A ripple spread beneath my clothing, my stomach caving inwards in a sudden burst of pain. The pill bottle falls besides me, rolling across the ground, and I scrabble for it; my dark little secret, the thing nobody can be allowed to know I took.
Another stream of pain shoots through my arms, the bones crushing inwards. The flesh feels like it's peeling off my body in some places, and being welded against my bones in others. I can feel my sides working in, my face changing. I sneeze repeatedly as my nose grows smaller, and my lips grow plumper, my ears changing too. Hair grows over them, sliding down my backside as it arcs in pain, my growing bottom dumping me on the floor.
I take desperate breaths to try and get enough air when my organs begin to shift; it's hard to not pass out, but I still don't have the bottle. I'm still in the boys bathroom. I giggle at a little at that, a stream of historicalness that seems to be trying to tear me inside out.
My flesh moves in miniature waves, sliding up from my lower legs and into my thighs, working its way off from my sides and into my chest. Gently sloping mounds grow beneath the nipples, pressing against my shirt as my breath speeds up; they feel hot; warm; sensitive. I want to touch, but the pill box says I can't. Touching them when they're still forming can damage the nerve endings, permanently affecting how they feel. I wonder if that counts the shirt, too, but it's too late.
My back arches again, the mixture of pain and pleasure driving me to twist until my head touches the floor, silken black hair sliding back and forth as I writhe. The flesh at my groin split apart, and the last dregs of my masculinity drain inside, fading into my body as new passages are formed. I feel an embarrassing warmth and wetness sliding down my skin during the process. I blush, grabbing the towels and wipe at the floor with it and then stare at my pants; they're wet at the front. I pull them down and then stare at my underwear.
I grab another towel, and scrub the pants, then wet another after that, and grab the front of the underwear. It takes effort to make myself open the front and drive them inside, wiping it away. The edge of the paper brushes against my womanhood in the process, and I shiver, repeating the word over in my mind. I have a womanhood; and the first thing I did with it was wet myself. I blush a little at that, but continue to scrub, withdrawing it a moment later, and grabbing my pants. They're halfway up my body when someone walks in; I recognize the janitor uniform.
He stares at me for a moment, in my underwear, pants still being pulled up my body, and then he points a thumb. "Girl's bathroom is over there."
I nod, and run, then pause, half way out, darting back to grab the bottle; then I run again. My breasts bounce horridly, but I don't have a bra; bras are expensive. I have girls clothes in my locker, but classes will end soon. I run towards it, my breasts bouncing and the wet cloth clinging to my groin where my womanhood rests, instead of that male flesh. It hurts to run but I enjoy it a little, that pained feeling that says there's something other than flatness beneath my nipples. I run until it hurts, and only then realize I've gone past my locker.
I backtrack quickly, putting in the combination and pulling the clothes out. A silken skirt and panties, but still no bra; I didn't realize not having one would have an effect, but it does. My breasts keep bouncing up and down.
I ignore that, for the moment, slamming the locker shut and running to the girls' room, stripping the clothes and putting on the new. I consider tossing the old in the trash, but wonder if I should donate them instead; or hide them for when I turn back, before going home. I have to go home, so I have to turn back.
I compromise, stashing them under the sink and washing my hands to get off any residue. After a moment's hesitation, I wash the pill bottle as well. It's sopping wet, but a girl walks in. She doesn't say anything, or even look at me, but my heart beats faster; I dart out as soon as she enters one of the stalls, the pill bottle still wet in my hand.
Someone slams into me and it slides from my fingers. I cry out a little, darting after it, but someone else kicks it. The janitor picks it up, and throws it in his trash. I watch as he wheels away, uncertain what to say; in the end, I don't say anything.
I have to go home; but I don't want to turn back.