The Incident: I don't need you anymore
I hate this body. Every damn day I wake up feeling like a jelly-filled balloon is a reminder of that shitty night a year ago. I'm Jackson, or at least, my brain is. But the rest... this soft belly, these legs that feel like logs, this round face I don't even recognize in the mirror... that's Billy. My stepbrother. The shy otaku who now walks around in my body, with my muscles, my damn conqueror face, and on top of that, he's become as arrogant as I used to be.
This morning was the same. It took me forever to get out of bed (my new bed, in my new room that feels like the back room of a manga store, filled with figurines with giant eyes and garishly colored posters that give me a headache). Billy, the bastard, was still sleeping in my old room, now converted into a luxury sports sanctuary. Trophies, expensive sneakers in display cases, everything tidy and perfect. As if he'd earned it.
-Billy! Gym, now!- I yelled, running up the stairs. My voice still sounds like a whistle, weak and ridiculous in this body. Nothing like the deep, confident tone I had before. Silence. I checked the empty bathroom. Nothing. Only one place remained: his room. My old room.
I hadn't been in for a year. Since the "incident" that happened at the mall, with the thousands of people surrounding me, I had to end up in my stepbrother's disgusting body. The government says they're still working on a cure, but in the meantime, living here has become unbearable. I don't think my father will ever be proud of me. You can see it in his eyes that the son, the captain of the football team, is no longer me, but Billy. I can see it in the awkward silence at dinner. But we didn't talk about it. As if ignoring it would fix it. I took a deep breath and opened the door.
The contrast left me feeling dry. Where once there had been adolescent disorder, now reigned the military order of a professional athlete. Gray walls, a huge poster of LeBron James, everything spotless… but floating beneath that smell of cleanliness and new clothes, there was something else. Damp. Acidic. Familiar. My sweat. The sweat of my old body. It came from a laundry basket next to the closet. On top, a black compression shirt. My shirt. I recognized it instantly by the small rip near the seam.
Something inside me snapped. Before I knew it, I bent down (my knees protested under the weight) and grabbed the shirt. It was stiff in places, sweaty. A raw impulse, stronger than disgust, took over. I pressed it against my face. Against this nose that isn't mine. I sniffed deeply.
God. That smell. Stale sweat mixed with a trace of my old deodorant. It was me. The real me. The one from the gym, the one from the games, the one who felt invincible. For a second, I closed my eyes, and I wasn't in this sack of meat. I was sweating, alive, strong. It was like a drug.
The illusion lasted a blink. The rough fabric against my fat cheek, the cold of the floor beneath my bare feet, the awkward position… brought me back to reality. This reality. I sat up quickly, dropping my shirt as if it were burning, shame scorching my face.
In the closet mirror, I saw the monster: Billy (my body), crouching, with the face of a desperate fat man smelling a dirty T-shirt. Pathetic.
-Where's that jerk?- I muttered, looking away from the mirror. I needed to get him out to train. I couldn't let him ruin my body completely. That's when I noticed. I instinctively looked at the floor next to the closet. The place where I always left my gym bag. The black Nike one, with the bleach stain. Empty. Just the clean rectangle on the floor, gleaming in the light.
A cold emptiness spread in my chest. He took it. He left without me. He used my bag, on my body, to go to my gym. Rage and helplessness cut through me like a knife. He was gone. And I was trapped here, smelling the remains of what I had been, while the impostor walked off with my life. The silence of the perfect room became deafening.
The grease stain on my baggy sweatshirt (how did it get there? French fries yesterday?) seemed to mock the rectangle of pristine floor where my gym bag used to sit. Stolen. Like everything else. I pulled my phone out of my pocket, the screen sticky beneath my chubby fingers. I typed furiously, my fingertip leaving greasy marks on the glass:
. WHERE ARE YOU? THE BAG'S GONE.
. I LOOKED FOR YOU. DID YOU GO TO THE GYM ALONE?
The reply was instant. Not a text. A photo.
I opened it, and my breath caught in my throat. It was Billy. Outside my gym, reflected in the black window of an expensive SUV. He was wearing my favorite T-shirt. My torso. My hard pecs rose like mountains against the fabric. But the focus was on my right arm. Flexed to the limit, my biceps were a ball of rock and veins popping out, my skin taut and glistening with fresh sweat. The grin on my face was pure arrogance: eyebrows raised, lip curled in a triumphant sneer.
. Relax, bro. Just stretching my muscles. No supervision needed.
I couldn't tear my eyes away. God... that body. My body. Sweaty, powerful, lit up like a fucking Greek god. A wave of heat, a mix of rage, envy, and something else... visceral, rose from my stomach. He looked... incredible. Too good for that asshole. I abruptly turned off the screen and pressed my hand down on my small penis, which was straining in my tight underwear.
The government doctor told us something like this could happen, that the gas was experimental, and that the body swapping was imperfect. I hadn't wanted to talk about this with anyone, but I know Billy, and I noticed it right away. I couldn't see girls the way I used to, and I couldn't see my old body or other men in the same way.
My phone vibrated like a hornet's nest in my sweaty hand. Billy. I rejected it. It rang again, insistent. Cursing, I answered.
-What?- I snapped, trying not to let my squeaky voice betray the jumble in my head.
-See?- The deep, confident voice that used to be mine echoed through the receiver, thick with sarcasm. "Impressive, huh? And without your babysitting help."
-You need me there!- I nearly yelled, squeezing the phone until it cracked. -You don't know the right exercises to maintain lower back definition! You're going to injure yourself or you're going to....-
-What are you going to do, Jackson?- he cut me off, his laugh sharp like broken glass. -Ruin my physique? Look at the picture again! I'm BIGGER than you've ever been! Thicker! The girls at the gym literally gasp when I walk by! The ones you used to chase are now chasing me! Even the new instructor asked me for advice!-
I felt a cold hollow in my chest. Bigger? Thicker? The image of that arm, enormous, vascularized... Was it possible? Was my body improving without me?
-You're hallucinating…- I muttered, but without strength.
-Hallucinating?- He snorted in contempt. -I'm a better Jackson than you ever were. More popular. Stronger. And yes, even smarter, because I've realized I don't need you. Stop pretending you come to the gym to "help me." -
-Pretending?- I protested, but he didn't let me finish.
-Yeah, pretending!- His voice rose, laced with cold rage -When was the last time you saw a machine up close other than the stationary bike? NEVER! You spend all your time standing there, staring. Just staring. At me. At the other strong guys. With that weird face... that intense stare, like you're counting their veins. It's weird, Jackson! Weird and pathetic! Everyone can see it! -
I froze. The blood seemed to freeze in my veins. He'd seen it. The others too? It was just... seeing my body in action. Seeing the strength I'd lost... But admitting it sounded worse.
-No... it's not like that,- I stammered, feeling the heat rise to my fat face. -I'm watching the technique…-
-Lies!- he spat in my ear. -You blush. You hide. You look like a fucking stalker. And the worst part.- he added, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper, -is having to constantly introduce you as my stepbrother. People thinking we share blood is embarrassing. Stop coming here. Stay home in your dirty clothes and your cold pizza. This body, this life, this strength…- he paused dramatically, -are mine. And I'm not sharing them with you. Not one more minute. Not one more look. Stop stalking me.-
I remained silent, still kneeling in front of the laundry basket, for a few minutes. My mind was shattered, my thoughts empty, and all I had left was... this.
I rummaged through the laundry basket to find a dirty, yellowish jockstrap that was damp from being at the bottom of the laundry basket. I brought it to my face, filling my lungs with the mixed sweat, semen, and urine from my former crotch. I pulled out my small, uncut cock and began to jerk off. I no longer had any dignity to lose or an excuse to deceive myself. This is who I am now. I just wish JACKSON would let me be by his side a little longer.
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