. She didn’t fit in, so now she’s… you know, acting out.
She fell silent, and I felt everything inside me twist.
Marie. Stephanie. Stephanie, pretending to be Marie. Or not? Was this even Stephanie? Or had she never existed at all? After yesterday’s revelation and watching that video, I was starting to wonder if I was just a crazy woman who had imagined another life for herself.
Then again, another voice whispered in my mind that this was all just an experiment, and these people were just like me—participants in some twisted show.
"Stephanie was just playing a role," I tried to convince myself, though it didn’t sound as certain as I wanted. "But how the hell is she doing it so… naturally? Is that even possible? She was different, my Steph..."
My gaze lingered on the empty chair where Marie had just been sitting. For a moment, I wondered if this was all just some bizarre dream.