Karen's sisterhood

Elliot ducked behind the overflowing recycling bin, sweat stinging his eyes. "Just leave it! The trash pickup isn't until Thursday!" His voice cracked slightly, carrying across the patchy lawn. Mrs. Henderson paused halfway to her Prius, a ceramic gnome clutched like a weapon. "Those raccoons will scatter garbage everywhere again," she snapped without turning. "Your negligence attracts vermin."

Elliot felt his own anger surge, hot and tight in his chest. He stepped forward, the half-burnt coffee grounds in yesterday's takeout container forgotten in his hand. "Maybe if someone," his voice rose, sharpening, "didn't insist on feeding stray cats at midnight, we wouldn't *have* raccoons!" Mrs. Henderson whirled, her eyes narrowed into furious slits. He saw her lips purse, a familiar precursor to the neighborhood newsletter complaint, but then she lunged. It happened too fast—a blur of floral print, the sharp sting of teeth sinking deep into his forearm above the wrist. He cried out, stumbling back as she released, spat once on the grass, and strode to her car without another word.

The throbbing started immediately, a deep, insistent ache radiating from twin puncture marks surrounded by bruised skin. Confusion warred with the fading adrenaline haze as Elliot retreated inside, locking the door. *She bit me. An actual human bit me.* He ran cold water over the wound, the sting intensifying, watching the pink swirl disappear down the drain. A profound, unsettling exhaustion washed over him, heavier than any hangover. He slumped onto his worn sofa, the faint, pleasant smell of Mrs. Henderson’s fabric softener somehow clinging to his sweater sleeve, making his stomach churn. He felt strangely hollow, the righteous anger replaced by a bewildered lethargy. Why did she smell... *nice*?

**DAY 1:** By dawn, the confusion had crystallized into something sharper. Where irritation at Mrs. Henderson’s petty rules used to simmer, a full-blown fury surged at the sight of Elliot’s roommate’s single unrinsed yogurt cup left by the sink. “This attracts ants!” he heard himself screech, the pitch unnervingly high and nasal. The venomous tone shocked him almost as much as his roommate’s bewildered recoil. He stalked away, trembling, realizing with dawning horror that *his* thoughts echoed Mrs. Henderson’s constant complaints verbatim: unkempt hedges, unmowed lawns, improper recycling sorting. He felt possessed, his own personality submerged beneath an overwhelming tide of righteous indignation over trivialities.

**DAY 2:** The urges arrived midday. Elliot compulsively straightened crooked picture frames, adjusted coasters beneath slightly askew mugs, and lingered near the window, scrutinizing the street outside. He caught himself actively searching for infractions: a car parked three inches too far from the curb, a discarded cigarette butt on the sidewalk. Worse was the sudden, inexplicable craving—not for his usual coffee, but for overly sweetened herbal tea and stale supermarket bakery muffins. The scent of lavender air freshener suddenly felt essential, not cloying. He sat rigidly at his desk, jaw clenched, fighting the compulsion to file a noise complaint about his neighbor’s distant, muffled radio.

**DAY 3:** Elliot entered the café hesitantly. The barista greeted him with a cheerful, “What can I get started—” before Elliot cut her off with an impatient flick of his wrist. “Small drip coffee. *Immediately*.” His voice, clipped and demanding, rang out sharper than intended. As he waited, he caught his reflection in the espresso machine’s chrome. His posture was unnervingly rigid—shoulders pinched back, chin tilted upwards with an air of brittle disapproval. His hands fluttered near his hips, fingers fussing with the hem of his shirt like Mrs. Henderson often did. The barista handed him the cup. “That’ll be—” Elliot snatched it away without eye contact, already turning. “It’s too hot,” he muttered under his breath, precisely mimicking Mrs. Henderson’s signature petulant head-toss.

**DAY 4:** Morning revealed the first visible shift. Elliot stared at his bared forearms while brushing his teeth. The once lean muscle seemed subtly softened, almost plump beneath the skin. His jawline, previously defined, appeared slightly blurred at the edges, like clay softening before reshaping. A faint warmth radiated from where Mrs. Henderson's teeth had pierced him, pulsing gently beneath the mostly healed bite. He gripped the sink edge, knuckles whitening. A frantic need to reorganize the pantry seized him – alphabetizing spices, aligning soup cans with military precision. Later, catching sight of his neighbor's recycling bin lid ajar, a jolt of visceral outrage shot through him – not anger, but a profoundly personal affront.

**DAY 5:** His palms felt perpetually damp. When Elliot pulled on his favorite band t-shirt, the familiar fabric strained uncomfortably across his chest and shoulders. The cotton clung to a soft swell beneath his pectorals that hadn't been there last week. His hips, too, felt broader, making his jeans sit differently, pinching slightly at the waistband. He caught himself smoothing his sides obsessively, fingers tracing the unfamiliar curves. The urge for sweet things intensified: he devoured a box of cheap vanilla wafers, the cloying flavor strangely satisfying. An overwhelming compulsion drove him to meticulously polish the kitchen faucet until it gleamed, his reflection distorted in its chrome surface – eyes wide with fear above burgeoning softness.

**DAY 6:** Elliot woke aching. His spine felt compressed, forcing his posture into a perpetual slight slump. The softening wasn't just subcutaneous anymore; distinct padding settled around his waist, thighs, and upper arms. His hips flared unmistakably, creating a pronounced slope from a thicker waist down to fuller thighs. The bite scar pulsed warmly again. At the grocery store, he felt inexplicably drawn to the candle aisle, inhaling deeply the artificial scents of "Fresh Linen" and "Apple Pie." He physically recoiled from the spice section. Finding the cereal aisle chaotic – boxes askew, spilled flakes on the floor – a tremor of pure rage shook him. He snapped a photo with his phone, muttering about "management," his voice several notes higher than before.

**DAY 7:** The pear shape solidified. Elliot's shoulders rounded further, minimizing his frame while his hips ballooned, pulling his center of gravity lower. A noticeable softness developed across his chest, distinct from muscle. His jawline vanished into a softer oval face. The mental shift was profound: peaceful thoughts felt alien. Every minor imperfection – a leaf on a neighbor's porch, a dog barking three streets over – sparked intrusive fantasies about filing complaints. He spent an hour composing a meticulously petty email to the HOA about improperly secured trashcan lids, relishing the acidic righteousness coursing through him. The taste of his herbal tea tasted like victory.

**DAY 8:** Elliot struggled to recognize his reflection. His hips curved dramatically into a wide, heavy shelf, balanced atop suddenly thick thighs. A distinct, soft swell filled the front of his worn sweatpants, pushing against the fabric. His arms felt plump and fleshy to the touch. Mentally, Elliot felt submerged. Memories of his old life surfaced like distant dreams, instantly drowned by the visceral need to criticize. The scent of fresh polish became intoxicating. He found himself humming tunelessly while scrubbing baseboards, picturing Mrs. Henderson's biting fury not with horror, but a strange, burgeoning admiration. The bite scar pulsed warmly, almost approvingly.

**DAY 9:** Selecting clothes felt alien. Elliot’s narrow jeans and band tees hung uselessly in the closet. Instead, a powerful craving drove him to a discount department store. He gravitated toward forgiving cuts: elastic-waisted polyester slacks in taupe, floral-patterned blouses sized generously through the bust and hips. The bright overhead lights illuminated rows of sensible flats. Hesitation vanished the moment he slipped on a stretchy knit top—its forgiving embrace felt profoundly *right*. He bought three, ignoring the clerk’s curious glance. At home, he meticulously hung them beside Mrs. Henderson’s abandoned floral scarf, which he’d inexplicably kept.

**DAY 10:** The mirror showed a stranger. Wide, rounded hips flared dramatically above sturdy thighs. Soft flesh filled the polyester slacks, creating a distinct shelf-like silhouette. Above, a soft swell pushed against the floral blouse—undeniably feminine. Elliot prodded his reflection: the chin softened into a round jawline, eyes narrowed habitually into judgmental slits. Mentally, Elliot drowned. Whispers urging him to "speak to the manager" felt like instinct. The bite scar pulsed warmly beneath layers of synthetic fabric. She traced fingers over her plump cheeks—*her* cheeks—and a name surfaced: *Eliza*. It fit perfectly, sharp and demanding. Outside, a recycling bin lid clattered open. Eliza’s head snapped toward the window, lips curling.

She strode onto the porch—an unfamiliar gait, hips swaying with heavy purpose. The offending bin belonged to Mr. Peterson. Eliza inhaled sharply, the crisp scent of disapproval mingling with lavender dryer sheets clinging to her blouse. "Inconsiderate!" The accusation rang out, nasal and piercing. Mr. Peterson froze mid-step. Eliza jabbed a finger toward the bin, knuckles dimpled with softness. "Do you *want* vermin? This is utterly negligent!" The unfamiliar voice thrilled her—a weapon honed by righteous fury. Peterson stammered an apology. Satisfaction bloomed hot beneath Eliza's ribs, sweeter than stale muffins.

Inside, Eliza studied her reflection. Her hands moved with fussy precision, smoothing wrinkles from the taupe slacks. The face staring back was softer, fuller—cheeks plump, chin rounded. Narrowed eyes gleamed with predatory alertness. She traced the faint warmth radiating from the hidden bite scar beneath her sleeve. Her gaze drifted to Mrs. Henderson’s floral scarf hanging beside her new blouses. A strange kinship curled in her stomach. The frantic need to scour Peterson’s yard for further violations thrummed through her, replacing the hollow confusion Elliot once felt.

The ringing phone shattered the silence. Eliza snatched it, cradling the receiver like a weapon. "Yes?" she demanded. It was the HOA president, Mrs. Greeley. "Miss Henderson? We received your email about the trashcan lids..." Eliza’s lips stretched into a thin, triumphant smile. Her voice climbed higher, sharper—a weaponized whine. "Utterly *appalling* disregard! Section 7C, paragraph *four*!" She paced the cramped kitchen, hips bumping the counter edge. Fingerprints on the refrigerator door snagged her attention mid-tirade. "*And* someone touched my appliance! Disgraceful!" Greeley’s weary sigh echoed down the line as Eliza meticulously wiped the smudge.

Later, standing before her cluttered closet, Eliza felt a profound dissatisfaction. The floral blouses suddenly seemed garish, the taupe slacks too muted. An insistent craving tugged at her—not for tea or muffins, but for *authority*. She recalled Mrs. Henderson’s crisp linen tunics, the sharp pleats of her trousers. Eliza drove to an upscale boutique downtown, ignoring the saleswoman’s hesitant greeting. Her fingers brushed stiff fabrics: navy pinstripe, burgundy linen. She zeroed in on a forest green tunic—structured shoulders, empire waist emphasizing her new fullness. The price tag made her gasp, but the compulsion was iron. "I’ll take it," she snapped, already picturing Peterson’s flustered face when she wore it during his next infraction.

The transformation cemented over coffee the next morning. Eliza knocked sharply on Mrs. Henderson’s door, clutching a box of lavender-scented scones. The older woman opened it, eyes widening—not in surprise, but recognition. "Eliza," Mrs. Henderson breathed, her usual frost thawing into warmth. Eliza thrust the scones forward. "Dorothy," she responded, the name feeling both forbidden and inevitable. Dorothy ushered her in, fingers lingering on Eliza’s plump arm. Inside, pristine and smelling of lemon polish, they dissected the neighborhood’s shortcomings: Peterson’s overgrown hedge, teenagers skating near the mailbox. Their voices intertwined—sharp, nasal, perfectly synchronized in outrage. Eliza nibbled a scone, sweetness blooming on her tongue as Dorothy praised her "astute eye" for disorder.

Within weeks, their alliance became a force. They patrolled sidewalks in coordinated outfits—Eliza in her stiff forest green tunic, Dorothy in crisp linen—clipboards clutched like scepters. They documented fallen leaves with forensic precision, photographed parked cars encroaching six inches on curbside grass. Back-to-back, they confronted offenders, voices rising in a shrill, unstoppable chorus. "Are you *aware*," Eliza would begin, nostrils flaring, "of Section 4B?" Dorothy seamlessly finished: "*Footpath obstruction!*" Their shared glances held the giddy thrill of hunters cornering prey. Peterson fled indoors at the mere rustle of their polyester slacks. Even the raccoons seemed to avoid their meticulously curated bins.

The bite scar pulsed warmly whenever Eliza spotted chaos. One Tuesday, a teenager’s forgotten skateboard lay overturned by the communal mailbox. Eliza’s breath hitched—not in irritation, but exhilaration. She snapped photos, fingers trembling with purpose. Later, composing the complaint email ("Unsecured projectile hazard!"), Dorothy leaned over her shoulder, nodding approval. "Precisely worded, dear." Eliza flushed, the praise settling like a warm stone in her softening belly. Her old band shirts gathered dust. Instead, she meticulously steamed her tunic, inhaling the sharp scent of starch mixed faintly with lavender dryer sheets—a perfume of power.