Johnny Girl

Johnny Girl Chapter III

When John woke up, he hurt in places he didn't know could hurt.

Everything was blurry and dark, so he knew he wasn't wearing glasses. He attempted to rub his eyes to stop them from burning, but his arm screamed in pain when he moved it. He felt like someone had reached inside him and rearranged all of his organs, and it didn't feel good. His chest was what was especially bothering him, and his legs as well.

Blinking to make his eyes feel better, John tentatively tested his fingers, which ached, but were moveable. He raised his arm experimentally, gritting his teeth and reaching up to massage his temple.

John stopped suddenly, lifting his hand back up.

Was it just him, or did his fingers look...thinner? Longer? More delicate? Either he'd been asleep for a long time, or someone had pulled his fingers while he'd been out.

Once he'd reached over to the dresser and flicked the lamp on, he managed to gather both his arms underneath his body in and slowly pushed himself upright into a sitting position, clutching his throbbing head.

Only when he pulled hand away, several long, delicate black strands followed it, falling down over his shoulder once he'd let go.

"What...?" he began, and then his eyes trailed down to his chest, a growing and terrifying fear of why it hurt so bad.

Two fist-sized mounds protruded from his front from underneath his blue shirt, forming gently out of his collarbone and receding again above his ribcage. Upon further inspection, once he'd peeled the bed sheet back, he saw that his midsection curved inward nicely into an hourglass-like shape. His hips, which before had inverted into his legs, now pushed out widely, grafting smoothly into his abdomen and legs.

Oh shit. His legs.

There was nothing between them.

What had once been there was now replaced with something else entirely, something John didn't really want to see yet. He already felt like he was going to throw up. What had been there now felt hollowed out and empty, like there was a huge hole drilled between his thighs.

"Oh, shit," he murmured, covering his mouth with his hand. What the fuck had just come out of his mouth? Certainly not his voice. No. Fuck no, this wasn't happening.

"Shit, shit, shit, SHIT!" he shouted, and began to scream, hurting his own ear drums with the shrill pitch.

The screaming attracted some attention, apparently, because in the dim light John watched the door open, and Dave stepped inside frantically.

"Jeez, John, what-?" but he stopped, taking in his friend's full form again, eyes moving up and down John's body, and he mentally slapped himself.

John was looking at his hands, which trembled in his lap. "Dave, what...what the fuck is going on, Dave?! What happened to me?! What the fuck AM I?!?!"

John was crying now, light tears running down his face, and Dave felt his stomach drop. The blonde walked briskly over to John's side, kneeling down beside him.

"John, fuck, stop crying. Please," Dave commanded, unsure really of what to do with his hands, which hovered stupidly just above the blanket.

John buried his face in his now-delicate hands, narrow shoulders spasming with each sob. Dave almost felt like crying himself. It killed him to see his best bro/sis like this, and all he really wanted to do was gather John in his arms and hug him, maybe brush a hair strand away from his face. But like John always said, "no homo." John wasn't a homosexual.

Dave wondered if that still applied now, and then mentally slapped himself again.