Chapter 3: New Reflection
The impossible softness of the couch beneath him felt suffocating now. Kenji pushed himself up, the motion unfamiliar, his center of gravity shifted. Standing was a revelation – and a terror. The skirt swished around smooth thighs. The blouse felt constricting across... across something that hadn't been there before. A weight shifted on his chest with every breath. His own breath, catching raggedly in a throat that wasn't his.
He needed to see. The truck lights flashed behind his eyes again. This couldn't be real. Purgatory? Some sick joke? He staggered, legs wobbly, unused to this height, this balance, the strange sway of his hips. His gaze darted around the sunlit room – cluttered shelves, a low table, the silent TV – landing on a door slightly ajar. A bathroom.
He stumbled towards it, bare feet silent on the cool wooden floor, then jarringly cold on the stark white tiles of the bathroom. The harsh fluorescent light hummed overhead, bleaching everything. It felt clinical. Detached.
He looked up.
The mirror above the sink showed a stranger. A woman. Flushed cheeks, making pale skin appear almost feverish. Lips fuller than he remembered his own, slightly parted, swollen-looking. Dark, startled eyes – huge and round – stared back at him. Black hair framed a delicate face he didn't recognize. He lifted a trembling hand. The reflection matched him perfectly. He touched his cheek. Cool porcelain skin met his fingertips. He traced the curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose. Utterly alien. Utterly real.
A strange warmth, left over from that jolt of panic and disorientation on the couch, seemed to pulse low in his belly. Unfamiliar muscles clenched deep inside, a throb that echoed the frantic beat of his pulse. It wasn't his arousal, not really. It felt like an echo, a ghost trapped in this borrowed flesh. It made his skin feel too tight, too sensitive.
His eyes dropped. The black-striped white low cut shirt. It draped over curves he instinctively knew were hidden beneath. Large curves. His gaze fixed on the swell pushing against the fabric. He pulled on the fabric, removing it with surprising speed.
Beneath, a white bra with a pattern of tiny, faded pink flowers. It cupped and lifted flesh that was undeniably, shockingly female. Firm, heavy. He stared, mesmerized by the rise and fall with each shallow breath. The ghostly warmth pulsed again, stronger, centering low in his pelvis.
Hook in the back. The thought surfaced, detached. He reached behind, fingertips brushing smooth skin, finding the clasp. A pinch, a release. The bra loosened. He slid the straps down his arms, letting the garment fall to the tile floor with a soft whisper.
There they were. Unfettered. Large, round breasts, pale in the fluorescent glare, tipped with dusky pink nipples that hardened instantly in the cool air. He felt their weight, a constant, undeniable presence. He cupped one in his hand. The skin was impossibly soft, yielding. He squeezed gently. Firmness beneath the softness. He squeezed harder, fascinated by the give and the resilience.
He took a step back, needing perspective in the unforgiving mirror. Then, without thinking, he rose slightly onto the balls of his feet, dropped back down, rose again. The reflection showed the heavy flesh jiggling, swaying, bouncing with a life of their own. It was mesmerizing. Beautiful. Terrifying. He did it again, watching the hypnotic motion. They moved like… like water balloons, but alive. His own.
A choked sound escaped his throat – a high, unfamiliar gasp. He leaned closer to the mirror, peering into the wide, dark eyes of the stranger. There was a strange kind of splendor in this face, this body. Delicate features, smooth skin, the dramatic swell of his chest. It was objectively beautiful. Not his, but… stunning. An ache bloomed in his chest, a confusing mix of horror and a bizarre, intrusive sense of possession. His body now. This exquisite cage.
Driven by a surge of irrational, dizzying impulse, he pressed his lips – her lips – against the cold glass of the mirror. Hard. A kiss for the impossible reflection. A seal on the absurdity. Her breath fogged the glass where his mouth had been.
He pulled back, staring at the smudged imprint. His reflection stared back, cheeks flushed darker now, pupils wide with shock. The gold ring on his finger glinted dully in the sterile light. A husband? Children? Who was she? Who was he?
Kenji looked down at himself – the exposed breasts, the discarded bra, the open blouse, the strange, tight feeling between his legs beneath the skirt. The ghostly throb pulsed again, insistent, confusing. He was naked to the waist in a stranger’s bathroom, wearing a dead woman’s body.
"What the hell am I?" he whispered, the voice high and trembling in the humming silence. The reflection had no answers. Only terrified, beautiful eyes.