I don’t dream this time. There’s only dark, ensnaring blackness behind my lids, swiftly ticking the minutes by until my alarm goes off.

My eyes open to the sight of my pillow. I lift my head, and the pillow comes with me, its light weight hanging an inch from my skull. What the hell is-?

Every blood cell in my body rushes to my face at the realization. I reach up, grabbing the pillow and pulling it off. It slides off of my horn and I drop it back to the mattress, revealing the deep hole I’ve poked into the fabric and foam.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mumble, glaring at my forehead. “What the hell am I going to do with you?”

I push myself into a sitting position, the slight movement of my legs immediately reminding me of my other, more pressing change. I bite my tongue. Screw the horn, what the hell am I going to do about that?!

I get on my hands and knees, feeling the way it hangs between my legs. I don’t look at it again, but I don’t have to- every waking moment is enough to remind me of its existence. A vivid mixture of panic, disgust, and horror strikes me with the urge to run, to put space between myself and it like it’s a venomous snake. I need to get away from it, but I can’t. I can’t. It’s part of me, just like the hooves and the tail and the ears and the horn and the-

I squeeze my eyes shut tight, colors bursting behind my closed lids. Inhale. One. Two. Three. Exhale.

Jesus, I need my Lexapro.

Climbing out of bed, I’m presented once more with the fact that I’ve got hooves and semi-furry pony legs to deal with. I stare down at the hard, dark gray things and the misshapen limbs they’re connected to. Damn it, I didn’t try walking with them earlier, did I? Shit.

Well, now’s the time to rip the bandaid off, I suppose.

Putting a hand on the bed for balance, I stick out a leg and take a hesitant step forward. My hoof touches wooden the floor with a resounding clop and I wince. Shit, that’s louder than I thought it’d be. Okay, time for the real test. Letting go of the bed, I move my other foot, carrying myself a little further out onto the floor. Another loud clop. I grumble. Why did evolution decide to make hooves so damn noisy?

One hoof after another, I get into a rhythm, and soon enough I’ve made it to the bathroom. I force my gaze away from the mirror, wanting to at least take my medicine before I face my reflection.

One pill later, and I steel myself, sucking in a deep breath. “Alright, Percy,” I whisper. “Time to get this over with.”

I lift my head to lock eyes with my reflection, and it’s even worse than I thought.

When I look in the mirror, I hardly register the face that stares back at me as mine. Even beyond the ears, hair, and horn, the typical roundness of my cheeks have been sanded away into squarer sharpness. A part of me had always wondered what I might have looked like if my mom had a son instead, but this is…

Mom.

What do I say to her? She’ll see the new hooves, obviously, and the horn, too, but she knew about the pony stuff already; how do I tell her about the…? I scrub my hands over my face, expression twisted. I know in comparison to the fact that my body is becoming more pony-like, an equine sex change should be small potatoes, but humans place a lot of emphasis on that stuff!

Do I mention it at all, then? My mother is the accepting type- I don’t know a lot of spiritual, New Age people that aren’t, but it’s always different when it’s your child. I can hide it now, but if this keeps going in the direction it looks like its headed…

My Lexapro threatens to climb back up my throat. Things keep adding up, pony part by pony part. The more I dwell on it, the more I’m forced to confront the fact that this transformation is rapidly running out of things to change, and that it doesn’t seem intent on stopping. Will there be anything human about me by the end of the week? Fuck, will there by anything human about me by tomorrow?

Another worry digs its claws into my chest. If I’m not still human-looking by tomorrow, will I ever be again? The changes came out of nowhere, without reason or cause. What if it was some anomaly, a one in a trillion series of events that cannot be undone? What if it’s like a chemical reaction- a one-way change?

I grip the sink. What if Stygian is the rest of my life, and I have to hide up here, split off from society? What if my mother is forced to take care of me for the rest of her life, or send me away to some home because I've become impossible for her to manage? She told me she’d been worried about something like that after I received my diagnosis. I’d fought that worry tooth and nail, specialist after specialist, accommodation after accommodation. I’d made it through school. Got my diploma. I excelled, and now it might have all been for nothing.

My ears swivel, pinning back.

I don’t want to be a burden to her.

The word sticks to the back of my throat, choking. I don’t want to be a burden- I don’t want to be the secret shame, the one people ignore. I don’t want my friends to leave me behind, successful and happy, while I languish in some alien, inhuman body. It’s not my fault. It’s not fair. It’s not fair!

My grip tightens over the sink, knuckles whitening from the force. I feel too small for the anger growing within me, the blaze of fury burning brighter and brighter. Every worry stokes the flame inside, and it’s running out of things to burn. It has to come out. I need it to come out.

So it does.

A thick, pitch black smoke bursts from the tip of my horn, polluting the air with darkness. The billowing shadows stretch over the ceiling, covering the light above and plunging the bathroom into blackness.

It’s coming out of me, escaping through every avenue available. The expanding shadows surge up my throat, out my mouth, my nose, searing my insides. The darkness dribbles from my eyes in black, half-solid tears, clingy and wispy at once.

I can’t feel the ground anymore. There’s only the blackness. The searing heat has given way to a gentle warmth that embraces me, comforting like a blanket. It feels so nice to nestle myself inside, welcomed and wanted and-

I blink, and it’s like I’ve flipped a switch. The lights come back on, the shadows there one moment and gone the next. I hunch over the sink, emptying a mouthful of burning bile into the basin. Dazed and panting, I watch the frothy fluid circle the drain.

What the fuck? Did I just do any of that? Did any of that just happen? My mind swirls like the disappearing bile. No, I must have imagined it. I have to have imagined it. I’m seeing things from the stress- how can I not be?

Whatever the case, I don’t have long to consider it. My phone goes off in the other room, vibrating noisily on the nightstand.

Now that I’ve had a little practice with the new legs, it isn’t hard at all to get to the nightstand and pick up the phone. I read the incoming call’s ID: Nat.

I blink. Huh? Why the hell is Nat calling me? As far as she knows, I’m busy getting ready for the work day. Well, only one way to find out, I guess. I accept the call and put it on speaker.

“Dude. Thank goodness you picked up,” Nat says. She sounds out of breath.

“Of course,” I reply. “What is it?”

“O-oh, um. Sorry, who am I speaking to? I think I dialed the wrong person.”

My brows furrow. “What do you mean? It’s me, Percy.”

“Percy? What the heck, you sound British.”

“I do?” I ask. The sound of my voice finally hits me, and I flush. Oh god, I do. It’s nothing excessive, like a native English person might possess, but it’s present enough in my affect to give me pause. Not only that, but my typically flat tone has deepened into something more masculine, soft-spoken. Something more Stygian, I despair. I clear my throat awkwardly, attempting to digress. “N-never mind that! What were you calling me about?”

“Okay, well, I just want to preface this by saying I’m not crazy-”

“Not off to a good start,” I mumble.

“-but you know how we talked yesterday? About the tattoos?”

I stifle a snort. How could I forget? “Yeah?”

“Well, I don’t know how else to say this, but it’s gotten… worse.”

I squint. “Worse how? Worse like the tattoo is infected?”

“Now, I’m not crazy-”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I know, I just-” she pauses, the silence stretching on so long that I have to check to make sure she hasn’t hung up on me. Finally, she continues. “Bree has a tail now.”

I don’t know how someone can feel simultaneously horrified and relieved, but I’m feeling it. It’s selfish to be relieved at a moment like this, but I can’t help it. Bree has a tail. Bree has a tail too. I might not be the only one this is happening to. “A horse’s tail?” I dare to guess.

“And before you ask, it’s a legit tail, not like one of those fake things furries clip- huh? Yeah! How’d you know? Did she text you already?”

I bite my lip. “You guys should get over here.”

While Bree and Nat are driving over, I finally change out of the clothes I slept in last night. Of course, this means I’m forcibly reminded of my genital predicament. Despite my best efforts, none of the panties I own are designed to accommodate for horse junk, so I settle for a pair of baggy pajama bottoms instead. It’s not ideal, granted, but it’s the best I’ve got in terms of breathing room.

Bleakly, I wonder if I’ll even need clothes by tomorrow. I’ve never liked people who insisted on putting their dogs or cats in costumes for Halloween or Christmas. It always looked ridiculous, and the animals never seemed comfortable. Then again, the ponies sometimes wore clothes in the show, and they looked fine. Hell, Stygian wore a cape! So maybe a pair of appropriately sized pants wouldn’t be out of the question? It’s not like I want to walk around naked!

With my new, hopefully more accommodating outfit on, I make my way to the stairs. I hold the railing in a vice grip, terrified that a single incorrect movement of my legs will send me tumbling down to the first floor. I inch my way down the steps, the light clopping of my hooves against the wood painfully far apart. Finally, I reach the bottom floor, releasing my deathgrip before approaching the back door to unlock it.

“Percy?”

I spin around on my hooves. My mom stands there, eyes wide. Her mouth opens, closes, then opens again, like she’s a fish on land struggling for air.

“You look…” She scans my altered frame as she searches for the right word. I can feel her gaze as it washes over my ears, my squarer face, my tail, my legs. “… different.”

My shoulders slump. “Yeah. I know.”

She’s visibly taken aback by my response, and it takes me a few moments to realize she’s probably reacting to my new case of Britishness. “… and it still doesn’t hurt?” she asks.

I shake my head. “I feel fine.” Well, physically, at least.

She frowns. “And… and you still don’t want to see a doctor about this?”

Another shake. “Again, I seriously doubt they’d be able to do anything.”

“I’m just saying, it wouldn’t hurt to try,” she says, her voice small. “You never know.”

It’s my turn to frown. I want to believe her, but how can I? Modern medicine isn’t equipped to handle something like this. You can’t take a pill and ungrow a horse tail or regrow feet out of a pair of hooves, and I don’t think even the most extensive surgery can convincingly make one animal look like another.

“You won’t give me up, will you?” I ask.

“Give you up?” Her eyes flash with concern. “Percy, where is this coming from? Why on earth would I-?”

I gesture to my animal parts. “Because it’s getting worse, mom. Much worse. Tomorrow, I might be a completely different species. And if this doesn’t wear off- if I can’t turn back to normal-” My throat tightens, and I’m barely able to force out the rest. “You’ll be stuck with an animal instead of a daughter.”

My mother’s face hardens. “Percy, I don’t care what you look like,” she says, “or what species you are. You’re my child! I brought you into this world prepared to do anything for you. That didn’t change when they diagnosed you, and it sure as hell won’t change now. It hasn’t been easy, obviously, and whether I’ve done my best or not, well… I don’t know. I’m not the judge of that. But what kind of mother would I be if I gave up on you now, when you needed me the most?”

I’m hugging her before I even realize I’ve started to move. She has to tilt her head away to avoid my horn, but she hugs back just as tight. A sob catches in my throat as I deepen the embrace, the upset sound rattling me like the tines of a tuning fork. I tremble, but hold fast, like she’ll disappear if I let go.

“Thank you,” I choke out. I can barely get the words out around the growing lump in my throat. “Thank you. Thank- thank you.”

I don’t know how long I stand there, trembling and embracing her. It might only be a minute, it might be an hour. However long it is, she holds me the entire time, anchoring me until my sniffling slows and finally stops.

“Better?” she asks.

“A little,” I mumble, and that’s an understatement. It’s easier to breathe now, like admitting the nervousness had expelled some blockage from my lungs. I draw in a deep, full breath, letting go of her at last.

“Why are you downstairs, anyway?” she asks, hands on her hips. “You weren’t going to try to convince me to make you work today, were you?”

“God no. Nat and Bree are coming over. Don’t worry, they already know about the uh… horse stuff.”

“While the store’ll be open? What for?”

“Oh, no, we won’t be underfoot or anything, we’re just…” I trail off, chewing the inside of my cheek. I’d feel guilty revealing Bree’s condition without her consent, but the last thing I need is for my mom to have a heart attack if she suddenly pokes her head in and sees two people with pony parts. It’s better that she isn’t surprised. “Bree’s facing a similar problem.”

My mom steps back. “You mean it might be contagious? Do you think we need to quarantine?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so. Nat didn’t say anything was happening to her- just Bree.” My eyes wander back to her. “Unless you’ve got a tail I don’t know about.”

Her stance loosens. “You have a point there. Well, whatever you do, keep quiet and stay out of trouble. And if there’s an emergency-”

“-contact you,” I finish. “I know.” I don’t like being curt with her, she’s just trying to help, but the store is supposed to open in less than an hour, and I don’t want to keep her from doing her own job. One of us has to hold down the fort. Just because I’m struggling with my own stuff doesn’t mean the place has to fall apart. I’m twenty-five, not ten. I can handle eight measly hours without her supervision, half-horse or otherwise.

She finally walks off, leaving me alone again. The calm silence is short-lived, and I get only a moment to myself before someone knocks at the door. I’d recognize the excitable knocking anywhere- it’s Bree.

Steeling myself, I shuffle on my hooves to the exit and open the back door, immediately greeted by Bree and Nat. Bree’s changes hit me like a truck; her already unruly brown hair has puffed up like that of a cartoon character who’s stuck a fork in an electrical socket. The texture change, however, is easily trumped by the pair of furry, yellow-orange ears poking out between the wild locks, and the equally poofy brown tail excitedly wagging behind her.

“O-oh, um, hey, you two,” I say, trying not to stare.

Bree’s eyes widen at the sight of me- they too have changed, the usual blue exchanged for a bright, sour apple green. “Wow, you really are British!” she gapes.

My cheeks warm. “Just get in here.”

I take the two upstairs into the living room, and the pair get themselves settled on the couch by the coffee table. Since this room and the kitchen are connected, I elect to grab myself breakfast while I’m at it. Nothing too big, I think, opening the door. If my stomach is changing alongside the rest of me, I don’t want to make myself sick.

Shit, what can My Little Pony ponies even eat, I wonder? I don’t assume they have all the same limitations as real life horses, given the fact that they freely eat sweets that would probably make a normal equine sick on the show, but I can’t be too careless.

As the refrigerator door opens, I’m greeted by the multiple apples I bought yesterday. I huff at the sight of them, but all that does is bring to mind the image of an agitated horse flaring its nostrils. Of course. Well, both real and fictional ponies seem to love these- might as well indulge.

“Oh! Is there any cake left over?” Bree’s voice calls from the couch.

“Uh, yeah,” I say, shutting the refrigerator door and stepping aside. “I actually haven’t had any-”

I turn around just in time to see Bree rapidly approaching, nearly knocking me over in her pursuit of cake. I let out an undignified squeak, stepping out of the way just in time to prevent disaster.

Collision successfully averted, my hooves carry me to the nearby recliner, and I settle in with my apple. It takes a few awkward shifts before I get comfortable, needing to pull my tail out from behind me and into view so it doesn’t feel cramped pushed against the cushioning. I finally take my first bite of fruit, the juiciness of the apple surprising me. Damn, is this a particularly good apple, or do they all taste amazing to horses? If it’s the latter, I’m definitely buying more. Shopping in person is out of the question, but maybe I could use InstaCart? I think I remember them recently introducing some contactless delivery option. Ugh, but that’s assuming I can still navigate the app with hooves…

While I contemplate sating my horse taste buds and Bree goes to serve herself some dessert for breakfast, something about her chosen meal strikes me. Wait a second. The cake. The cake… birthday cake… birthday… My eyes widen. “Hey,” I start, speaking around my mouthful. “This… this started happening to you yesterday, right?”

Bree turns her head, ear flicking as she pulls out the plastic container of cake. “Uh, yeah, why?”

I swallow. “Because that was your birthday,” I answer. “And because this-” I swish my tail “-started happening the morning after mine. I woke up with blue hair. And Nat- her birthday isn’t until November, and nothing’s been happening to her.”

A hush falls over the room. It’s so quiet that I’m suddenly aware of my own breathing, the sound of my own saliva as I swallow.

“Shit,” Bree whispers. “You’re right.”

The cut in the silence is short-lived. Quiet settles in again, each of us preoccupied with our own thoughts. With no toes left to tap, I bounce my leg against the carpeted floor, the limb racing like my mind.

“You think that means Isabelle’s been hit too?” Nat finally asks.

“No way,” I say. “I just saw her yesterday, and she looked totally normal.”

“That was yesterday!” Bree points out, shutting the refrigerator door. She lifts her tail. “I didn’t have this yesterday!” She tugs one of her ears. “Or these!”

Nat shrugs. “She’s got a point. Besides, she’s our friend. At the very least, she deserves to know something’s happening, even if she’s not dealing with the same stuff.”

I turn the idea over in my brain. The last thing I want to do is burden Isabelle with our problems. She’s busy with work, after all. The show is happening soon- she shouldn’t have to worry about a couple of her friends turning into horses.

“If we do contact her,” I acquiesce, taking another bite of my apple, “we can’t say too much. I don’t want her to know all the gory details if we can help it-”

“Hey, Suri!” Bree’s voice chirps. “Wake up with any pony bits this morning?”

My head snaps in her direction, and I nearly choke. Bree’s got her plate of cake in one hand and the phone in the other. She holds the latter awkwardly beside her pony ear, an expectant smile on her face.

Author's Note

Whoops I accidentally went multiple months without an update. Thanks to everyone who's commented so far, and apologies for the delay!