Mrs. Cooper Changed Me Into A Young Girl - Ch 3 (Patreon)

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Like it had happened every morning for three weeks, John eventually spotted Wade's lumbering figure slowly make its way down the street, leaving a trail of footsteps in the deep powder behind him. If he had committed a crime before leaving his house, it would have been the world's easiest manhunt. Wade and John exchanged broad smiles as the thermos ceremony commenced.

Poured into a cup, Wade took a sip, and then John. They didn't really need to say anything. They both could feel the hot beverage work its way through them. The shared grins were because Cooper's 100-year-old brandy was escorting the chocolate on its' tour of their bodies. Strangely, John felt warmer right now than he did for the rest of his day.

After floating back to his room, John peeled off the jacket and crashed back into bed, doing his best to linger in the buzz. John had dozed off yet again. While sleeping, his body held a seminar, broke up into discussion groups, and reassembled to draft an urgent demand that it get up and do something. John pulled on his oversized sweatshirt and wriggled into his best jeans.

The tight fit unfortunately caused a larger problem, as one of the brass rivets caught on his briefs and proceeded to tear it right off his buttocks. It was funny at first. But those were his "lucky" ones. And he didn't have another pair left in his room. Just how had he been losing all these clothes?

For a while, John just went with the "natural" feel, but before long, the harsh denim had started to rub his skin raw. That's what happens when you wash clothes every day, he figured.

If you let dirt and oil soak in for over a month or so, the material becomes much softer. But now he has a problem. He knew that he had to put something down there, or it was going to get very uncomfortable.

He figured that he must have a pair down in the wash. In the laundry room, however, there wasn't so much as a handkerchief. The last hope was the sewing room. On wandering over to it, he discovered that the house seemed to be empty.

A quick pass by the front window confirmed the absence of the boat-sized Buick Regal that normally stood guard in the driveway. The sewing room was also bereft of unmentionables, and a dejected John headed back to his hut. Maybe he could find some talc, Crisco, or something. Then he passed the forbidden room, and John fell victim to his curiosity.

He timidly pressed in on Amy's door, hoping it was shut or locked so he could proceed on with the great white undie hunt. But instead, it readily sprung open, too inviting for John not to proceed.

Once more impressed by the blast of color and haphazard placement of items, John wondered what had made her run away. He could figure that living with your grandparents would drive you bonkers, but Evelyn appeared to be in reverence of the girl.

If she had left, it wasn't because of Mrs. Cooper. John noticed the ornamental cone megaphone placed at the foot of the bed with the script "Hogs" on it. The thought that she was some sort of champion hog caller quickly evaporated when he spied the banners of the local high school, bearing the bold text "Templeton High Warthogs" on them.

Over at some sort of desk with a mirror, he saw several pictures tucked in the frame.

He was more interested in the desk, actually. If he had one of those, putting that concealer on would sure be easier than standing in front of the mirror in his room. He probably couldn't carry that back to his room, though. So while he was here, John figured he'd pick up some smaller items a few more of those cool CDs of Amy's. After making his selections, he had a nasty thought.

Underwear. Amy probably had underwear, maybe even something that looked a bit like his briefs. And it's not as if wearing girls' clothes would be wrong. Girls wear men's stuff, he thought. Surely John would be committing no great sin if he were to do the same.

It's not like cross-dressing was in the Bible or anything. Pondering the question, the startlingly clear sound of a car door slam signaled the return of the Coopers. Making the decision for him was his innate sense of "take the loot and run" as he swept up an armload from Amy's top drawer and scampered back out of the room. Passing the mirror once again, a picture caught his eye. It was the strangest thing he'd ever seen.

It couldn't possibly be what it looked like. But there is no time to linger now. As John whisked his way up his stairs, the jingling clatter of keys, the stomping of snow off shoes, and the low rumbling of Mr. Cooper's voice were just loud enough to keep them from hearing John's door shut. John flipped through the diary again. 3/21/96, Dear Diary, I had this dream last night. I was at home in my room when I heard a knock at the front door. I went and answered it. It was Nick from the Backstreet Boys!

I couldn't believe it! "You won a contest, and I'm taking you to dinner," he said. I was like, ya right, Who's playing a joke on me?

I couldn't believe it!

Well, that was dumb, John thought. Even he didn't like the boys enough to dream about them. He flipped to a more recent entry.

1/5/98 Dear Diary, Well, it's my first day here with Gramms and Gramps. They picked me up at the airport this afternoon, and they've been super nice to me so far. Gramms' been especially nice to me, but if she calls me ' sweetie pie' one more time, I'm going to scream. The room seems okay (I really like the bed), but the house has always creeped me out a little.

It's like living inside an old black-and-white TV show; you know what I mean?

As usual, it seems like everything's funny to Grandpa. I wish he'd be serious for just a moment, but he can't stop telling me the same tired jokes. He's already told me one twice, and I've only been here for twelve hours! I'll have to get him a joke book for his birthday.

A new one. I'll be starting school next week, and I'll be a sophomore at the local high school (they call themselves hogs, I swear to God). It sure beats the tutoring I had back in Tennessee. I miss everything about home right now. Except for the child services housing units. It's nice to be in a real person's actual lived-in home. Even if it is "Pleasantville," it's kind of hard to be here with all the memories. Every time I've ever been in this house, I've been here with Mom. In the back of my mind, I think to myself, Where'd Mom go?

Is she in the kitchen?

But it's just for a moment, and then I remember. That's all for today. I have to go to bed early because I know I'm not going to sleep much tonight. Luvs, Amy John snapped the book shut. He was astonished to find so much in common with the unknown girl. She was even in a state home like he was for so long. But what was that about "Grandpa" Edgar?

The guy was about as funny as an infection. John needed more information about Amy.

His appetite had been whet. John waited until late that night. After he was sure that the Coopers were asleep and had been so for at least an hour, John shimmied out of bed and tried as best he could to get down the stairs without too much noise. At the base of the stairs, he snatched a flashlight from the utility closet. He padded across the kitchen to the living room and then down the hall. He felt quite stealthy in his all-black outfit.

The silk briefs he now sported under his leggings made him feel even more cat-like in his sneaky grace. Amy's door was still ajar, and he slowly approached the mirror with the pictures. That's why he was taking such a chance tonight. That picture had played on his mind for hours. Looking quite carefully, he studied it with forensic precision. It was a girl, quite clearly, with a cheerleader's outfit on. Stitched into the right shoulder was the name "Amy."

This was the elusive runaway. What had bothered John, though, was the girl's uncanny familiarity. Not in height or build, but from the neck to the hairline. The body was that of a teenage girl. The big hair kind of looked like blond Jessica Alba. In between, it was John's face. John's smiling, happy face is on this girl's body. His perky nose, his puffy lips, and his blue eyes. John's trembling fingers let the photo fall gently to the floor. John's knees quickly followed suit.

He couldn't breathe. The shock was more than he could handle. That was why he was here. That was why they had selected him for the room. They replaced their granddaughter with a guy who looked just like her. These people. These people. They were sick. John got to his feet and stumbled into the hallway.

The unfortunate rush of blood from his head and the ensuing dizziness prevented him from avoiding the wall directly in front of him, sending a large thump through the house. It was quickly followed by a click and a beam of light coming from under Cooper's bedroom door. If they found him here now, who knows what could happen?

If they were as psychotic as he'd assumed they were, they would surely kill him.

He broke into the front door and grabbed the handle firmly. It was frigidly cold. He'd get away later. He couldn't escape now. The cold would surely do him in. He moved as fast as he thought he could without making noise as he ran back to his room.

The pulsing of blood through his ears drummed out his ability to hear his steps. If he made it back, there might not be any questions. They might never know that something was wrong. The bumping around from Cooper's room exploded into the hallway. And then it got louder as it got closer.

Not seeing his way clearly, John stubbed his toe on the first step. The lights flipped on in the hallway. John hopped up the next few steps, pulling himself with his arms along the handrail as fast as he could. The kitchen lights flashed to life, and there was only one corner separating him from discovery. With the final burst of energy he could muster, he grasped the end of the rail. He could just see the shine of the brass on his door knob.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!" boomed the voice of Mr. Cooper. The loudness, the anger, and the menace in the words caused John to spin around in terror. As the lights flipped on, John's balance gave out on him, and he accidentally wedged both his legs under one step, locking them in place.

As he fell forward, betraying the design of his knees, he heard the ugliest sound he would ever hear. The chemically-induced sleep had left a film in John's eyes that would just not go away by itself. An attempt to use his hands to rub it away was met with the restraint of leather straps. Over the course of ten minutes, he gradually adjusted to the presence of light.

He had never thought it could actually physically hurt as much as it did right now on the back of his retinas. Still, he could only make out fuzzy blobs when he could manage to keep his eyes open for more than two seconds. It then hit him—what had happened?

He tried to believe that it wasn't real something that hadn't really occurred.

Then he wanted to believe that he had gotten away with his deception. Then he remembered the crack. The horrible, horrible crack. His chest started to heave as his breath became labored. His ears started to ring, and he could feel his jaw start to tremble.

What if he were still in Cooper's house?

How could he still be there?

If they knew that he had seen the photo, then they knew he was on to the plan. He knew that he had changed over his time there. He thought he had done so out of his own free will. John's stomach turned as he recalled the "accident" with the closet.

They had somehow changed his face when he had the bandages on. It had all been a plan. He was dealing with psychosis. And if he were still in their house.

A giant gray blob in front of him moved. It had a smaller, pinkish blob on top. God help him if it was... "You're awake," Mr. Cooper said. "Good."

Mr. Cooper's image moved from a seated position in front to John's side, slowly and silently. "Do you remember my name?"

Edgar Cooper demanded.

"What's my full name?" John couldn't reply.

"MY NAME!" "Coopr. Edgar. Copper."

John tried to reply through his nervous, chattering, and achy teeth. "Good, that's just what I wanted to hear," and John felt a prick in his arm.

"No!" John yelled, desperate to cling to consciousness. Maybe these were his last moments on earth. "

Please! N-n-no! I'll keep quiet! L-l-let m-m-me go!" John tried to thrash himself out of the restraints. His muscles didn't so much as twitch. As his brain started to dim, his voice fell away into a gurgle. "P-p-pleeease. God. Pleerrllg."

"Rrrggglk."

"Upsie-daisy!" came the clarion call of the domesticated housewife. "Up and at 'em!" continued Mrs. Cooper. John yawned himself awake, stretching his arms in the morning sunlight. He ran his fingers along the middle of his forehead to split the long hair that had fallen into his face. He raised himself on his bent arms and waited for Mrs. Cooper to get herself into position.

"Good morning, Evelyn," John chirped back.

"What a nice sunrise."

"It'll be spring next week," Mrs. Cooper said, working her way around the room, picking up discarded clothing. "I can't wait. Winter has just been so long this year," John thoughtfully ventured.

"Hasn't it?" said Mrs. Cooper. "Ready?"

John scooted back on his bed. Evelyn grasped the tension lines attached to pulleys hung from the suspension scaffold above the bed. The line then wrapped around the pulleys to John's splinted legs, keeping them in traction.

"Ready."

John tried to avert the electric pain he felt every time they did this, but was just as unsuccessful this morning. At least that's what he remembered. Three long months in traction, every day going through this routine. It seemed like a high price to pay for such a minor car accident. Wade and John were going to get a bite at Arby's when he swerved on some black ice.

Poor Wade had gotten a concussion. But John's legs and pelvis were crushed. After three operations, he was now only a few days away from getting the splints off and beginning physical therapy. At the very least, he'd get rid of that awful catheter.

So there was light at the end of the tunnel. He would still have weeks of crutches, but only a few more days, and he'd be out of traction. Why, John mused to himself, did he have to have that craving for a French dip? Is that right, dear? "

Mrs. Cooper asked.  "Fine 'n dandy."

John said.  It was later that day, after a long visit from Wade, that John had managed to get to his CD player with the help of his broom handle. The pounding beat of  "Whoops, I Did it Again" soothed his nerves and helped him to think.

He was remembering back to when he had moved in with the Coopers, way back in the Fall. College seemed like a forgotten dream now, since his money was all but gone, and probably unlikely to return. Missing two terms had convinced the financial aid board not to extend another check. And he missed the opportunity to do the simple things he had enjoyed before the accident.

Like hanging out at the mall, spending a day at the salon, or even just a good shoe sale. He would never take these things for granted again. In fact, it had been so long that John felt his life before the accident was just a dream. At least it seemed that way. When Aunt Evelyn and  Uncle Edgar had let him take the room for the year, he had thought that it would be the most exciting year of his life. But instead, here he was, bedridden for months and alone.

Well, mostly alone. Wade had been there. Thank God for Wade. He made it bearable. He'd stop in after his usual yard work to talk, every day it seemed. In fact, if Wade ever skipped a day, John just had to give him a call. He was becoming really dependent on Wade for all of his information about the outside world. He would have gone nuts if it weren't for him.

John laid back, encasing himself in the comfy warmth of his pillows. How was he going to make it up to him? John would find a way. It was the least he could do. John tossed his bra and knotted up his hair before letting sleep overtake him, and he felt a tingle start to build deep inside him.  John was going down a list. Scribbled at the top was "To Do."

There were dozens of items, and he had gotten through most of them. But there were so many things on the list. But he couldn't even read it. The language was like some sort of foreign language. The next item on the list was "Chib Rusperlantz (neb ter hew)."

He was worried. What was this?  John looked around to find himself in a long hallway. Doors on each side, he tried a few before finding one that would open. Inside, he found a window. Like a bank teller's window. He walked up to it and saw a sign above it. It read "Chib approval."

He approached the teller. In between the two, there was a bullet-proof glass partition. But it had no holes or area to speak into. In fact, he couldn't hear the man on the other side.

He could see him talking, but there was no sound. The man seemed angry and exasperated. Then he pointed at the list. John held it to the glass. The man pointed to a slot. It had not been there a second ago. John passed it through the slot.

The man took the sheet and fed it into a machine.

"It said online the translator."

That would solve my problem, John thought. Out of it, a new list appeared. The man then passed the list back through the slot. John took a look at his new, translated list. It read "Kill yourself  (do it now)."

Every item on the list said the same thing. The teller passed an ice pick through the slot. It hit the hard floor with a loud noise, that echoed. And the echo got louder and louder and louder.