Agatha Goes "Home"

Stitch by stitch, Agatha—as she was called now—poked the pink yarn into neat little loops with her hook, as if trying to darn her thoughts back together, not letting them scatter again in panic. For some reason, it calmed her now, even though deep inside it still ached with humiliation, with the filthy realization that her fingers—so thin, delicate, almost translucent in the light—were now slowly and carefully crocheting something. It didn’t even matter what anymore; what mattered was that she, goddammit, liked it. Even though these were the same fingers that once laid down poker chips, grabbed college girls by the hips in clubs, or spent her father’s money without a shred of guilt.

And all of it in this ridiculous, overly traditional, old-fashioned outfit instead of the ripped jeans, leather jackets, and button-downs that smelled like expensive tobacco and last night’s whiskey. Egor Smirnov would’ve never allowed himself to be seen like this—not in public, not even in front of a mirror. He would’ve burned with shame, smashed the wardrobe to bits, called a stylist, caused a scene if someone even dared suggest he wear this... this crap. That skirt, like it was made out of an antique carpet. That blouse, smelling of wild herbs and a village stove. And especially—those massive, crimson beads, like a garland of shame hanging around her neck. Which, by the way, were said to ward off evil spirits. He would’ve laughed his ass off. Or spat. Or, most likely, said something nasty but clever, just to sting everyone around, especially after hearing that superstitious bullshit.

But here she was now—Agatha Smirnova—for the first time in six months of living in the village, with a new first name but at least her old last name, riding into the "city" again, feeling fear instead of the thrill she used to get from being where her life once thrived. Sitting quietly, calmly, eyes down, lips tight, pink yarn in her hands, her long hair neatly brushed and swaying with the rhythm of the train, trying not to look around, not wanting to feel awkward from all the stares. And the yarn helped, like it always did, shifting her focus away from all of it. And no—what was most shameful for her—she liked the clothes. She liked this way of life, even though she didn’t want to admit it, telling everyone and herself that it was just a curse, that she had no choice but to wear it...

She was going to the "city" for the first time in those six months since her parents, exchanging that special cold and strict look—something she used to mistake for aristocratic dignity, now clearly just polite disdain—had summoned her to a study decorated in a disgustingly rich style, and silently pointed at a train ticket to the village lying on the table, like it wasn’t their child standing there, but a disgraceful mistake they’d decided to ship off. They knew damn well—because they saw it with their own eyes—how their son had, in seconds, turned into his female version after messing with some witch, thinking there’d be no consequences. But there were consequences. And after some time, realizing the change wasn’t just skin-deep, her parents decided she was better off in the village.

Back then, standing in front of them in her newly-acquired body, this absurdly and offensively feminine shell, she still tried to speak like Egor—with a voice that was now too high, too delicate, like someone had twisted the pitch up just enough to push it into falsetto. Every time she heard it, she wanted to cover her ears and scream. But instead, she choked on rage, on humiliation, on helplessness, and gasped out:

– You can’t just... do this...

And her father replied:

– We can do anything.

The train jolted, and Agatha flinched, yanking the loop off rhythm. She sniffed—whether from nerves or the smell of salty crackers laid out on the seat beside her. Somewhere behind her, someone was cackling. Male voices. Young, cocky, with that same carefree arrogance that Egor Smirnov himself once spoke with. One of them said way too loud:

– Ooooh, check out that babe! Hahaha! What the hell is she wearing?! Did this train make a stop in the 19th century or what?!

And she wanted to sink into the seat, melt into it, become that pink yarn—warm, silent, voiceless.

But no. She sat. And she crocheted. Because somehow it helped distract her from the awareness—of her breasts, soft, heavy, swaying with every motion of the train, of the skirt hugging her hips tightly, of the panties that seemed to remind her of themselves every damn second. But in all of it, she felt strangely... sweet, delicate. Like she'd never been a man at all. But she had. She had! Until that day.

She threw a quick glance at the window, at the reflection. A girl with light-blonde hair, with an almost childlike face, a little scared, far too soft for the kind of thoughts nesting in her head.

– "But, I actually look... normal," – she thought, and instantly wanted to punch herself.

And then he walked into the car. The creaking of the door, the crunch of a bottle in a plastic bag, and a loud, juicy... burp. The smell of moonshine, booze breath, and something oddly familiar hit her nose. Her heart dropped straight into her gut. Because it was freakishly similar to how Fedya would walk into the village—Fedya, the drunk bastard who had become her nightly nightmare from day one.

She absolutely didn’t want to admit that ever since Fedya—the same one, always reeking of alcohol, with his warm, almost sticky gaze and that unbearable cocky swagger of a village macho—had once looked at her like a man looks at a woman, something inside... flinched. She had turned away back then, hissed through her teeth –

– Go fuck yourself –

but her knees were shaking so bad it felt like it was from fear... or worse—some idiotic thrill.

Now, in this creaky train car, when a stinking, loudmouthed guy, the spitting image of Fedya, passed by and brushed her shoulder, smelling like booze and wet dog, she felt that dumb lump in her throat again. The smell was disgusting, but somehow—warm. Almost like a summer evening on the porch of a village house, where someone was singing to an accordion, and someone was holding her hand, his palm warm, rough with calluses, like it didn’t belong to the body she still saw as not hers. And she clenched. Not from fear. From not understanding herself.

But the break didn’t last long.

Right after, as if on cue, the other door of the car opened with the same dramatic creak—and she walked in. Heels—click-click-click. Hair—like from a shampoo commercial. Legs—endless, in a skirt so short it was almost begging for attention, the kind of skirt that, if it were on her, on Agatha, would’ve made her want to disappear from sheer shame. And yet once upon a time, Egor Smirnov—that cocky asshole with abs and girls for dessert—used to dream exactly of this type. Big tits, parted lips, and that lazy strut—in her walk, in her voice, in her eyes.

And now, looking at her, Agatha nearly choked. Not from envy. From disgust. She would've puked right there if not for the bag of yarn lying beside her like an anchor. That chick was like a walking ad for sin—and every one of her steps reminded Agatha what a fucking pig her old taste had been. She felt sick even from the way the girl laughed—loud, stupid, deliberately drawing male attention, and one of the guys, the one who’d already noticed Agatha, now turned toward that “goddess” with a look Agatha used to think was her own trademark.

– "I wanna throw up," – she thought, lowering her eyes to the yarn. She tried to focus again on the stitches. One-two, one-two. Because if she looked up, she’d see the reflection in the window again—not just her face, not really hers anymore, but that shine in Fedya’s eyes—not this one, the real one, the village one—when he looked at her after she once slipped in the snow, and he caught her. And she felt... small. Fragile. Real.

And that scared her more than any thought about sex. Because in that moment, for the first time in her life, she wanted to stay in those arms. Not run. Not humiliate. But stay.

And that was the real nightmare.