— What the… is this… sun? — still squinting slightly from the bright flash and bracing for the heavy pain that never came, Elijah whispered quietly, still keeping his hands raised as though he were standing in front of a gun barrel.
The light streaming through his fingers stung his eyes, but not like a muzzle flash. No. It was warm, bright, morning light — the kind you get when you’re standing not in the middle of an evening street in southern Portland, but somewhere… in the middle of a summer yard? A strange thought, but it felt almost obvious because the air around him was filled with the smell of fresh grass and warm wood. No asphalt, no damp alley stench, not even gunpowder.
He blinked again. Then again. And only then — first in peripheral vision, then actually turning his head — did he see a wooden fence, and next to it a big, leaning tree, and under that tree, in some kind of quiet melancholy and daze, stood a small doghouse. And only after that did he notice that his chest was rising far too heavily with each breath, as though something massive had been hung against the skin.
Very, very slowly — like slow-motion in some cheap movie — he lowered his head and immediately froze when he saw the outlines of his own body blocking almost the entire view: soft, rounded, emphasized by a thin white nightshirt that hid almost nothing.
These were breasts. Goddamn female breasts. Big and fucking heavy. Moving in time with his breathing under that thin white nightshirt that looked more like the fabric of sinful wet-dream fantasies than anything someone would normally wear to greet the dawn.
— Uh… what? — Elijah exhaled, but it wasn’t his voice. The voice came out higher, clearer, and at the end it cracked into a frightened squeak.
He jerked his hands to his chest, and before his brain could scrape together any kind of explanation, his fingers sank into softness, into heavy, warm mass that distinctly shifted under its own weight. His palms instinctively spread wider in an unconscious urge to slightly lift that weight — but that was a mistake. The thin biceps immediately tensed, trying to cope with the unfamiliar heaviness, while the warm tits, like some kind of jelly, began to spill through his slender fingers, overflowing to the sides, making the nightshirt fabric stretch even tighter.
— No, no, no… — he whispered, as though afraid to hear that new timbre again.
He had simply been walking home. Just walking and thinking about how neatly he had shut down Professor Harris today — that old good-natured hapless moron who, unlike him, would rot in this university until the day he died. And he definitely wouldn’t have gone into that alley if he hadn’t heard voices. Not screams. Just an argument between two students that he absolutely had to stick his opinion into.
But the moment he saw they weren’t students, he realized he’d fucked up — only he realized it too late. The guys were clearly hostile; after a quick glance at each other, one of them pointed a pistol at him. Or… maybe it wasn’t exactly a pistol?
— No! Don’t shoot! I won’t tell anyone anything! — burst out of him right before the blinding light burned through his mind with white fire and brought him here.
His arms — already tired after just these few seconds of holding the mass — dropped slightly, and the breasts swung heavily downward, pulling the nightshirt fabric to its absolute limit. Elijah took a deep, trembling breath.
"‘It’s fine. It’s all fine. This. This is just a dream. Just a too-real dream,’ he thought, trying to force himself to believe that phrase like a lifeline, only realizing with every second that it was nothing but self-deception."
— ELISKA! — a harsh female voice snapped from behind, — Have you completely lost your shame?! In just a nightgown, people will see you! Get inside! Right now!
Elijah spun toward the voice, lowering his hands, and instantly felt his breasts drop heavy and massive, slamming into his ribs with their own weight. The nightgown shifted, a strap nearly slipping off, and his nipples — already hard from the morning chill and adrenaline — pressed through the white fabric as two clear dark spots.
He froze, staring at the woman standing on the house’s doorstep, hands on her hips. Middle-aged, in a dark ankle-long dress, with a headscarf tied around her head and a look that made him want to shrink. She held a faded kitchen towel, like she’d been going to wipe her hands and saw… this on her way.
Her gaze swept sharply over him: the nightgown, the breasts, the bare feet.
And her expression grew even darker.
— What a disgrace, — she hissed, — what is this supposed to be? And what if your father saw you? Well? Why are you standing like a stump? I said — inside, now!
Elijah froze, as if all strength suddenly drained from his legs. All his pride and confidence vanished somewhere, replaced with a sudden timidness under this stern woman’s stare.
— I… I… — he tried to say, but his tongue tied itself on the very first word.
The woman narrowed her eyes.
— What “I”? — She took a step forward. — I told you: inside!
She grabbed him by the elbow — her grip stronger than he expected. Elijah jerked, but that was a mistake: his breasts swung forward in a heavy arc again, the nightgown stretching until the threads nearly creaked, and the damp morning air stung his nipples so sharply he had to swallow a gasp.
— Ow… wait… — he tried to keep his balance.
— And now you’re hobbling like your legs are made of cotton! — the woman snapped irritably. — What were you doing out here dressed like that? And don’t you dare tell me you were out here with Stepan again, for God’s sake, kissing half the night.
She said the last part quietly, like she feared even the trees might hear it.
"‘With Stepan? Kissing? Half the night?’" Elijah pushed the thought away, something absurd, something that had nothing to do with him, but the body — the damned female body — reacted as if her words struck the most vulnerable place: his chest tightened, cheeks flared with heat, and worst of all, something low in his belly clenched painfully and answered with a slow, pulling impulse between his legs, something Elijah had never felt in his life.
He exhaled sharply, almost with a groan, as they stepped — no, as he was dragged like some disobedient village girl — over the house’s threshold, and immediately stumbled over it, falling inside awkwardly. The nightgown flew up his thighs, his breasts swung heavily, and Elijah — now Eliska — heard a short, displeased:
— God, what a sight… — the woman muttered, closing the door as if she were trying to shut out yet another disgrace from the world.
Eliska grabbed the doorframe to keep herself steady. A wave of humiliation rose to her throat, something she had never once experienced. He, a future professor, confident, brilliant, untouchable… was now standing here, barefoot, in a nightgown, with these ridiculous heavy breasts that seemed to live by their own rules, while this woman treated her as if…
— I can walk myself… — she mumbled, but her voice slipped into a squeak again.
"‘Breathe… just breathe. I need to understand where I am. What I am. Fuck…’" Eliska tried to calm herself, but that tone, that “sit down” and “don’t you dare talk back”. No. That was the last straw for her pride, like someone had punched it right under the ribs.
Eliska straightened slowly, lifting her chin, and for a second it seemed to her that now, just like before, she’d easily take control of the situation. Her shoulders even tried to square… but immediately collapsed under the weight of her breasts, which swayed softly, reminding her of the new reality.
The woman at the table — apparently Eliska’s mother — narrowed her eyes.
— Why are you puffing up, huh? — She snorted, though a faint note of surprise flickered in her voice. — I told you — sit.
— Don’t speak to me like that! — Eliska exhaled, trying to give her voice that cold confidence Elijah used to cut down opponents at conferences, but it came out thin, trembling at the end, like she was trying to hold a note without knowing where to grab it from, — And I’m not… not your… not…
She started, realizing halfway just how stupid she must sound trying to explain to this woman that she was actually a guy — and not just a guy, but one of the brightest young minds in the U.S.
— Not what? — her mother tilted her head slowly to the side. Her voice was low, dangerous. — Not my daughter?
— I… I’m not… you don’t understand… — Eliska breathed out, feeling her shoulders trembling on their own, and every attempt to hold onto her former confidence hit the soft, pulling sensation in her breasts and lower belly that she couldn’t ignore.
She bit her lip, trying to speak again — with Elijah’s words, with the tone of a man used to speaking so people listened. But as soon as she took a breath — her breasts rose heavily, nearly slipping out of the nightgown, and something inside her belly tightened again, pushy and shameless. And the voice that wanted to be cold and steady came out entirely different:
— I… I don’t understand… what… I’m… — it broke into a small, pleading sound, — I’m a… guy…
Her mother froze for a moment. Then let out a slow, heavy sigh — like someone who had heard all kinds of nonsense, but perhaps never this kind.
— Lord have mercy… — she whispered, crossing herself sharply, as if warding off evil. — Yelisaveta… what kind of stupid nonsense is in your head this early in the morning?
But Eliska raised her head, eyes wide open, breath uneven, her breasts rising and falling under the thin nightgown as if she couldn’t get enough air, and every movement only tangled her thoughts more.
— I’m telling the truth! — she cried out. — I’m not… not your… daughter! I… I study at a university! In Portland! I… I’m a candidate… almost…
The last words faded because her mother suddenly stepped forward and slapped her.
— Don’t you dare blaspheme, you little wench! — she said sharply, looking down at her like at a misbehaving brat. — What “Portland”, for God’s sake? Have you been reading fairy tales? Oh right, of course… — she narrowed her eyes. — You can’t read.
— I can read! — she shouted, not even noticing how she jerked her chin up. — I… I… I can read! What kind of nonsense are you spouting?
Her mother didn’t move. Her lips simply pressed together so tightly it became clear: she had no intention of arguing.
— Then read, — she said calmly, but far too confidently, nodding toward the tear-off calendar on the wall, where each page had a big date and a short prayer. — Go on, if you can.
Eliska slowly turned to the calendar. Her gaze fixed on the large black letters… which danced before her eyes as if someone had scrambled them on purpose.
— What… what language is this? — Eliska asked, her trembling fingers barely touching the lower page.
Her mother raised her brows slowly.
— Language? — she repeated so coldly the room seemed to drop a few degrees. — This is our language, Yelisaveta. Slovak.
Eliska blinked, as if another surge of impossibility passed through her. Our language. Slovak?
— I don’t know Slovak! — she shouted, whipping her head around so sharply her heavy breasts swung again.
Her mother let out a long, heavy breath, no longer sure what to think and already considering taking her daughter to a priest.
— And what do you think you’re speaking right now, you silly girl?! — her mother exploded, throwing her arms out so sharply she might have slapped the air.
Eliska froze.
The realization hit suddenly. This whole time she hadn’t been speaking English. The words sounded different — she had noticed — but she didn’t have time to think about it because she understood them perfectly.
— B-but… — she swallowed. Her tongue trembled. — I… I shouldn’t… I’m supposed to…
— Quiet, — her mother cut her off, crossing her as if to ward off something. — I’m listening to you, and it scares me.
She wanted to say something else, but only waved her hand.
— Enough. Go to your room. Out of my sight! And put something decent on!
Eliska frowned, her lips trembling with a wild, desperate mix of humiliation and confusion. She wanted to protest, to shout, to prove… but the words stuck in her throat, because her mother now looked at her not just like at a misbehaving daughter — but like at someone possessed.
— Go! — her mother repeated, her voice cracking, — before your father wakes up and sees you like this.
Eliska sucked in a shaky breath, feeling the nightgown stretch again over her heavy breasts, and, giving up on resisting, she spun around sharply and almost ran upstairs, clumsily catching her bare feet on the wooden steps, feeling how every movement made her breasts sway painfully, and how something low in her belly pulled with a hot, unwelcome tremor that demanded release with every minute, stronger and stronger.