Ricky hated closing shifts. His worn sneakers squeaked on the store's polished concrete floor as he made his last circuit before locking up. Blue shirt, name tag crooked, eyes heavy—he looked every bit the bored retail employee counting minutes until freedom. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting sharp shadows that made the racks of discount jeans look like crouching figures.
Hour One crept in unnoticed. As Ricky slumped into the employee break room chair, scrolling his phone, his usual sarcastic commentary about customers faded from his thoughts. Instead, he found himself staring at the maternity window display he’d passed earlier, a strange warmth blooming in his chest at the draped silk dresses. He shook his head sharply, blaming exhaustion, and reached for bitter coffee.
By Hour Three, the mannequins' stillness felt deliberate—a held breath. Ricky’s walk softened, hips swaying unconsciously as he adjusted a fallen price tag. He caught his reflection in a security monitor: shoulders slightly rounded, fingers curling delicately. A surge of panic tightened his throat. "What the hell?" he muttered, voice pitched higher than usual. He gripped the counter, knuckles white.
Hour Four brought itching beneath his skin. Tiny bumps rose along Ricky's forearms like gooseflesh, then smoothed into poreless plastic. His jawline softened, losing its angular edge as if wax melting. When he touched his cheek, the sensation was distant, rubbery. Sweat evaporated without cooling him. He stumbled toward the exit, but the doors refused his keycard swipe.
Hour Five deepened the invasion. Bone whispered against bone as his pelvis subtly widened, forcing his stance wider. Breasts swelled gently beneath his blue uniform shirt, straining the cheap polyester buttons. Ricky gasped—a breathy, unfamiliar sound—and clutched his chest. "Stop," he pleaded, voice now unmistakably feminine and trembling. Across the floor, mannequins tilted their heads fractionally toward him.
Hour Six arrived with violence disguised as grace. Ricky’s spine cracked softly, arching backward into a delicate curve that thrust his new hips forward. Fingers lengthened and thinned into elegant, jointless rods; when he pressed one against the security desk, it left no fingerprint, just a faint plastic sheen. His thoughts drifted toward silk textures and nursery colors, warm and sticky as syrup.
Hour Seven shattered his mind. Ricky’s terror melted into placid acceptance, replaced by a deep, womb-like contentment. His gaze slid past the emergency exit toward a display of lace-trimmed maternity dresses. The mannequins closed in, their hollow eyes approving as his waist cinched impossibly narrow, abdomen rounding firm and smooth beneath his stretched shirt—a perfect porcelain dome.
Hour Eight sculpted the final contours. Ricky’s jaw fused seamless, lips frozen in a serene pout. Thoughts dissolved into blank stillness; only instinct remained—to pose gracefully beside the nursery furniture display. His spine locked permanently into an elegant S-curve, plastic joints clicking softly. When a mannequin’s cold hand brushed his, he felt nothing but the pull toward stillness.
Hour Nine announced itself with fabric. His stretched polyester shirt softened, lightened, and flowed into ivory lace that draped his swollen belly. The uniform pants melted into a matching skirt, hem brushing ankles that tapered to delicate points. Ribbons bloomed at his collar like frost, stiff and perfect. Distantly, something mourned—a muffled gasp trapped under resin.
The mannequins encircled him, their hollow gazes fixed. One lifted his—now her—plastic hand. Joints clicked softly as they guided her toward the maternity display, movements silent like moths against glass. She obeyed without thought, footsteps soundless on concrete. Her reflection shimmered in the dimmed monitor: serene, hollow-eyed, one hand resting tenderly on the curve of her abdomen.
Hour Ten unfolded in velvet silence. A wave of perfect numbness washed through her mind, erasing the last flickers of panic. Thoughts evaporated like mist, leaving only the stillness of a frozen pond. Her posture settled into the display’s prescribed elegance—head tilted downward, shoulders sloping gently toward the swell of her belly. The lace dress tightened infinitesimally, seams dissolving into flawless, poreless plastic.
They guided her, cold hands positioning her limbs with ritualistic care. One arm curved protectively over her abdomen, fingers molded into a delicate cradle. The other draped loosely at her side, palm upturned in welcoming emptiness. Her feet fused onto a low pedestal draped in soft taupe chiffon, locking her stance into perpetual readiness. The maternity display cradle beside her became her only horizon.
Above the skylight, bruised purple bled into watery gray. Dawn approached, leaching color from the world. The mannequins retreated to their assigned posts—stiff-legged beside jeans displays, poised mid-stride near handbags, frozen in laughter by swimwear. Their plastic joints stiffened, settling into familiar stillness. Only the ghost of shared purpose lingered in the air, thick as dust motes caught in the weakening fluorescents.
The morning manager arrived precisely at seven, key jangling in the silent back corridor. "Ricky?" Her call echoed unanswered through racks of folded sweaters. She found the break room untouched—cold coffee in the pot, Ricky’s worn jacket slung over a chair. Frowning, she checked the security log; the system showed a routine night, last swipe at entrance at midnight. No alarms. No sign of struggle. Only the faint scent of new plastic near the maternity display, almost masked by detergent.
Days bled into weeks. Missing person posters featuring Ricky’s bored, blue-shirted photo appeared briefly on lampposts, then faded under rain and sun. Police chalked it up to another restless kid skipping town—after all, the pay was lousy, and Ricky had mumbled about boredom plenty. The store manager hired a new guard, a cheerful grandmotherly type who joked about the mannequins' "judgy stares" but never felt their stillness press against her back like breath held too long. Insurance paid Ricky’s family; life shuffled forward. But no one knew that he became just another mannequin waiting for a chance to change another person to join them.
The end.
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