"The general lives anywhere."
That was the deeply profound line that propelled my return to ordinary consciousness, alongside the shrill cries of the iPad's alarm.
An image from the last dream sequence lingered, of waters green and murky. And I was on a boat, but the vibe was not so much The Lonely Island and more like Anaconda. We were outlining the coast, and I was speaking with some dude who was real knowledgable about the Master of the Seas, this fabled ruler who apparently lived anywhere. Because he was that awesome.
My eyes were still shut, but I could tell from the familiar pitter-patter that it was pouring outside. In a feeble act of denial I pulled the covers over. Then I kicked them off in a tantrum and stormed towards the desk.
From the iPad, I turned my attention to the window. Couldn't see shit. It was perfect. A Kodak moment.
Sighing, I brought my arms up and crossed them, wishing I'd gone to bed with long sleeves instead of a singlet. It was eight. Class was at nine. That gave me just enough time for the morning routine combo of minor existential freak out and light breakfast. So I put on the first side of OK Computer and headed for the bathroom.
I didn't need to check if my new friends were still there. All through the disjointed sleep of the night before I'd been aware of their presence. Time to time the tips of my fingers would circle the areola, then toy with the nipples. Caressing the globular flesh, soothing the soreness. Even half-awake it was strange to be holding myself the way I used to wrap my arms around a bolster in the teen years, as if it were a girl.
So, dear reader, it should be clear enough now that the effects of those subliminals are permanent. I still have no idea to what extent, and for that matter what other changes had occurred, but boy was I about to find out. Out of the myriad number of things that puzzled me about what had happened, the standout query was: why only the breasts? There were so many subliminals in that playlist. 685, to be exact. What? You know about addictive personalities, you replaced one habit with another. You simply obsessed about something else.
As I brushed my teeth, leaning forward every so often towards the sink, I couldn't help my gaze drifting downwards. And looking at the way the front of the shirt bulged, was it just me or did they look . . .
Oh, for fuck's sake. What I'd discovered last night must have only been the beginning flourishes. What was this, My Second Puberty??
I tugged up the singlet and, with Thom Yorke outside declaring than an airbag had saved his life, confirmed that yup, my breasts were bigger. Shit.
It was time to start taking this seriously. For the first time in a long time, I gave myself an honest look in the mirror. My chin? Still masculine-looking, a defined enough jawline there. My lips, despite a smoking habit I was set on ditching but was still failing to do so effectively (blame it on the long and dark nights! That's where I let my guard down, or caved in, pick one), were rosy pink. My gums still had that blackness though. I suppose I'd have to look for a gum subliminal. But my lips, they looked fuller too. I pouted, then puckered them outwards for a sassy kiss.
That's when I noticed my eyes, their outer edges seemed more upturned than I remembered, almost catlike. I recalled the various titles of those videos, look like a fox, look like a kitten or anime doe or whatever. Jesus Christ, it all sounded so stupid now that I was sober. But either I'd never really witnessed my image before, and was now exposed to details I'd never ever cared to notice, or those two-minute clips of water sounds and brain rot-inspired video editing actually effected some pretty mental changes in my physical appearance. Can you imagine what Oprah would do with this?
I peeled off my clothes and walked right in the cubicle without checking the rest of my body out. Too much, too fast, and I didn't have the time. The warm water pouring from overhead had an immediately grounding effect, for which I was grateful. I just stood there, eyes closed, trying not to think.
Envision some better version of yourself, some alternate-universe You. Maybe evoke future You, who had figured it all out, for whom this was a past so distant and unrelatable as to be laughable. What would he do now, or rather what did he do then?
He? Did that pronoun still apply, to either of us?
Reaching automatically, I turned off the flow and began to soap myself from the bottom up. Lavender fumes further relaxed me. Don't rush this. You got this.
As I pressed a second palmful of soap from the Dove bottle, I looked down at the shaver on the rack. I picked it up and scrutinised its blades, noted the redbrown of rust forming on its edges. I used it pretty regularly to remove the hair covering the stomach, all the way down to the genitals. Not that I'd been getting any action, you understand. I just liked the way it looked all clean shaven. Shut up.
After properly covering my chest in the white foam (I said shut up), I grabbed the shaver and perhaps, in the most gentle handling I've ever managed, scrapped the hair off my new breasts. I thought back, tried to recall the last time I shaved my chest, which must have been when I was just at the cusp of puberty. 10 years ago, easily. I noticed as I got the last of it off that there wasn't as much as I'd remembered. There were a couple of hairless body subs in the playlist, and combined with the other videos that focused on complete feminisation, I wouldn't be surprised if my leg and arm hair started to shrivel away too.
I decided then that I would have to look deeper into the nature of subliminals. It would have to have until the end of class, at five.
When I got out track three was playing, and the rain had stopped. I had an immediate urge to open the windows to let the summer air in, but realised I only had the towel wrapped around the lower half of my body. Couldn't risk the neighbours—
A knock. Then another.
"Ryan? I heard your alarm, are you up? "
Oh shit. Mom. My parents!