eight breasted beast

I am going to the home of Ezy, a fiercely libertarian New Mexican savage–a massive amount of construction is happening, new red brick pathways are being either being put in or torn out. I get into the house and Ezy’s hair has been shaved on the sides, much like mine was a few minutes before. I left mine long at the bangs though, despite being told it wasn’t a fashionable decision. Ezy’s is shorter. He leads me through the house, Dorthy is with me. We pass his family, all of whom have the sides of their heads shaved, and I spot a tiny sculpture of a deformed head that his wife has made. I comment on it and say that I like her work. We are led into a tiny room that has glass walls–it’s almost as if we are on display in the room. The room is cornered in the house, and only two walls are made of glass and don’t have a right angle parting them, instead the glass is curved. Suddenly it goes dark and think, opaque walls form–I start to feel an immense uneasiness grow within me. Dorthy turns violent. Her arms elongate and she digs her nails into the 10 foot high ceiling, which looks like an oriental rug, and begins running back and forth tearing it down. She then starts running around the room destroying the walls with her shoulders, she is moving at a terribly inhuman speed and full of deranged power–she’s obviously possessed with something of a malignant nature. The lighting begins to flicker violently and then, as if the destruction she was causing was some sort of unholy rite, a space in the center of the room clears itself of all the debris. I am in the center of this awful cyclone, and I begin to stretch out unnaturally. My face begins to elongate downwards, my eyes cave in to small black points. I feel this transformation happening in my bones, and simultaneously I am watching it happen from across the room. My nose disappears, and my mouth turns into a tiny round hole. My face looks similar to that of a truncated anteater’s and black, stripped marking line the sides of my face. I begin to grow breasts, eight of them form–they are of various sizes and shapes and the nipple is uniquely different on each. Dorthy begins batting at my breasts, taunting me, but I don’t have full control of this new body. It is only responds with tiny movements as I strain within it. I am in a terrible state of panic, there is a part of me that is aware that I am asleep and knows my mind can not heal from this metamorphosis if it is allowed it to continue–so with all my might I will myself awake. ♨

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