Again, Jon stood in the darkness, panting, crying from pain and fear, hoping that his ordeal was over. It wasn't, because as soon as he caught his breath, a shrill noise, followed by bright strobe lights, alternating red and green, bombarded his senses. Jon braced himself against a wall with his hands, his equilibrium failing him.
He screamed. Jon knew it was no good, that he hadn't been heard before, but he couldn't help it. As soon as he opened his mouth, however, a jet of liquid sprayed into his mouth, causing him to gag, then swallow, then gag some more.
What felt like iron clamps fastened around his arms, lifting them above his head, then lifting his body, suspending it over the floor. How high, he could not tell, as all his eyes could process was red and green, red and green, red and green.
Then, hanging helpless, confused, dizzy, gagging, the assault ceased. In pitch blackness he hung, waiting for the next step. Then a voice spoke to him, an entirely pleasant voice, the type of voice that would have felt warm and familiar, had he heard it anywhere else.
"Formal or casual?" it asked.
Jon, unsure what was happening, croaked out an answer through his still gagging throat, "Casual."
"Thank-you," the voice answered.
The next thing that happened was hard to describe. It felt to Jon like two Jon-shaped molds pressed into him, one from behind, one from in front, encasing him in their shape. They weren't exactly Jon-shaped, he noted, as it seemed extremely tight in some areas, while loose in others. Tighter and tighter they pressed, making it hard for him to breathe. He could hear hissing sounds as air was piped into a small tube that had inserted itself into his mouth, giving him short, shallow breaths, just enough to keep him conscious. There were snapping and cracking sounds as what felt like his bones seemed to realign, but strangely there was very little pain.
The familiar KUH-CHUNK sounded, his encasement released him, as did the wrist clamps, dropping Jon to the floor. Just as Jon feared the torture would continue, the door slid open, allowing him to scramble to the safety of his room.
And scramble he did. So frantically did he move that he failed to realize how much things had changed for him, how dramatically the closet had altered him. Only when he caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror through the door he'd left open earlier did he see what had happened. Zoe, his innocent little sister, who he had allowed to play with the controls on his closet, the ones that seemed alien to him, had altered him until he looked like a human version of her favourite doll. Long blonde hair, blue eyes, puffy pink lips, blue eye-shadow, narrow waist, huge breasts, long smooth legs, all encased in tight blue jeans, high-heeled shoes, and a tube-top.
He was Barbie.
"Shit," he said in a high, bubbly voice, "shit-shit-shit!"
