Chapter Text
Gregor Samsa raised his head, only mildly surprised to have survived the night. The sleep he had entered the night before, after overhearing Grete's hurtful words, had been so deep, so all encompassing and complete. He remembered his final thoughts the previous night having been, with a touch of sadness, that he did not expect to wake the next morning. But wake he had, still in pain. His back and hind legs ached with a hurt deeper than he had ever felt, all radiating from the spot where the apple remained lodged. His antennae twitched and he blinked his eyes slowly, attempting to lift his body from the floor. But no, it appeared he was now too weak. Too weak than to do much more than sit and sit and sit, waiting. Waiting for Grete to open the door, either to toss in his next meal, or quickly sweep the remains of his last. Waiting to see what new useless thing would be added to the clutter of his room. Waiting for death, which he knew must be coming. He had not eaten more than a few mouthfuls in weeks. If his inability to support his weight any longer wasn't already a sign, well…
The monotonous drone of his thoughts as he sat and waited through day after day of the same had at times allowed the notion that he may have entered some sort of purgatory when he had awoken to find himself transformed in his bed those long months ago. But he chased thoughts like that away. He didn't consider himself that lucky.
What time was it? He could hear his parents and sister walking around outside the locked door, wooden floorboards creaking under their weight. Could hear their murmured conversations. Father was still home, so it was either very early or a weekend. His antennae twitched again, and he determined it was most likely a weekend considering he couldn't hear the sharp click of Grete's heeled work shoes with her steps. He had found it very difficult to measure the passage of time or keep up with what days were which as people entered his room less and less frequently. He wished he had the strength to move so he could maneuver himself at least a little closer to the door. From where he lay, he would be able to follow along with most of a conversation from the living room, but if the family moved to another room he would be left with only the sounds of the apartment to keep him company. He sighed deeply and strained his antennae as best he could to hear their morning discussion:
"Grete, you did pack the bag, right?"
"Yes, mother."
"And you placed the tickets inside, yes?"
"Yes, father."
"Excellent, we'll be off shortly then."
A brief pause, a shuffling of steps.
"...Have you fed him, Grete, dear?"
A heavy silence.
"No, not yet."
"You'll do it before we leave, yes?"
Another stretch of silence.
"You saw it last night. It's not looking well. Might we just be prolonging the inevitable?"
"Grete, you shouldn't - !"
"You know I'm right. It's barely touched what I lay out for weeks."
"Even so, you'll lay out something won't you? It would be cruel…"
A gruff cough from his father. More silence.
"I should be glad when we won't have to waste time worrying about it anymore. Perhaps Grete is right. Leaving it may be kinder."
"H- it's been quiet today."
An exasperated sigh from Grete.
"I'll see to it before we leave."
That seemed to content his mother and the shuffling of footsteps commenced once more.
Gregor sat. He sat still in his room, in the dust on the dirty floor, and he seethed. He was taken aback somewhat by the intensity of his anger. Generally, he was a very calm person, and he prided himself on keeping composed in even the most strenuous of situations. But this, he had never felt more betrayed. He remembered last night, after overhearing them speak, hearing Grete wish for his death, he had retreated to his room to succumb. He understood, he truly did, after all he was such a burden on his poor family in his current state. But he had not succumbed during the night. He had not passed in his sleep as he had intended and now he found that he didn't truly want to. In fact, he had absolutely no intention of dying alone in this dirty cramped room. He chittered furiously, jaws snapping. He attempted again to rise from the floor, he needed to leave. But the weeks of slowly wasting had taken their toll and while he had not passed during the night he certainly was in no state to be making escapes of any kind. He could weep in frustration if he had still been capable. It wasn't fair. Finally, he had a mind to leave. To abandon this fruitless situation. It had been abundantly clear since his initial transformation that he was not going to revert back to his prior form. That things were not going to return to at least some semblance of normalcy. His family had seen to that when they had seen fit to lock him away. And now at last he had come to the realization that he needed to leave if he had any hope of survival and he wasn't even strong enough to stand. He hissed, and gnashed his jaws, twitching angrily in place. It wasn't fair, it wasn't. His family cared not for the creature they were so sure had replaced their son, and, as he twitched uselessly, he realized he cared not for them either. The realization washed over him in a cold wave and he shook softly, shocked.
He didn't care. There was nothing left for him here. No one to provide for, no one to care for, no one to depend on him day in and day out for every comfort and staple. He didn't care. He didn't have to.
He turned his gaze to his bedroom window, rage dissipating as quickly as it had come, and stared longingly. How had he never thought to open it on his own before? Grete had opened it when she used to clean his room, if only to avoid looking at him for a moment. But he had never even thought to try. It wasn't locked, unlike the door. But the thought had never once crossed his mind until now. And now it was too late, he thought, shaking still. An echo of anger rippled through him, at his sheer misfortune and lack of foresight. He couldn't move. He was trapped. He would surely starve soon. He would die as he had lived.
'Inconsequently,' he thought, in growing despair.
Another ripple jolted through his body, startling him. His head was a mess of emotions, and these strange twinges were doing nothing to calm him. He attempted to focus on the window again, if nothing else, he tried to reason, he could at least live the rest of his days enjoying what view he could see from his position on the floor. But another cramp ripped through him, nearly forcing him to fold in half with it's severity. He hissed and chittered in nervous frustration.
'What is happening?' He thought uneasily, shivering and on edge.
The sensations were growing in strength and frequency, and more painful as well. His head swam as he was forced to bow and stare down into the carpet as another wave bowled through him. His body was on fire, perhaps I'm dying, he thought. The thought brought forth all his prior feelings at once and he panicked, he wasn't ready to die. As his fear and anguish and rage warred inside him the emotions seemed to fuel whatever was happening to his body. Sharp pain shot through him and he let out a desperate screech. A sharp, angry knock at the door, his father's fist, a warning to keep noise to a minimum. And with that Gregor felt his anger, which had been being overtaken by terror at just what was happening, bubble over. The anger seemed to trigger something and the sensations became overwhelming. He was nearly blind, close to blacking out from the pain. He was consumed by awful burning and stretching. As the pain reached a peak, he heard a nauseating, wet, cracking noise as various parts of him split open. He felt the carpet underneath him grow wet with some sort of fluid. I'mbleedingI'mdyingI'mbleedingI'm dying, he thought inanely. His body, which had been previously immovable, thrashed about violently. He didn't know if he was capable of vomiting in this form, but he certainly felt as though he might. He hissed miserably at the shifting feelings deep in his belly, wet and slimy somethings slithering over each other as they rearranged. His limbs lengthening, the wet crackling, quieter now, continuing right in his ears. 'Ears?' He thought weakly before another cramp made orderly thought impossible. He didn't know how long he shifted and changed on the floor of his room. But when he finally came to his senses again he was breathing harshly, and wetly through his mouth, eyes shut tight, face resting against the floor.
He lay like that for several minutes, catching his breath. Well, he had no idea what all that had been about. He was very tired from his earlier emotional outburst and now coupled with the awful episode he had just been subjected to, all he wanted was to slip into another dreamless sleep or at the very least a light nap. He breathed out deeply, a small groan escaping with it. And immediately his eyes snapped open once more. He dared not move. His breathing quickened. He exhaled again, punctuating the air with another small groan at the end. No chirp. No squeak or screech sounded out with it. He was shaking again, he realized as he lifted his head from the floor and looked to his left side. An arm, two arms, he realized.
He lay for a moment, sprawled in a heap, staring at the appendages. Then he smiled, widely, very widely actually, his mouth seemed...hm...well, interesting. Gregor pressed his hands, all four of them, as there were two arms on his right side as well, into the carpet and pushed himself up. This time, he actually did feel tears form in his eyes. He panted, trying to remember how to balance in an upright position, before slumping so that his weight rested on his bent legs.
He held his hands in front of himself, hands! He had hands again! They were...different, from before, but that was alright. Black, with the fingertips and palms covered in the same sticky substance like the bottom of his legs had been, the black stretching up to his pointed elbows, small spiky feelers along his forearms. 'Sensitive,' he thought, as he traced a finger over them. The black faded into his natural skin color past the elbow. He twisted his bottom set of arms, twiddling the fingers on his hands. He clapped his top pair of hands together in joy. Looking down, his chest and belly appeared to have retained most of the protective ridges, he pinched where skin faded into a ridge and found it almost of a leathery texture. Touching his upper arms and face confirmed the same quality. His face. He felt it, there was no longer a mirror in his room, but from what he felt it was his old face. Asides from the rather obvious insectoid jaws protruding from his mouth. That would explain why his mouth felt stretched wide. He clicked the jaws together, and then, on a hunch, opened as wide as he could and retracted them into his mouth. He felt his face again, and smiled softly. His legs up to the knees were the same black as his hands and lower arms, feelers along the back of his calves, bottom of his feet covered with the same sticky substance. He imagined himself walking upright on a wall and waving at passersby. His smile turned to a grin. He blushed when his pincers nearly slipped out, that would take some getting used to. He reached a top hand back and felt the hardness of his back, that hadn't changed then, he thought, almost disappointed. As he reached back though he felt something he had never been able to feel, honestly, he had never been able to reach his back before. He felt a subtle groove, almost an opening down the middle of his hard back. He blinked. And tried to poke a finger in, the ends of his fingers were sharper and more durable than before and he poked through with ease to…? He blinked again. And then his eyes widened with a dawning disbelief. He concentrated very hard and slowly the armored backing opened, he hadn't realized he had closed his eyes and as he opened them and turned to the side he couldn't suppress a choked watery laugh. Delicate wings extended on either side of him. He fluttered them, just to see, he told himself, and the gust they created blew dust all over the room. He chirped in surprise and covered his mouth, embarrassed again. 'Rather silly,' he thought, 'to be embarrassed of noises when I've spent the last few months incapable of speech.' He pressed a second hand over his mouth to keep from laughing for he feared he might not stop if he started.
He felt amazing. Better than he had even before his initial transformation. He could leave. He could leave right now. Pack a small bag of clothes, he'd need to have alterations made, he supposed. Walk to the window, open it...and leave. He lowered his hands in sudden anxiety, his top two clasped together while his bottom arms wrapped around his belly in a hug, trying to comfort himself. What would he do? He supposed the firm may take him back. But how was he to excuse his months-long absence? He had no way of knowing what Mr. Manager had informed the Chief of after that initial visit to the apartment. And honestly, returning to his life as a salesman seemed incredibly unappealing. It's not as if he'd be needing to support anyone but himself anymore. In fact, he thought happily, he could just as easily leave and find a nice quiet town in the countryside. Near a campground perhaps, somewhere that refuse would be plentiful and easily accessible. Although, he realized gleefully, for the first time in months the thought of eating something other than rot was appealing as well. He felt tears well up once more and spill down his cheeks this time. He wiped them away, sniffling and chuckling weakly. This was truly a miracle.
A sudden scrape of the key in the door lock.
He froze, gaze darting in the direction of the noise. There was no time to dart beneath the sofa. No time to move at all.
Grete's head peeked in as she dropped a load of trash on the floor, she looked up as she was leaving and her eyes met his. She went pale. Her mouth fell open and closed again with a snap. She looked as if she'd sprouted roots where she stood.
He stared at her. The fear he had felt when the key was turning in the lock had faded almost immediately. He met her terrified gaze blankly. She was trembling.
"Gregor?" She asked, voice coming out in a pitiful squeak.
He turned his gaze deliberately to the apple that had been embedded in him for weeks, lying on the floor surrounded by wet and broken pieces of his old shell. Grete shifted her gaze to where he looked. He turned back to her, and felt a cold, pleasurable chill at her frightened expression. His antennae twitched, Grete flinched. He cocked his head and the feelers along his arms and legs raised. Grete was whimpering softly now, and appeared to be trying to call out, but she was having trouble with her words.
"G-Gregor-"
He cut her off with a whine of his own, a high-pitched sound from deep in his chest. Grete looked like she may faint.
As he met her gaze again he opened his mouth, wide, wider than he should have been able, and allowed his pincers to slowly slip out. At that, Grete screamed, turned and ran, slamming the door shut behind her. He felt giddy and snickered softly. It truly shouldn't be as amusing as it was to terrify your younger sister. But, he told himself, after the past few months of her treatment towards him a little fright was the least she deserved. He listened intently through the door to Grete shriek and fail to explain just what had frightened her so much, blubbering and tearful as she was. Her babbling continued as he shakily made his way to standing on his new legs, it had been quite a long time since he'd walked upright after all. Taking his first shaky step he nearly doubled over laughing when he heard Grete finally explain herself:
"HES GOING TO EAT ME!"
Silence from the living room aside from Grete's heavy breathing. Gregor stifled his laughs behind a hand, standing upright much steadier this time. He took soft steps forward, making no noise whatsoever. Eat her?! He had no intention of doing anything of the sort. Although, he supposed, seeing him bring out his pincers could have given off a rather ravenous appearance. Speaking of, he opened wide and retracted them once more. He smoothed a hand through his hair which somehow had grown shaggy and long, past his ears, during his time transformed. He listened quietly at the door a moment more. Grete was moaning, his mother was attempting to comfort her though not doing much good through her own growing panic, and his father's foot was tapping impatiently.
He looked down at the door handle. Grete, in her haste, had forgotten to lock the door. He reached one black hand out and turned the knob slowly.
All noise on the other side stopped immediately.
Gregor smiled.