Transit, 43

The phone trembled in her hand, still warm from her grip. Her pulse raced, a cocktail of panic and disbelief coursing through her. She felt the faint metallic taste on her tongue again, a sharp reminder that something was deeply wrong. A shaky exhale escaped her lips as she hesitated, then switched her phone’s camera to selfie mode.

Angling the phone awkwardly, she stuck out her tongue, leaning closer to the screen for a better look. The light caught it—a glint of silver embedded right through the middle of her tongue. Her heart sank as reality hit her. “Oh no… not again,” she whispered, her voice breaking. The piercing felt foreign, intrusive, and inexplicable, and yet it was undeniably hers now.

Before she could process further, a sharp vibration in her hand startled her. A social media alert popped up on the screen, the notification banner displaying her own profile picture alongside the words, “Your Blue Angel is out!” The dread pooling in her stomach threatened to swallow her whole. With a swipe of her thumb, she opened the app.

Her profile stared back at her, only it wasn’t what she remembered. The latest post showcased a photo of her wearing the revealing blue outfit she had never owned—tight denim shorts, sky-high boots, and a top that barely covered her chest. She gasped audibly, her eyes widening as she saw the bold caption below: “Your Blue Angel is out!” It was followed by hashtags that made her stomach churn.

Horrified, she scrolled down to see another image. Her breath caught in her throat. The photo was more explicit—a shot of her from behind, her back arched provocatively. She could see the glint of a shiny plug nestled between her cheeks. She froze, her fingers grazing her lower body, and the faint pressure confirmed it: it was there.

Lori’s chest tightened as her gaze fell to her chest on the screen. Her free hand instinctively reached up to her breasts. Her fingers brushed against the cool sensation of metal. She gasped as she realized the truth—her nipples were pierced too. Her breathing turned shallow as her mind raced, trying to connect the dots of this surreal nightmare.

“Holly… shit,” she muttered under her breath, unable to tear her eyes away from the grotesque invasion of her own identity. Each image, each change, felt like another piece of her old self being ripped away, replaced by someone unrecognizable. The phone slipped from her hands and landed on the bed with a muted thud. She sat there, staring blankly ahead, her thoughts a tangled mess of panic, disbelief, and the chilling realization that she was no longer in control.