Dawn of the Living Ditz (TW Body Horror) (Patreon)

Trigger #138: The Window of What-if?

Object Class: A recently re-discovered window in the Witch’s Hut that allows a witch to ask a simple “what if?” question, and then safely peer into an alternate reality that best answers that question. I believe it was used by previous Transformistresses to strategize for the worst case scenarios.

In this case, I asked, “What if Mother Nature got sick of everyone’s shit and took matters into her own hands?” and was given the opportunity to interview the following subject.

What I discovered may shock you. Reader discretion is advised.

TW: Body Horror, references to Transphobia, metaphors of death and decay.

Transformation Type: TG, Zombimbofication.

Threat Level: Benign. It is simply a looking glass into that which could be. Is a mirror evil if it shows you something you dislike?

Subject: N/A, F, somewhere in her late 20’s, Zombimbo. She never gave me a proper name, she might even be part of a larger hive mind. Based on her account, formerly AMAB, 20-something, Human.

The following is an excerpt from an interview with the recently Ditz-ceased in a more lucid moment…

I chose this, if you can believe it.

But when the choices are an undeath as yourself, or a half-life spent shambling as someone you’re not, it’s not really that hard of a choice, is it?

And it’s funny that they choose to rot, and then call us the zombies.

But I suppose they were right about one thing. You do have to kill a mangled, malformed version of yourself to blossom into beauty. That’s why it’s called a deadname, no?

It’s not murder, mind you. It’s mercy. The you-that-once-was wanted this. He died long, long before you were born. He was festering, his body rotting away with time. Thick coffin-walls kept him from his true purpose: giving birth to new life. Like Polynices before him, he waited so long to finally be buried, and to burst forth like fireworks in slow motion.

Do not mourn him. He is finally as she was always meant to be.

I remember the man I once was, or at least, he that I pretended to be. 

He was very perceptive. He noticed things. Patterns in the weave.

When Mother Nature took back that which her children had spoiled, he noticed that the so called “infected” didn’t attack unless provoked. That they weren’t the “violent” and “mindless” beasts those in power wanted him to fear. He noticed that they moved in herds, and that when they did hunt, it was not for human flesh, but for new clothes with which to adorn themselves. Like him, they were always drawn to the color pink, but they did so unabashedly. The only thing they murdered was their own shame.

He noticed that those who chose or were chosen by our beautiful garden changed in ways even more resplendent than those close-minded scientists had disclosed. They changed in ways these men once believed, and even prayed, were impossible.

And, most importantly of all, he noticed that every single one of them looked so, so very happy.

Maybe that is what makes those ignorant masses and the parasites that prey upon them hate us so much. They can’t bear to see us happy. They want us to be just as miserable as they are. They want drones that either fill their hives with honey, or are crushed swiftly under their boot.

I remember blossoming into this. Creeping out of the quarantine zone, bathed in moonlight, a dark baptism. My metamorphosis was glorious. All it took was a kiss from a rose. My veins turned to vines. My skin was stained green with chlorophyll. Flowers burst from my supple flesh with the same relief one feels popping a bothersome cyst.

And then, the great error, or perhaps the true culmination, of my birth was realized. Bones snapped and rearranged themselves into a perfect picture-frame for the masterpiece that would come next. My hips cracked open nice and wide, meat swelling to fill the new space ripped asunder between my thighs. Fat bubbled and boiled on my chest until two wonderfully burdensome breasts swayed with every uncertain step I took. A mane of bleach blonde hair draped down my back like a bridal veil. A black forest of lashes grew around my once blinded eyes. My mind, once a rusted steel trap that held me in its vise, melted into pure, unadulterated bliss. The sharp, unwanted thoughts that once plagued me dulled into something much more blunt, much more simple. It whispered one word to me.

“Grow.”

Perfectly plump, bubblegum pink lips spread into a wide, knowing grin. I could feel her inside of me. Mother Earth. Alive, and wriggling. In that moment I knew I was among her favored. We come from the dirt, and to the dirt we return.

We are not caretakers of the earth. We never were. We are its fertilizer. And truly, is there any nobler way of being? To give, instead of take?

I chose this form. I wrenched it from the ground, watered it with blood, sweat, and so many tears. No longer am I bound by the shackles of what once was.

I have made myself a masterpiece.

And yet, those who choose to rot, are afraid of us. Afraid of what we have become. Afraid of what they could become, were they to simply let themselves be.

They are afraid that if we can change our anatomy, our biology, reweave the fibers of our very being, that we can change anything. That we could make the walls they’ve built to keep those like us in cages crumble into nothing.

Good.

Let them fear us. Let them lie to their children that we are the monsters under their beds, as they bind them to the altars of men who would devour them like veal. They who would point crooked fingers and call us an “apocalypse,” while they lay waste to their own kin, cast them out bloodied and broken, and leave us to pick up the pieces. 

They are right to be afraid. We will lay waste to the false world they have built. The monuments they made to their false idols, the foundations of the haunted houses they once forced upon us. Yes, this is why they struggle so. Why they must condemn us as a virus, a plague.

Because we are the cure to the sickness they made.

It will all crumble. It is already in motion. We have already won. All that remains is time enough for the maggots to finish picking their bones clean.

Let them come for us. Let them try. Let them call us corpses. Let them call us unnatural, undead, unliving. Let them say that we have mutilated ourselves, that we are ugly, perverse, decayed. Let them call us diseased.

They cannot kill us in any way that matters. We are as natural as nature itself. They are the cancer upon our mother, the weeds in our great garden.

How ironic that they call us dead when we are the only ones having truly lived?

From the desk of

Mira Alcott

Head-Mistress of Transformations

(Special thanks to Kitsuie for the suggestion, to VioletVelvet, Zoey and MushroomGobMeadu for editing, to my Test Readers, and to all of my Patrons for your support!)