(Female Second Person to Rabbit Plush)

You feel it in your chest, before anything else. It’s a fuzzy, numb sensation that sets your nerves on edge. Trying to play it off as a figment of your imagination, you thump your chest and cough. The motion sends something out your throat, and your eyes crinkle in distaste as something enters your mouth.

A second later, your eyes widen. You realize that the thing in your mouth is strangely fluffy and dry, an almost cottony flavor to it. Your hands tremble as you cup them under your chin, spitting the object into your palms, just so you can see it with your eyes.

That warm and fuzzy feeling only gets worse in the interim, and for a moment you need to squeeze your eyes shut. Then you look down to your hands, and your eyes alight upon a cotton puff, covered in your drool. It seems insane, but another cough sends a small fluffball straight from your throat into your hands. Then another follows it.

It’s not stopping, you realize with dread. Your heart begins to pound in your chest, and you fumble at your pockets for a phone, unsure whether to call a doctor or a seamstress. It’s a moot point, you realize. Your phone is on its charger, in the other room.

You rise from your couch, only to feel your legs cry out in protest. It’s as though they’re asleep, that pins-and-needles sensation sending sharp aches with every staggered step you take. You look like you’re drunk, lurching towards the doorframe in an attempt to catch onto something.

You don’t make it. The distance was a few inches further than you’d thought, and you end up falling onto your belly. The air is driven from your lungs, as well as a cotton ball the size of your fist. It fills your mouth and you spend the next few precious seconds coughing, sputtering, trying to spit it out.

Then you try to rise, but your legs aren’t responding anymore. You don’t want to look back, but you know you need to confirm your worst suspicions. So you do, and are met with a horrifying sight: from the waist down, you appear to be pink. At least, that applies to what you can see that’s not covered by your shorts or shoes.

Said shoes are growing more and more uncomfortable with every passing second, getting almost impossibly heavy. You groan and drag yourself forwards, but they remain where they are. For a moment, you can almost feel your feet and legs stretching. Then your feet pop free of your shoes, swelling up to cartoonishly large proportions.

Your socks seem to melt into your skin, leaving it white in contrast to the pink hue of the rest of your tone. Worse, your feet lose all definition, toes merging together into what could only be cottony, plush paws. Not even an inch of space separates your toes, that precious gap now marked by pink stitches along the white expanse of your feet.

The same starts to happen to your legs, losing their supple tone in favor of a loose, plush cylinder. It would be at place on any stuffed animal, but it impossibly horrifying to see on your own body. Anxiety and dread in equal parts spread through your chest, and you try to drag yourself forward on your arms.

A strange sensation grips your tailbone, and you need to stop. It’s like it’s paralyzed you, the sharp ache at the base of your spine overriding all possible motion. Pressure builds and builds beneath the surface of your skin, and you arch your butt into the air, feeling it swell with cotton. Then, with a pop, a fluffy tail springs from your backside.

It looks like a rabbit’s tail, and you frantically start crawling faster, further. You can’t tell anymore if you’re trying to reach your phone, or to escape your lower half. If it’s the latter, you’re to be sorely disappointed.

The cotton creeps up your chest, and you feel a fuzziness below your breasts. You realize at this moment that you’re not just turning pink, you’re somehow getting fuzzy and fluffy. You can’t deny any longer that you’re turning into a stuffed rabbit, but you can at least hope you can call someone.

The other room seems further away than ever before, but you keep crawling, forcing yourself to move forwards a foot at a time. Your shirt grows baggy on your frame, and your shorts loosely slip past your hips. Anxiety grips you as you realize you’re shrinking, too.

You can’t reach the phone, not like this. Not at this rate. Hopelessly, you look down to your body, in time for your arms to go numb beneath you. You fall onto your chest with a huff, but somehow can still wriggle your waist somewhat. You use this to your advantage, worming your way to the doorframe and propping your back against it, so you can see these changes through to the end.

All the while, your arms dangle like limp, cottony noodles at your sides. You feel them swelling up, and can actually identify each of your fingers fluffing up and merging with the next in line. A stitched pad tingles its way across your palms and your soles at the same time, and you find that you have pink paw prints on your hands.

You sob, but it’s a quiet one, muffled by the cotton that slips up your throat. Your chest stills its gentle rise and fall, and your breasts sink back into the cotton of your belly. You can’t see them past your shirt, which hangs loosely over one of your stuffed shoulders. You wonder if when someone finds you, they’ll recognize the shirt as your favorite, and wonder why it’s draped over a stuffed bunny. Maybe they’ll recognize it’s you.

And… What? What then? They won’t be able to help you, won’t be able to undo this curse. You feel your head begin to distort, and tears drip down your cheeks, soaking into your new fabric. You feel your cheeks fluffing up, and your lips curl into a cartoonish grin.

Your ears and nose are next, the former lifting to near the top of your head, then continuing to stretch until they flop over from their own weight. The latter hardens into a plastic button, a darker shade of pink than the rest of your body.

A pressure fills your entire head, and you can feel it swelling, growing until it’s as stuffed as your plush belly. You can no longer breathe, scream, or even cry. Your tear ducts close over, and your eyes ache as they harden into a pair of glass orbs. Color drains from the world, replaced by a bluish tinge. You realize it must be the color of your new eyes, and you mentally wail with anguish.

The wail becomes a feeble cry, as a cottony sensation floods your thoughts. Everything feels so light and airy now, and you realize you won’t even retain your mind. Maybe it’s for the better, that you won’t have to suffer an eternity of imprisonment. Or maybe it’s worse, because without a soul, you won’t be able to go to

To

Word. What’s the word? You’re forgetting. You can’t remember. Everything is going dark, and things start not make sense. Panic because thoughts. Slowing. Everything. Slow. All. Slow.

You.