Some sorta post-post-modern-ancient-future tale of changing and things.

I lie awake at night and think about the spore that created me.

How did it come to pass this transformation into otherness?

Why am I under this Voodoo?

Who will know the things I have seen, feel, smell, when all is done?

What is the nature of consciousness; will mine become lost?

When it is done, will the pain end?

---

One day I awoke a bit stuffy and pale. It was approximately noon, a bit early for me to rise. Jumping out of bed, I noticed the tile floor under my feet was a bit squishier than usual. Having gone drinking the night before, I at first chalked it up to yet another hangover. I climbed the stairs to the bathroom across from the basement door. Every step was curiously, softer.

I relieved myself, and started the descent towards the solace of my bed. Then something clicked in my brain. I rushed back to the bathroom mirror I had passed. I looked. I stared. I tried to slap myself in the face. It didn't have the same impact as usual. I went back to gazing.

I was a mushroom.

Well, an anthropomorphic mushroom. I still had features of a human: legs, eyes, arm, mouth, all in the right places. Everything seemed intact. Yet, I now had gills growing in my neck and was puffy.

My thoughts instantly raced back to the night before. Did someone slip Acid in a drink? Am I still drunk? What the fuck?

I decided to return to sleep, as this had to be a hallucination.

I returned to the basement in which I dwell, to the room below the parental units.

I fall asleep.

---

I have slept so much recently.

Nobody will wake me. The parents are gone on vacation. No one's home, except me. If someone does come by, I ignore them.

Eventually, everyone goes away.

My roots are growing deep into the mattress, on which I lay.

The puddle of piss and shit grows. It hurts too much now to uproot myself. Fortunately, I no longer eat or drink, get hungry or thirsty. But the smell is terrible. That's the worst part.

My sight is almost gone and hearing is dampened. Though I still feel, it has changed. Unfortunately, scent will not abandon me. I smell perfectly the sewer which, what I hope, is my deathbed.

Let me slip away.