Chapter Text
One morning Samsa discovered, as they awoke in their warm bed from anxious dreams, that they had been transformed into a peculiar and uncanny bug. They lay on their wing-laden back and saw, as they lifted their head up a little, their gray, hourglass abdomen divided up into rigid horizontal sections. The blanket, which must have been kicked off in the night, sat in a heap at the end of the bed. And as Samsa reached toward it they realized, still hazy from their long and restless sleep, that they had not two arms, but six.
"How strange," they thought, examining one of their newfound three-fingered hands. It was no dream. Their room, a proper room for a human being, only somewhat too small, lay quietly between the four well-known walls. Above the table, on which an unpacked collection of sample cloth goods was spread out—Samsa was a travelling salesman—hung the picture which they had cut out of an illustrated magazine a little while ago and set in a pretty gilt frame. It was a picture of a woman with a fur hat and a fur boa. She sat erect there, lifting up in the direction of the viewer a solid fur muff into which her entire forearm had disappeared.
Samsa's glance then turned to the window. The dreary weather—the raindrops were falling audibly down on the metal window ledge—affected a tender kind of coziness in the room. "Could this be real?" Samsa pondered as they watched the rain draw patterns of droplets on the windowpane, glittering in the light of the streetlamps. "I must still be asleep," they concluded after little thought, and shut their eyes again. But this was entirely absurd, for Samsa was quite tired, and how could one be tired while they remain fast asleep? And in this tiredness Samsa would have fallen asleep yet again, had it not been for the alarm clock on the nightstand ringing off the time of 4:00 AM.
"Oh god," they thought, "what a demanding job I've chosen! Early to rise, early to bed, day in, day out, on the road..." Samsa reached for the alarm, silencing it with a clunk. "...The stresses of selling..." their thoughts continued and they pushed themselves closer to the bedpost, and leaned against the wall behind their bed. "...On top of that, I have to cope with the problems of travelling!" Samsa folded their legs together and slouched slightly, resting their face in their upper set of arms. "The worries about train connections, irregular bad food, temporary and constantly changing human relationships!" They felt a slight itch on the front of their abdomen, scratching it with one of their extra hands. "And... And... And..."
Samsa froze. That extra hand held still against their stomach, their head still in two hands. But how? How could they be in three places at once? And not only that, why could they feel the fabric of their sheets in yet another hand? And the hard chitin of their legs in two more? These were the thoughts that flooded Samsa's mind, supplanting all those that came before. These new thoughts and worries, however, where much easier to contend with, and for that Samsa held a small sense of relief.
Slowly, Samsa removed their hands from their face and reviewed, for a second time, this new body they'd been placed in. A gray exoskeleton, segmented into individual angular components, yet still maintaining a certain graceful curve when considered together. It was exactly as they'd left it in their dream. Or rather, it was no dream at all, merely the groggy few moments after waking. In the face of this evidence, and the mental clarity from the shock, Samsa could do nothing but accept this reality.
"This, this must be real," they spoke softly to themself, in a voice much different than usual, "it must be." It was clearly and unmistakably their earlier voice, but with a particular resonance to it. No more of those low, gravely notes that had shrouded their speech since adolescence. Samsa repeated themselves a little louder to sample their voice a second time. The sound was clearer than it had ever been, and in addition had risen in pitch by a substantial amount. This struck a feeling within Samsa, a feeling both familiar and distant, that defied explanation even to themself.
Samsa would have been content to remain in bed and continue to experiment with this new voice, however their train would be departing in an hour, and they would need to get dressed, and pack up the sample collection, and eat breakfast with their family—Oh dear, their family. How would they take this situation? Maybe they don't need to know? "They're all still asleep," Samsa thought "maybe I could sneak out and get breakfast elsewhere. But what of those at the bakery? How would they see me? And the boss, and the manager, and all my coworkers at the office? Or those on the train? Oh no, oh no."
As they were thinking all this over in the greatest haste, without being able to make the decision to get out of bed—the alarm clock was indicating exactly quarter past four—there was a quiet knock on the door by the side of the bed.
"Samsa?" a voice whispered from the other side of the wooden door—it was Grete, their sister—"Who was that talking in there? Is someone with you?"
Of all their family to be awake at this hour, it would have to be Grete. At the same time, of all their family to be awake at this hour, Samsa would have chosen Grete. "How could I respond?” They thought, “She already believes this voice to be another person, how could I convince her it is me?" Samsa curled up, paralyzed by indecision. Their sister continued. "Gr—I mean, Samsa, open the door—I beg you." They had no intention of opening the door, not at this moment, but Samsa congratulated themself on their precaution, acquired from travelling, of locking all doors during the night, even at home.
"The two of us will be out in a minute," they replied, only loud enough to be heard by Grete, and not their sleeping parents. Should their sister think them to be a different person, so be it. They required time of their own to assess the situation. First they wanted to stand up quietly and undisturbed, get dressed, above all have breakfast, and only then consider further action, for—Samsa noticed this clearly—by thinking things over in bed they would not reach a reasonable conclusion.
With Grete dismissed, Samsa took their first cautious steps out of bed. The floorboards that normally emitted a loud creak with every step now accepted their weight without a sound—suggesting that this transformation not only affected their appearance, but their physical composition, granting them the mass of a feather. They continued silently toward their closet, opening it with care as if they weren’t permitted to be awake at this time, even though they had been rising at this hour for several years. As they retrieved their suit and pants from their hooks Samsa caught a glimpse of themselves in their full-length mirror and began to experience that familiar yet distant feeling again, this time so powerful it made their heart jump in their chest.
They were struck by their body. The figure-eight shape of their torso, the antennae that bounced slowly on the top of their head, and the ruby red traces of colour Samsa was only now noticing in their wings. To Samsa, the sight was breathtaking, but not in the same way they considered a beautiful woman, or a magnificent landscape. It was hard to say aloud, or even to themself, but these qualities, both insectile and—Samsa eyed the magazine clipping in the frame above the table—feminine, were appealing more so to inhabit than to merely admire from the outside.
This sudden shift in attitude toward the situation, combined with an overwhelming desire to experiment, lead Samsa to return their suit and pants to the closet and replace them with a long paneled skirt—Grete had been storing some of her clothes in Samsa’s closet—that had sat folded on the top shelf for the last several years. The thought of trying on this skirt was not new to Samsa, and they often found themselves considering it as they lay in bed at night. They always assumed it to be an errant thought, something that appears in the mind for no particular reason, only to disappear just as suddenly.
However this morning, under these circumstances and peculiarities, Samsa didn’t see the harm in finally satisfying the thought. They placed the skirt onto the carpet and stepped into it, pulling it up around their torso. The waist of the skirt, being much wider than Samsa's own, refused to stay in place, instead resigned to rest loosely on their hips where it seemed just about ready to slide off completely. With their lower pair of hands Samsa pinched the waistband tight around themself, and appraised this new look in the mirror. They swayed and posed, the swishing skirt following their quick movements and then lying still, draping over their hips and thighs in all manner of delicate and attractive ways.
As they played with the flowing quality of the fabric, Samsa considered the problem of keeping the outfit in place. Were this just another set of pants then Samsa could use a belt. But the skirt had no loops, and it was unlikely they owned a belt that could be tightened far enough, so another strategy would need to be be undertaken. In a small jolt of inspiration Samsa's attention darted to the collection of fabric samples on the table. Each swatch had a safety pin struck through it, which in turn was looped onto a large metal keyring. Two such pins could be repurposed, placed where their hands currently held the waist taunt, and then Samsa would be free to think of other things, such as tops, jackets, scarves, hats, and shoes.
Affecting this plan was remarkably easy. Samsa didn't even need to let go of holding the skirt, as they had four extra hands to do the work of removing the pins and affixing them to the waistband. It felt akin to the the assistance of two servants, servants whose actions could be dictated without speaking a single word, and who rarely interfered with each other, if at all.
With the skirt dealt with, Samsa needed something to go over their chest. They could sense already that this would prove challenging, as any top would need to accommodate the three equally-spaced ball joints that ran vertically up each of their sides, connecting their arms to the rest of their body. After some consideration, Samsa came to the conclusion that an undershirt would likely allow a proper fit, as the arm holes might dip low enough to accept all of their shoulders at once. They tried a shirt from the set they took from every morning, but found it to be much too large—if they held their arms to their sides it would slip off and onto the floor—and so instead they retrieved from the closet a box of clothes from their youth. After some rummaging Samsa uncovered what they were looking for, a shirt of the same fit, but several sizes smaller. They put it on and discovered it to be a little more than adequate, if quite loose around the waist.
Samsa tucked the top under their skirt and glanced at the clock, immediately experiencing a rush of adrenaline. It was just past 4:30. "If I don't get myself sorted soon I'll miss my train," they thought to themselves, "and that is the last thing I need right now. What must I arrange next? Shoes?" Samsa took their dress shoes from their nook and tried to put them on, but found it exceedingly uncomfortable to lower their heel onto the insole. They had been standing and walking on their forefoot since stepping out of bed, and it was only now that they had realized this. Along the floor of the closet was a selection of other shoes, some belonging to Samsa, others to Grete, ranging from old to new. In their rush Samsa pulled out the first set of shoes they saw that might fit. They were navy blue with a relatively tall heel, meant for special occasions. They belonged to a younger Grete, but the only thing on Samsa's mind was that they supported their foot perfectly.
Continuing with their haste, Samsa found a scarf and, with one pair of arms, wrapped it around their wrist-sized neck, using another pair to lay a wide-brimmed hat onto their head, and yet another to place their oversized coat around their body like a cloak, not bothering to fill the sleeves. By the end of this mad rush of action Samsa felt complete. Their outfit complete, that is. And they may even have time to spare, should they take their breakfast to go.
As Samsa looked themselves over in the mirror they found their mind wander again to how they would be seen. Grete, their mother and father, they would surely react poorly, for Samsa now amounted to a monster in their own home. Pushing away that thought, Samsa began to speculate on how those on the street, in the train, and at the shops might regard this strange new form. "People of the city," they thought, "tend not to concern themselves with the appearance of strangers. There are far too many people and much too little time to care about such trivial things. They might think to themselves, form opinions of those around them, but never air a word. They might see me as I board the train and distinguish this body—these red eyes, these wings, these thin, spindly arms—as nothing more than inhuman. And rightly so, but should I fashion myself up in these artifacts of civilization—these clothes, these shoes, my briefcase—they must recognize that in spite of outward appearances to the contrary, I have an undeniable impression of personhood. That I'm merely another one of thousands going about their day. They might think to themselves: What a strange creature? They may wonder: Who could that be, how would one come to look that way? And they might ask: Where could she be going—"
For the second time this morning, Samsa froze. As if broken from a trance and returned to reality, and only now registering how the bug in the mirror was presenting herself. They were clothes that Samsa chose. They were clothes Samsa would choose for a body that would suit them. Not clothes Samsa would wear. But here she was, in the mirror, those clothes being worn. Clear as day. Undeniable.
That phrase echoed for a second time in Samsa's mind. "Where could she be going."
Samsa took a step forward, and so too did the bug in the mirror. The bug placed a hand before her face, then another, and another, and another, until she was no longer visible. Samsa could feel that distant, familiar feeling completely overtake the room, so strongly it welled up in the eyes. Could a bug cry? Samsa couldn't say, but if it could, this is how it would feel. No tears, but everything else that came with it. The bug's body shook rhythmically in a silent sob, her knees buckling to the floor. It was a thousand emotions at once. Worry, panic, shock, relief, happiness. So potent and cathartic that Samsa could do nothing but lie in a heap on the carpet and wait for it pass by.
Samsa remained there for some time. But eventually, she stood once again. And, almost on cue, there was another light knock on the door.