StrawberryS

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In Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis, a man wakes up one day and discovers he’s become an insect.

You never thought your high school reading would come back to your mind after you had graduated, but as you stared at your grey fingers, aghast, all you could think of was that goddamn bug book.

Your first thought was that you were mistaken. Perhaps your vision was playing tricks on you. It was not.

That led you to wonder if you were sick in some way or another, but as much as you hated to admit this, no common illness that you knew of would cause your hands to be both grey and still functioning as normal.

This conclusion then brought you to think of just what else this could be. The only other instances of grey skin you knew were either argyria, which was caused by consistent exposure to silver compounds, something that did not apply to you, or the strikingly ashy skin that all the residents seemed to possess. You didn’t know why you would share the same skin tone as them, but it was hard to ignore the way your mind was screaming at you that you were becoming one of them.

It was slightly better than turning into an insect, but it was far from ideal.

You scrambled to search your body for any other suspicious patches of skin, but to your ever so slight relief, you didn’t find any. Nonetheless, your panic persisted, your body feeling much too hot and sweaty as you considered your situation.

It was only logical to assume that you were transforming for one reason or another, and the only reasons you could think of were that either it spread from one resident to another, or it was the space you were in. The first would be devastating, but the second was technically still fixable. If you returned to your world, you could stop this horrifying metamorphosis before it worsened.

All you needed to do was leave, which was much easier said than done. You didn’t have time to waste, however. Not anymore.

With newfound motivation and fear, you opened the door, before another devastating realization dawned upon you—the world outside the door was no longer the same.

You had no knowledge of what happened; the only thing you could think of was the strange earthquake you had experienced. Perhaps that messed things up, but there was no plausible explanation for why an earthquake would rearrange entire rooms and hallways without any sign of damage to the structures. Not that you knew of, at least.

Shit, you cursed internally, scanning the foreign environment before you. Do I just have to wander around and pray I find the right way? It seemed like it.

You didn’t have a choice, that much you knew for certain. If you turned into a monster, you would never be able to return to your world like normal again. It wouldn’t be a matter of being held captive or not at that point.

You begrudgingly closed the door behind you, making your way through the unsettling space once again.

You had only just entered the first room when you stopped in your tracks, the appearance of a figure startling you. It didn’t take you long to recover from your shock this time, however, as you soon realized it was just a mannequin. It was dressed head to toe in monochrome clothes, paired with a wide-brimmed black hat.

While it did cause you to halt for a moment, you had seen much stranger things and entities here, so much that you merely let out a shaky breath before pressing forward.

“Hello,” the mannequin suddenly spoke. Before you could process the situation, it had moved and was standing right before you. You gasped, every single muscle in your body tensing up simultaneously as you violently flinched at its sudden movement.

Okay, so it’s not a mannequin. More likely than not, it was another resident of this place, much like the severed head you had met. You were unnerved, but the bewilderment didn’t phase you as much as it would have mere days ago. It felt like you had seen a lifetime of surprises in these couple of days alone.

“Hello,” you nervously greeted back, reluctantly waving at it.

“You look ▮▮▮▮,” he stated. The word sounded familiar. You recalled having heard Mr. Silvair say it before, but you didn’t know the meaning quite yet.

“Not understand ‘▮▮▮▮,’” you repeated the word back to him, hoping for some clarification.

“Me perform ▮▮▮▮,” he replied. You realized then that his mouth wasn’t moving when he spoke; it appeared he was wearing a mask of some sort. Perhaps he’s not just a moving mannequin, then.

You watched him intently, your body still rigid and ready to run—or knowing you, freeze—at the sight of danger. The masked entity took out a cup, holding it before you.

“▮▮▮▮,” he stated. You assumed he was referring to the cup as you had never heard the word before and there wasn’t much else he could be talking about, but considering the vagueness of this language, you figured it would be safer to assume it to refer to all containers.

“Sheet ▮▮▮▮ container.” The masked man pulled out a sheet of fabric, covering the container with it. You deduced from that the word you didn’t know meant ‘cover.’

When he pulled the cloth off the cup, you saw that it was now filled with something that made your eyes widen with hope—water.

“Possible have?” you blurted out your question without thinking, too excited at the sight to contemplate it further. The man was unresponsive for a minute, during which you realized that you had interrupted his magic trick.

“Sorry,” you sheepishly mumbled, hoping you hadn’t upset him. You didn’t mean to be rude, but you had no clue how to communicate that. Damn this language barrier, you thought.

The masked magician seemed to hesitate for a second longer, before handing the glass of water to you. You were unsure whether you should take it or not. On one hand, you were most definitely being rude right now. On the other hand, you were completely dehydrated. Your base instincts took over as you reached for the cup, gulping the water down in one swift movement.

As plain as water was in terms of taste, at that very moment, the liquid was absolutely delectable. It was even cold, more than you had hoped for as far as refreshing went. In the back of your mind, you considered it may not be completely sanitary to drink. You quickly brushed that thought aside; you’d deal with the consequences of that later. Whatever sickness you had would be easier to deal with than dying of thirst, surely.

“Thank you,” you gushed, beaming at the masked man. “Thank you!”

He paused again before holding out his hand. You guessed he wanted the cup back, and you complied, placing the container in his much larger palm. When you returned his cup to him, he proceeded to cover it with fabric once more.

“Sheet cover container,” he said, before lifting the cloth away and revealing a full glass of water. “▮▮▮▮ appear.”

You mentally noted the new word down as referring to liquid before you brought your hands together, eagerly clapping in enthusiasm.

“Me like!” you exclaimed.

“▮▮▮▮?” he questioned, using the word from earlier. Does it mean ‘fun?’

“Fun!” you agreed, hoping you were using the word correctly.

The entity brought the cloth back over to the cup, hiding it from view.

“Sheet cover container.” He removed the fabric, and the cup was once again empty. “Liquid disappear.”

“Fun,” you smiled, though you couldn’t help the slight disappointment at not having more water. You were still parched.

But then the magician brought the sheet back to the cup, this time wordlessly repeating his trick. He handed the full glass of water to you.

“Welcome.” He sounded pleased. Needless to say, you were too.

—

You hadn’t expected the masked entity to continue making you water, but he had conjured up glass after glass of precious hydration until you’d had your fill. You had thanked him, but before you could ask him anything else, he disappeared.

You continued on your way, wandering in a random direction until eventually, you miraculously stumbled upon a dilapidated space filled with various junk. You were fortunate that whatever head injury you suffered hadn’t messed with your memory too much, and you were able to recall the path the chopped head—you mentally noted to give him a name when you see him—had led you the first time.

Thanks to your lack of too-severe head trauma, you found yourself at the door of Mr. Silvair’s basement.

With your hand in a loose fist, you let your knuckles gently knock against the door, holding your breath as you waited for a response.

“Enter.” Mr. Silvair’s voice rang out, and you could almost hear the intrigue in his voice. You wondered if knocking was a mannerism limited to humans.

You gingerly opened the door, your body jerking slightly at the sight of Mr. Silvair. Though he didn’t terrify you per se, his height—even taller than Mr. Scarletella—was nothing short of intimidating, and you were also rather jumpy just from the environment. While your journey here had gone smoothly, you were confident there was danger lurking around every corner nonetheless. All it would take was one wrong turn.

“Hello,” you greeted him with a small wave. You noticed the head sitting on the sofa, and you smiled at him. He returned the expression, appearing happy to see you here.

“You ▮▮▮▮!” he exclaimed.

“Not know ▮▮▮▮.” You turned to Mr. Silvair, awaiting a possible explanation. The man began walking towards you, eliciting a small spike of anxiety. To your surprise, he merely opened the door behind you, walking out before letting it close.

“Leave.” You could hear him from the other side of the door.

The door opened, and Mr. Silvair walked back through.

“▮▮▮▮,” he stated. You nodded in understanding.

“Return,” you echoed the word. He appeared pleased, the corners of his lips tugging upwards.

“Correct.”

You weren’t sure if you should get directly to the point or not, but the conversation had died down, and the silence was beginning to make you feel awkward. You swallowed the saliva that had pooled in your mouth before you stuck your hand directly out in front of you, showing him your ashen fingertips.

You were unable to gauge what the expression on Mr. Silvair’s face meant, but it didn’t last very long, quickly giving way to an enthusiastic grin.

“You change,” he said, the words instantly causing your blood to run cold. The temperature in the room appeared to have dropped, your skin suddenly prickling up and forming goosebumps. “Human appear world. Change body. Change ▮▮▮▮.”

You didn’t understand the last word, but you hastily assumed it meant mind, not caring enough to ask for further elaboration. Your heart was plummeting downwards with each passing second, sinking into the abyss of your stomach, which was tying itself into knots. You had already assumed it, you had considered the possibility before, but hearing it as a fact was much more difficult to process.

“How stop?” The words tumbled out of your mouth instantly. You looked at Mr. Silvair with desperation in your eyes, a silent plea for him to have the answer.

“Not know,” he replied, though his eyes gleamed with delight as he looked away from your hand and directly into your eyes. “Me ▮▮▮▮.”

At this very moment, you couldn’t care less what the word meant. You just wanted to get out of here. You just wanted to leave this godforsaken place. But it wasn’t like you could do so by simply willing it.

“Me ▮▮▮▮ you?” Mr. Silvair asked a question, using the same word that you really couldn’t be bothered trying to understand. The fact that you were beginning to learn the language here only made you feel more stuck, more trapped.

“Not know ▮▮▮▮,” you sighed, resigned.

“▮▮▮▮,” Mr. Silvair repeated, pointing to the room in the back. You remembered that room—it had horrified you when he first showed you it—vividly, with all of its chains and bloody instruments. You weren’t sure what the word meant, but there was not a chance in hell that you’d agree to anything related to the miniature torture chamber.

“Not want.” You shook your head firmly, hoping your protests would actually make a difference. If he desired so, he could drag you in there by force; you were well aware of that.

“A shame.” He sounded disappointed. But as much as you didn’t want to upset him, no amount of disheartenment could convince you to step foot back into the gore-covered room.

“Sorry,” you mumbled a half-hearted apology. You weren’t really sorry about not wanting to be dismembered, but you didn’t mean for him to feel bad, either.

“Me not upset,” was his response. You nodded slowly, before changing the subject to something more pressing.

“How exit world?” you asked. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the answer to that, either.

“Not know.”

You nodded, your eyebrows knitting together as you digested his response. He didn’t know how to stop your macabre transformation, nor did he know how to leave this realm. But there had to be some sort of entryway; a point of intersection between your worlds. Mr. Scarletella seemed to be able to leave this realm and return, seeing as he took you from the Ghost Apartments.

“Thank you,” you murmured, a visible frown on your face as you tried to decipher the mechanics of this world. You had to be missing something—if only you could remember how Mr. Scarletella entered the Ghost Apartments...

“Welcome,” Mr. Silvair answered. His follow-up came before you could utter your own words. “Goodbye.”

You forced a small smile, waving at both him and the chopped head. For a brief moment, you remembered that you had wanted to give him a name, too. However, you weren’t in the mood to do so right now, and it wasn’t like you wanted to stay for long enough to even use the name again.

“Goodbye.” You kept the small, saccharine smile on your face as you turned to the door behind you, opening it and walking through.

As you walked back up the stairs, you could hear the heavy door shutting slowly behind you, closing with a small click.

—

You had been wandering around by yourself for a while, each uncertain step tiring you out more than the last. The exit was nowhere in sight, and you were starting to doubt there was a physical point of connection at all. Maybe you’d really have to kill something and sacrifice its blood to open a portal back to your world. Or however those things worked.

You were resting in a seemingly peaceful room, curled up on one of the chairs, when you noticed the appearance of a doll that was definitely not there before. You had always been wary around dolls—they were nothing short of unsettling—but the sight of one in this specific, ghastly environment was even more horrifying. Especially after you had found out just how many paranormal occurrences and tales of the supernatural were, in fact, real, you were not about to take your chances with this doll.

You slowly got up from where you were standing, taking one cautious step backwards at a time, your eyes not leaving the sinister figure. Perhaps it was silly, but you couldn’t help worrying that it would jump up and murder you while you weren’t looking. You just needed to back out of this room and close the door. Hopefully, that would be enough to get it away from you.

“What you do?” A voice snapped you out of your focus, at the same time causing you to jump, your spine instantly straightening out as panic shot through you.

For a brief moment, you forgot about maintaining eye contact with the doll as you hastily spun around to see who your interlocutor was.

You weren’t sure how many lives you had, but one of them was definitely lost at that moment. Your heart froze over in your chest, the atmosphere turning glacial and your face paling as you stared in horror at the man before you—none other than Mr. Scarletella.

“Sorry,” you finally squeaked after a long minute of gaping at him.

Much to your overwhelming dread, Mr. Scarletella did not appear pleased with your response. If anything, he seemed upset, his eyes narrowing as he raised his umbrella—oh god, were you going to die—and swung it directly at you.

It was no different from the initial situation with the crowbar woman. You didn’t react in time, only squeezing your eyes shut as you braced for the impact.

You heard a loud crash before you felt multiple smaller taps against your shoulders and one on the head. There were some clattering sounds that eventually came to a still.

When you opened your eyes, you saw the remnants of the doll on the ground—you knew you shouldn’t have turned your back on that thing—and Mr. Scarletella before you, his umbrella back at his side.

“You hurt?” he asked, leaning down to take hold of your face, moving it around to check for injuries.

“Not hurt,” you replied after a lengthy moment of processing what had just happened.

“Why you leave?”

You tried to gauge the expression on his face, but failed—he appeared completely stoic, though there was a hint of something in his eyes. It seemed like concern, but perhaps that was just wishful thinking on your end. He was more likely to be furious right now.

“Uh,” you started, trying to find the right words, realizing then that you had forgotten to ask Mr. Silvair how to say thirsty. “Consume... Consume liquid.”

Mr. Scarletella seemed to be watching you, appearing to analyze your response. You held your breath, hoping you would get away with the excuse this time. Your heart pounded in your chest, and through the silence in the room, the rush of your blood was all you could hear.

At last, he spoke.

“▮▮▮▮▮.” You weren’t sure what the word meant, but if you recalled correctly, he had said it too when speaking to Mr. Silvair.

Seeing as you didn’t know the meaning, you stayed quiet, uncertain of what you should say.

“Me take you,” he stated. He was reaching towards you, about to pick you up, when a bolt of panic went through you, causing you to squirm out of his reach.

“No!” you protested, before realizing you weren’t speaking the right language. “Cannot take!”

Mr. Scarletella appeared surprised, but your words did nothing to deter him.

“Why?” he questioned, reaching for you again. You took a few steps backwards this time until your hips hit the table behind you.

You stuck out your hand, trying to show him your fingers.

“Change body,” you repeated Mr. Silvair’s words from earlier. “Change mind.” Surely, that was a justifiable reason to let you go.

Mr. Scarletella intently observed your hand, eyebrows raising ever so slightly, before he smiled. The sight of his grin sent a raw chill running down every ridge of your spine, your hair standing on end.

“You my.” His smile didn’t falter. “My human. My not human. My.”

With how cold your blood ran in that instant, your circulation might as well have frozen over and halted.

Under any other circumstance, hearing someone tell you they wanted you regardless of how you are, be it monster or human, would be something flattering. His words, translated into human tongue, would be a perfect line for a romance film, or some sort of drama television show. Maybe a soap opera.

In your situation, however, it wasn’t necessarily not flattering. It just also happened to be petrifying.

“Want leave.” You tried to keep your voice firm and tone steady. You didn’t miss the way his eyebrow twitched ever so slightly at your words, which reduced your courage significantly. You didn’t want him to be mad, but you couldn’t stay here any longer, so you pressed on. “Not want change.”

You could see the hurt flash across Mr. Scarletella’s features, and the hesitation before his next words only further proved that.

“You my,” he pitifully repeated his last words. “You want me. You give me name. You give you name.”

Your lips parted, your jaw dropping in shock. You did give him a name, and you did give him your name, but how those actions equated to romantic—was it even romantic—interest was beyond you.

Your mouth opened and closed a few more times, like a fish out of water. You were lost for words, not knowing how in the world you were supposed to explain to him that exchanging names was not evidence of attraction.

Your eyebrows furrowed, your mouth pressing into a thin line as you tried to think of what to say. Eventually, you let out a resigned sigh before asking a long overdue question.

“What you want?” You looked at him, exasperated. Suddenly, the entity grinned, his smile stretching hauntingly wide. You gulped—a lump had formed in the back of your throat.

“Want you.” Mr. Scarletella immediately answered. “Want together. Me you together.”

“Not understand,” you lied, condensation beginning to bead on your forehead, your palms feeling clammy, and your body unnecessarily warm. You had an idea of what he meant, the knowledge stirring deep within your viscera and causing a sharp discomfort in your gut.

The silence seemed to stretch on for an eternity, each millisecond drawn out longer than the last. Perhaps time had paused for a minute, because neither of you spoke nor moved. The only sign that you hadn’t been frozen in time was the vicious beat of your heart and the singular drop of sweat that slid down the back of your neck.

“Me teach you.”

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