Morph by Joachim Heijndermans

Morph by Joachim Heijndermans

We sit there, in the middle of the empty basketball court of this community college’s auditorium, locked in a circle of rickety folding chairs.  There’s a table with a box of plain donuts and coffee that’s boiled for so long, it tastes like murky battery acid.  I look around at the other people, not counting myself and the counselor, who is the only one who looks unaugmented amongst us.  They all still have traces of their last Morph on them, though some more severe than others.  I kind of hoped there’d would be more attendees.  When I signed up, I expected dozens, like you seen in movies and shows.  Five just seems so…I dunno, bare-boned.  But this is the only group in the area within reasonable driving distance, so it’ll have to do.

“Good evening, everyone.  I’m Doctor Jason Roberts, your counselor,” the guy in the striped shirt and thin glasses says.  “I’m a therapist specializing in addiction therapy, and welcome to Morph Addiction Anonymous.  I’m happy to see familiar faces tonight,” he says, addressing the elephant in the room, whose trunk started to look more like a human nose again.  “Also, I’d like to congratulate the newcomers among you for making this first step away from Morph addiction.  This is a judgment free area, so feel free to open up.  Now, who would like to go first?” he asks.  I’m the only one who raises their hand, which causes the others to instantly look my way.  I stand up and clear my throat.  No turning back now.

“Ahem…hi.  I’m…ehm…I’m Lawrence, and I’m a Morph addict–,”

“Hi, Lawrence,” the rest drones out in unison, boredom seeping from their every syllable.  I feel like I’m stuck in a weird fever dream, especially since the man to my left has goldfish eyes and traces of what used to be a wen on his forehead.   

“Yeah, sure.  Anyway, I’m a Morph addict.  I got hooked on Morph about eight…no, seventeen years ago.  I was Lawrence back then too.  I’ve had a lot of other names during my bad days, but I’ve gone back to Lawrence.

“I got hooked on Morph-IV, the second gender-shift batch, back when it was legal and uncut.  At first, I started because me and my wife, Joannie, wanted to try it to spice up our sex life, which was on a slow burn after the baby was born.  Y’know, change it up, where she’d be the man and I’d be the woman.  And I didn’t really dig it at first.  Scared the crap out of me to wake up one day without a dick.  It was weird, but the sex was wicked good.  It wasn’t like the Morph just changed my body, but my mind too, y’know?  Everything was new.  Touching things.  Touching people.  Even smells and sounds were different, as I could pick all these sensations that Joannie used to get on my case about for never catching.  I couldn’t get enough of being a woman, so I started using Morph outside of the house.  That’s when it all went straight to hell.”

I take a deep breath, while the frills on the side of my face shudder as I push back my tears.  “We had a kid.  A little boy, Andy.  He’s all grown up now.  And I missed it all, too consumed with Morph, trying new batches and mixes.  Because that’s what happens, y’know?  Eventually the sex gets boring, even with a different gender.  So you switch to the mixed cocktails to have both organs.  Then that gets boring, so you get into the harder stuff like Animax-Z® and Circe®, the junk that lets you grow thoraxes or antennae or tentacles.  Then it stops being about sex, and you just want to feel different.  See the world with other eyes.  So you keep hitting the Morph and shifting in and out of new bodies until you forget who you were in the first place.

“I spent a year as a dolphin.  And not the cool kind that swims in large groups across the oceans for charity.  No, the bad kind.  I was in a porpoise-morphling gang, robbing convenience stores and for-profit sperm banks to get enough cash for my next fix.  Forgot my name during that time, going by…well, I can’t say it anymore without phonic lips, but I guess it doesn’t matter anyway.  I fell out with the crew right before the city purged the gangs during Mayor Gensson’s ‘back to the sea’ campaign.  By that point, I was doing tricks as a cephalopod woman on New Greek street.  I got real low, zipping between sexes and species like they were new shoes.  Most of it I don’t even remember.  But it all came to head when…” I mutter, right before I break out into anguished sobs.  “I killed someone.  I don’t remember who he…she…they were.  Someone on Morph Sigma, the spider strain?  They might have been my pimp for all I know.  Stabbed them right past the mandibles with an ice pick.  After that, I told myself I’d clean up and get straight, which was bullshit, of course.  I was still on Morph for the next five years.  Morph-XI Blue, if you’re wondering, going through life as a peacock/baboon hybrid.  I tried and tried, but I just couldn’t break free, y’know?”

“It’s all right, Lawrence,” Dr. Roberts says.  “Take all the time you need.”

“But it’s not all right.  I had a family.  A life.  And I threw it all away to be a bug or a leopard or whatever.  Because every time I think I can kick the habit, they come out with a new strain that I haven’t tried before.  And nobody gets it.  They say they’re ‘social morphers’, looking at you like you’re some junkie loser, convinced they’ll never stoop that low.  And all you can think is: ‘they don’t know what they’re missing’.  They don’t know what it’s like to morph into another body.  To be another species.  The rush of being born again, like when you leave a deprivation tank, completely renewed in a fresh skin you slipped on like a it was a change of clothes, y’know?” 

Some of the others nod in agreement.  One of them, a girl with a light layer of orange fur, long whiskers and pointed ears just stares, probably fighting the urge to lick the back of her hand and stroke it across her head. 

Dr. Roberts speaks up again.  “So tell us, Lawrence.  What are you hoping to get from this group?”

“I…I’m not really sure.  Closure?  No, that ain’t it.  Guidance, maybe?” I say, looking to the others for confirmation.  They mostly shrug, while the cat-girl looks at me like I’m a canary on the other side of the window, her tail waving back and forth.  “I…I just want my old life back.  And I know that’s probably not going to happen, but I at least want to try being a part of my kid’s life again.  It’s when I woke up one day, his birthday, that I realized I didn’t know anything about him.  His hobbies.  His tastes in shows or music.  Whether he likes girls or not.  Nothing.  I’m a ghost to him.  A bum who ran out so he could go change his DNA on a whim.”

I take a deep breath, wipe my eyes, then continue.  “I’ve been clean for half a month, my last Morph being a frilled agama mix.  My scales are practically all gone now.  The temptation to hit up is still there, but I’m working on that.  When I’m back to full base-state, I’ll try and contact my son.  If he tells me to fuck off, I can understand that.  I don’t want anything from him.  I just want to know he’s okay and to tell him…I’m sorry.  That’s all.”

The people in the group mutter some words of encouragement to me, with one guy even clapping his seal flippers together, while the elephant man trumpets for me.  Dr. Roberts gets up, approaches me, and hands me a plastic chip.  “Congratulations.  You’ve made your first step on the road to recovery.”

“Thanks,” I mutter half-heartedly.

He walks back to his seat, then looks around the circle for the next volunteer, stopping at the cat girl.  “I would like to encourage our other newcomer to go next.  How about it?”

She sighs, then stands up and clears her throat.  “Hi.  I’m Selina Kay, and I’m a Morph addict.”

“Hi, Selina Kay,” we all drone out in unison.

“Actually, that’s not my real name.  I used to be Andy,” she says, meeting my eyes directly.  For a minute and a half, she’s silent, as if she expects me to reply to her.  I begin to wonder if there’s something on my face from the way she looks at me.  Then, it finally dawns on me. 

“Ah–Andy?” I stammer.

“Hey dad,” she replies with a light purr.

—

Joachim Heijndermans writes, draws, and paints nearly every waking hour. Originally from the Netherlands, he’s been all over the world, boring people by spouting random trivia. His work has been featured in a number of publications, such as Metaphorosis, Hinnom Magazine, Every Day Fiction, Asymmetry Fiction, Kraxon Magazine, Gathering Storm Magazine and Ahoy Comics and his short story, ‘All Through the House’, has been adapted as an episode for the Netflix science fiction anthology series ‘Love, Death & Robots.

You can check out his other work at www.joachimheijndermans.com, or follow him on Twitter: @jheijndermans