Peasant Life of Two Bros

— And what now? — came a shrill, irritated voice, cutting through the silence of the village morning. — They’ll come running to me again, asking why my son took a shit right in the garden beds like he’s some wild animal, not a human being?!

With her fists clenched on her hips, Martha snapped, formerly Chris Hanley — ex-basketball player, troublemaker, and life of every school party — staring at the barefoot, mud-covered boy hovering at the edge of the field where the onions grew, pulled out for the second time out of season, and judging by the smell, not just onions.

— I’m talking to you, Jamie — she stepped forward, and her skirt, wet from the morning dew, stuck to her hips, reminding her — yet again — that she now had those… hips. Real ones. Wide, like a milkmaid’s. — Have you completely lost it? We barely have enough money, and you’re out there running around like an idiot, shitting in other people’s gardens! How many times have I told you — get a job! I’m sick of all this crap!

— Stop talking to me like you’re my mom! — Jamie muttered, once Josh Simmons — her best friend, her beer buddy and partner in dumb stunts — now her son, Jamie. Small, twitchy, and with that habit of scratching the back of his head whenever he lied, though right now he was just staring down and digging into the dirt with his finger. — You should know what fun is, you were my bro, Chris. We used to get drunk on Hunter’s roof, remember?

Martha was silent for a second. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, afraid to disturb her face, twisted in a mix of anger, exhaustion, and something else... She sighed so deeply that the baggy, worn-out shirt she wore stretched tight over her round, heavy, full breasts — refusing to let her forget where she was, or who she was now.

— I remember — she said hoarsely, lowering her arms, and her skirt peeled off her thigh with a wet squelch, making her recall how every movement, even a simple step, now felt different in this body, how everything here was just too... big, too alive, doing its own thing. — I remember how you puked in Randall’s helmet, and we told everyone it was him — and he actually forgot about it. And how I tried to take that girl’s bra off, and she smacked me... I remember everything... Even how you laughed like it was the first time you saw tits...

She stared at him — no, she couldn’t quite look at him now. Her eyes locked on the ground by his feet.

— Only now I’ve got my own, Jamie. Tits, pussy, and an ass. And you know what? It’s not fucking fun. Walking through the village and old man Thomas, blind in one eye, undressing you with his stare like you’re a slab of pork. Wearing this damn corset because without it everything sags and pulls and it feels like your tits are gonna slide into your armpits. Bending over all day, hauling water, washing, cooking — and doing it all with tits that ache like they’ve got rocks inside.

Jamie flushed a little, but kept digging at the dirt like maybe there was a portal back to his old life somewhere under there.

— Well, maybe it’s not all that bad — he mumbled. — I mean… you’ve got skirts now, you can just… you know, sit around, do nothing, people feed you, find a guy…

— A guy? — Martha stepped toward him, and he finally looked up. — Are you serious? Yesterday I kneaded dough for an hour and a half because the miller decided it’s “good for women to use their hands” — and then he said I could wash his grindstones for a discount — and he didn’t mean the ones in the mill. And before that I was washing clothes in ice-cold water because you, you little shit, slept through our turn at the river. And now you’re talking to me about a man? Have you even looked at the guys around here? They’re all drunks, pervs, or fucking deadbeats!

She stopped. Her breathing was ragged, her breasts heaving, brushing the inside of the shirt — a man’s shirt, altered, but still too rough, too stiff. And her whole body ached, begging for acknowledgement: yeah, you’re a woman now, and it’s not temporary, not a joke, not some freak twist of fate — this is you, Martha.

— I... — Jamie started, but his voice cracked. — I just... thought it’d be fun and that we... that this wouldn’t last. That it was some kind of magic or... like, you know, just some temporary shit.

— Temporary? — Martha let out a hoarse laugh — womanly now. She still wasn’t used to how her voice had softened. Like it wrapped around you instead of cutting through. — It’s been six months. Half a year I’ve been milking goats, cleaning up after you, cooking stew, and sleeping on that stinking, filthy bed, waking up with hay in my ears. Counting the damn coins I get for a goddamn basket of eggs, which I only manage to trade with the butcher if he’s not drunk and doesn’t decide to grab my ass while I’m standing at the counter — Martha finished with that kind of steel-heavy weariness that settles into your voice when you stop caring whether anyone hears you or not.

She brushed a strand of reddish-brown hair from her face — Chris used to have a short haircut, “badass,” he used to call it, but now the hair kept falling into her eyes, sticking to her cheeks, and every time she pushed it back, it felt like she was acting out a scene from some cheap melodrama. Only now, it wasn’t a movie. This was her life. Smelling of goat shit, with hands constantly raw, and with a pair of tits that felt alien — like they were glued on — but still ached, lived, breathed separately from her.

— You know why those coins are barely enough? — she went on, stepping slowly closer. Jamie looked like he wanted to step back, but stayed rooted, unable to look away from her face — not marked by wrinkles, but by something else now — experience, fear, the weight of womanhood.

— Because someone — she jabbed her finger into his chest — managed to lose the bucket three times this week. Once, you just left it by the river. Another time — brought it back full of water, but with a hole in the bottom, and now half our laundry reeks like swamp. And the third — you traded it for some crappy knife from that ragged bastard at the market, the one they say guts chickens without cleaning them first.

Jamie just blinked, sniffled awkwardly.

— I thought it’d be useful — he mumbled. — Like, we used to always carry knives... remember when you—

— No, I don’t remember — she cut him off sharply. — All I remember is washing your pants after you sat in nettles ‘cause you thought they were regular leaves. And now you’re my son, and not only do you not help, you eat like two people and keep whining that “the soup’s not meaty.” And meat, Jamie, costs more than your knife, your pride, and — sorry — your help put together.

Silence stretched, dry and dragging like wet grass underfoot. Jamie looked away. He looked like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t.

Martha exhaled, long and loud. Her breasts dropped heavily, like a sack of grain slung over her shoulder, reminding her that even breathing had become something physical now. Her body no longer followed logic — it just lived. Her tits ached, her back throbbed, her legs were sore, and one thought kept spinning in her head: ‘So this is what it’s like... to be a woman.’

— Go — she finally said. Her voice was quiet, but firm. — Bring water. Real water. Not from the swamp. And don’t forget the bucket.

— And then? — he muttered, already turning.

— Then? — Martha narrowed her eyes slyly, turning toward him and taking a step sideways. — Then we’re going to scrub the floor, sew the buttons back on, and you’re finally gonna learn how to make stew. And the next time I hear you call this “fun” or say I should “just sit around” and “find a man to feed me” — I’ll personally shove a skirt on you and send your ass to the miller to wash his fucking grindstones

She smiled at the image and walked off. Her skirt slapped wetly against her thigh, and Martha ran a hand over her belly, where the corset left a dent under her underwear. Her boobs jiggled, just like her ass. The corset pinched, pulled, chafed. Nothing felt like hers. And yet, like it or not... it was her now. And she still had to deal with that little shit who was now her son.