Finding the Culprit

You’ve never been the panicking sort, and you are far too mad to focus on anything but finding the son of a bitch who did this to you.

Between you and your slightly older sister, you’ve always been the industrious one- good grades, good work ethic, and more importantly for this new quandary, a good head on your shoulders. And at the very least, you quickly surmise that while literally every physical characteristic you had not 24 hours before is gone, your mental acuity is still squarely intact. Well, the intellectual acuity, you should say.

You can tell some things are… off. You notice hints of fragrances around your room that never even broached your consciousness before. The air has a hodgepodge of smells now- from the low-key waft of sandalwood and earthen tones from the bottle of cologne on your nearby dresser top, to the fresh scent of your body wash from your en-suite bathroom- you find your senses curiously enticed, pleased, by the potpourri. Before you woke, these scents were simply you. Now… now they seem to affect your mind in a way that’s quietly alarming, almost as if the smells are attractive--

“Oh my god.” You squeak in a high voice.

Your eyes dilate, and you heave in a quick, jilted breath of shock. God, you really are a girl now, all the way down to your very subconscious instincts. The voice that woke you surely wasn’t joking when they said you would soon be feeling the effects of your new body. But if you were honest, the smell was very--

“Stop!” you mutter to yourself and shake your head vigorously as if to wrest your focus away these new, alien thoughts.

You have to find out who did this before you discover some things about the new you that absolutely, positively, needs to stay the fuck out of your mind.

Time to think, you say to yourself. Whatever this was and whoever was doing this to you had to have a reason. Being a longtime fan of mystery novels and flicks, your mind immediately treks toward the more nefarious motives. There were just a few explanations for why someone would do this to you, and each of them pointed to one very simple catalyst.

.

But why, you wonder. Why you? You desperately search your thoughts for anyone you’ve hurt, anyone you’ve crossed paths with, and none of faces in the collage fleeting through your mind would be malicious enough to do this to you. Yet…

On further reflection, none of them seemed powerful enough to on the outside, at least. However, you’ve learned to not judge every book by its cover. Your eclectic, unbreakable circle of friends is a perfect example of that lesson. But someone has targeted you, someone very powerful, someone that is willing to permanently tear the very fabric of your life in half and have a ball while doing it. It has to be someone you know or someone you indirectly affected. That means everyone you know is suspect, no matter how well you think you know them. And you have to be careful, you can’t rush this no matter how badly the blood boiling in your veins demands you to.

Just as you move to find a decent pair of clothing to wear, something catches your eye lying right next to your bottle of cologne. It’s a stack of things that took up residence in the pocket of your jeans through most of yesterday: a ticket stub, some wadded up cash, and a small, folded piece of paper.

“Wait…” you say. Then at once, you slap your head in disappointment when you recall the hectic events of the day before.

The Fall Festival. You march over to your dresser and reach for the haphazard pile.

THUMP! THUMP!

You are ripped from your thoughts by the quick, sequential sounds of a couple of car doors slamming shut just outside your window. There comes a very acute chill worming its way up your spine when you see the two individuals steadily making their way towards your front door with suitcases in tow.

It’s your mother and father.

“What the fuck?” you hiss. This wasn’t right. They weren’t supposed to be back from their vacation to the Bahamas for three more days. What the hell was going on?

Then, a new sensation from your transformation breathes its first moment of life.

A very unfamiliar lump of panic begins to bubble in the pit of your taut stomach when you realize you’re still completely topless, and the gravity-defying set of firm teenage breasts are still completely uncovered. Even worse, the boxers you wore to bed are now hanging loosely from your body, revealing your perfectly toned feminine hips and far more of your completely bald mound than you’d like your parents to see.

What can you do, you think frantically. You’re not their handsome son anymore, you’re a complete and total stranger as far as they’re concerned and you’re in their house. Should you confront them? Hell, would they even believe you if you did? And how could you get to the bottom of this if you’re kicked out of your own home?

There has to be a better course of action. There has to be.

You take a few calming breaths as you scour through your memory of yesterday, and particularly, the Festival. Things happened there that could have set this whole thing in motion. Even still, there is the entirety of the drama-filled world of your years in high school to scour for answers.

Your options are as flimsy and limited as the clothes barely clinging to your diminutive figure. You have to make a decision and you have to make it fast. That is your only thought as you hear the distant jingle of the bells hanging on your front door heralding the arrival of your parents into the house.