Three Weeks Earlier

I awoke. The sun unpleasantly heated my face, as usual. I wet my dry mouth, as usual, before, as usual, sitting up and letting the covers fall off me. I swung my stiff legs over to the side of the bed, before begrudgingly standing and walking to the bathroom. I peered over the railing to check for early morning activity. I expected to see my always busy family as usual, but instead found an unusually empty living room that made me squint in befuddlement. I didn’t have time to think about it, because, as usual, I had to proceed with my routine. I reached the bathroom, and outstretched my red hand to grab the knob. I twisted and pulled before entering.

Wait, I thought, Red? Standing on the fuzzy blue mat behind the door, I examined my hands and forearms more closely. My fingers were thinner than I remembered, and they seemed to be painted a deep red; my nails were even redder. I scoffed, panicking. I followed the coloring up both my arms to my chest where I found two very unusual lumps. I knew I wasn’t the most fit guy in the world, but because I was underweight if anything. I pulled the collar of my comically large tee shirt forward to better understand my medical condition. The lumps didn’t seem particularly malignant, but it was a strange type of swelling I hadn’t seen before. I poked the tumors, and there was no unexpected discomfort. Looking further down my shirt, I noticed that the rash didn’t stop. It kept going right down below my waist without any sign of fading. I frowned, letting go of my shirt and pulling my pants forward.

I froze. I stared, wide eyed. Something most unusual had occurred. My usual nether regions were replaced with a crevasse. Being conscious of it didn’t help, either, because, as I just mentioned in the previous sentence, there was nothing there to be conscious of. More shameless individuals would have usually felt inclined to poke and prod like a caveman, but I was contently stunned.

The shock of seeing the—hopefully—benign tumors jutting out of my bosom caused me to hold my breath and the anxiety of realizing that my genitals had vanished in the middle of the night made me hyperventilate. Luckily, the two canceled each other out like the yin and yang of having a mental breakdown and I was able to breath semi-usual, slow, ragged breaths.

I decided to look in the mirror, wanting to give my reflection a pep-talk, telling it to pull itself together like a man. I nearly whimpered like an injured dog when I saw it, though. There was just no way that it was real. I reached out to touch the mirror to confirm. Either my parents had installed a secret space in the corner of my room and the red woman on the other side of the glass was extremely good at shadowing people, or it was just a mirror, and I had become a tired looking, blood red, feminine person in the middle of the night. Both options seemed just as reasonable as the other.

I still wasn’t convinced, so I gently put my hand to my cheek, scared of puncturing the papier-mâché or smearing the makeup. Feeling my usual, albeit discolored skin, I more vigorously rubbed the area, hoping it was some kind of elaborate prank. I noticed some more medical mysteries protruding from the top of my skull. I hesitantly went to touch them, fearing the worst. I watched my reflection grab its right nub with its right arm. It whined indignantly, trying to budge the headgear. When that didn’t work, my reflection decided to probe the bony item more thoroughly. It was white like a bleached skeleton, and trying to wiggle it resulted in the same sort of discomfort as pushing on a tooth. They were horns. I had horns.

My anxiety was starting to win its battle with my shock, and my heart beat faster and faster behind my new left tumor. I wanted to cry, but all I could do was choke on air. I placed my hands on the counter, trying to stabilize myself. I didn’t understand. My day had just started and it was already too unusual to comprehend. Usually that didn’t happen until after lunchtime.

I needed to sit down and think, so I guided myself to the toilet, putting the lid down.

I unconsciously scowled as I felt a skinny appendage jutting out of my tailbone being squished between the porcelain lid and my butt. I froze again, contemplating the feeling. I felt like I knew what it was, but it was just too unusual of a possibility for me to take seriously. That was only the case until I remembered that I was a red woman with horns.

My face scrunched up in displeasure as I stood back up and craned my neck to see my obvious tail. I could feel it like the sixth limb I never had. I snatched it up, running the length of it through my cupped hand. The skin was more leathery than soft, and the end had a little barb like a cartoon devil. I paused, trying to put the puzzle pieces together. Red, a tail, horns… I thought. A devil? Am I a devil? Like a demon from a fantasy?

A new wave of discomfort decided to hit, and my throat felt dry as my heart ached. Why can’t I just cry? I asked myself. Or maybe it was God. I wasn’t particularly religious, but unless there was some secret scientific breakthrough and I was the researcher’s unwilling test subject, I figured that God was honestly a pretty solid answer to the question of my curse. I just sat back down, my body remembering to swipe my tail to my side without my input. I was terrified. What would everyone say? What would my friends think? Had I always been a devil? Was I an evil person? Was I being punished?

I snarled at more pressing thoughts. How am I going to tell my parents? How am I going to explain this? How am I going to live a normal life?

My mind immediately went to extreme lengths. I considered sawing off my horns, cutting off my tail, and dying my skin. And then I remembered that I wasn’t even a man anymore, and so I wondered if I could get to Thailand somehow to get the extra work done. Then I considered if I had already been to Thailand, and if I was waking up from an induced coma after months of surgery and recuperation. I didn’t know how that would be possible; maybe I requested it and had amnesia? I didn’t know, and the only thing that could tell me was the date. I knew it was supposed to be a Tuesday in early February. I would need to grab my phone to verify the date and rule out that possibility, but my phone was in my room, and I would have to leave my temporary sanctuary.

I shot up, raced to the door, and locked it in a swift albeit shaky motion. I didn’t want anyone to see me before I had any kind of plan. I stood by the entrance, my brow furrowed, my eyes darting to and fro, trying to think of something. I figured the first step would be to make my parents understand. I was mostly worried about them thinking I was some kind of monster burglar and trying to hurt me or call the police, so I needed to be careful how I approached them. From the movies, it seemed like the most sure-fire way to get someone to believe you was to tell them something only the two of you knew. The more I thought about it, though, the more it seemed like it was obviously an extremely failure-prone solution; the impostor could just have forced the information from the original. I sighed, not knowing if I should continue with that particular plan after having seen the obvious fault. I tried reducing the problem down even further: I tried imagining how you could even tell people apart from one another in day-to-day life. The simple answer was appearance, but that answer became insufficient when considering items that would obscure or modify someone’s appearance like piercings or eyeglasses. I was then struck by an epiphany as I realized that someone’s looks were only part of the equation. One’s personality—their essence—was also vital in creating the illusion of a continuous identity. I realized I could convince my parents with the Socratic method and inductively argue that I was myself if I knew everything that I would know and acted in every way the “real me” would act. But then I also realized that I had watched too many UToob debates, because only mentally ill or intoxicated people would try to argue that they are who they say they are with philosophy.

I breathed through my small nose, returning to my previous idea. I realized that I may have been overthinking it. I figured that scammers manage to win gullible people over with simple lies. If I showed them that I was a genuine devil, then surely they would have to consider the possibility that I had turned into one; after all, demons weren’t real, so someone becoming one and someone else discovering one seemed just as likely. I would still talk and act the same after all. Speaking of talking, I thought, is my voice the same? My inner monologue was its usual flat and dull self, so I was thankful for that at least.

I waited to build up the courage before I tested my voice, fearing the worst. It took me so long to get comfortable with my original voice, and the thought of having to repeat the process created a new wave of dread.

Eventually, my willpower was fortified enough and I gave a test sentence. I cheekily said, “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog,” before shutting up again. I felt very clever for my typography reference, and fortunately the irony of speaking a sentence that was meant to be typed was lost on me, and so my mood was left unsoured.

The sounds I produced were definitely foreign. My voice wasn’t shrill, but also definitely was not masculine by any standard. I was going to groan, but decided against it, not wanting to remind myself of the alien tones.

I decided I needed to figure out what piece of trivia to use to gain my parent’s trust. It was very difficult to think of a non-trivial piece of information that only me and my parents would know. I grimaced in contemplation. Maybe, I thought, I could tell them about that vacation…. Then I realized how ridiculous my endeavor was. I could simply have them think of a question to ask; that solution even practically made the extortion concern irrelevant, too, and I felt like a fool for not thinking of it sooner.

I sighed. All I needed to do was find a way to approach my parents. I leaned up against the door, returning to my thoughts.