Soul takeover

My eyes flutter open to the gentle rock of the yacht beneath me, sunlight streaming through the cabin porthole like knives in my skull. Everything feels... off. Heavy. Wrong. I’m lying on the bed in the master suite—our suite, I guess—sheets twisted around my legs like I’ve been fighting in my sleep. The air smells salty, mixed with something floral, maybe perfume or lotion I don’t remember putting on.

I don’t remember... a lot.

How long has it been? Days? Weeks? The last clear memory is hazy: the kitchen counter cold against my skin, Joe’s hands gripping my hips, that ironic “friends for life” slipping from my lips amid the blur of pleasure and confusion. Before that, fragments—pool water splashing, doggy style with Tiffany’s apologies echoing in my head, a wedding kiss that made me want to bolt, mid-thrust wake-ups where pushing him off felt impossible because it all felt too damn good under her magic. The bed after six months, falling and freaking out on her birthday. Joe exploring the new curves. Wine on the couch. Body changes ripping through me. The possession hitting like a truck.

All those stops, those blackouts, those moments I surfaced just long enough to drown again. And now... nothing. No whispers. No pull. Just me, wide awake in my own head for the first time in... God, how long?

I shift to sit up, and that’s when the weight hits me full force. My middle is enormous, pulling me forward like an anchor. I brace my hands on the mattress—smaller hands, manicured nails—and push, but my balance is shot. A groan escapes as I finally manage to swing my legs over the edge. Standing is worse: my hips feel wider, looser, my back arches involuntarily to counterbalance the massive swell in front. I waddle—fucking waddle—to the full-length mirror mounted on the closet door, the deck creaking under my swollen feet.

The reflection is a nightmare.

Me, but not. Long hair tousled from sleep, face softer and fuller with that pregnancy glow bullshit. Breasts heavy and veined, straining a silk camisole that’s too small now. And the belly—Jesus, the belly. Round and taut, skin stretched thin over a dome that looks ready to burst. Stretch marks fan out like cracks in marble. A dark linea nigra bisecting it. I can see—feel—movement inside: a slow roll, a tiny foot pressing out like it’s testing the boundaries.

Pregnant. I’m fucking pregnant.

The room spins. My knees buckle, and I catch myself on the dresser, breathing hard. “No,” I mutter. “No, no, this isn’t—how the hell—”

A sudden emptiness blooms in my mind, sharp and final. Like a door slamming shut. The faint hum of Tiffany’s presence—the one that’s been there since the start, smoothing edges, whispering justifications, flooding me with her desires and magic—vanishes. Completely. Irrevocably.

She’s gone.

For good.

The realization crashes over me like a wave. I stagger to the open deck door, bursting out into the sunlight, the ocean breeze whipping my hair. The yacht’s upper deck is empty, horizon endless and mocking.

“You bitch!” I scream at the sky, voice cracking high and raw. “You don’t get to do this! You don’t get to possess me, change me, fuck with my life—turn me into your goddamn incubator—and then just leave? After all that? The body swaps, the wine blackouts, Joe figuring me out, the birthday freakout, mid-sex panics, the wedding where I almost ran, doggy style apologies, pool and kitchen fucks where my memories bled through, ‘friends for life’ bullshit—all of it leading to this? You said you just wanted someone for Joe. A family. But what about me? I didn’t want this! I don’t want any of it—the tits, the hips, the kid! Joe always dreamed of being a dad, sure, but not like this. Not with his best friend trapped in the body that carried it!”

Tears stream hot down my face, mixing with the salt air. I slam a fist on the railing, the impact jolting up my arm. The baby kicks hard in response—insistent, alive, like it’s protesting the noise or begging me to stop. I cradle the swell instinctively, hating how natural it feels, how part of me wants to soothe it.

“I don’t want this,” I sob quieter now, sinking to my knees on the deck. “Please. I don’t want it. Take it back. Fix me.”

But there’s no answer. No magic reversal. Just the waves lapping below, and the distant call of gulls.

Footsteps climb the stairs from below deck.

I don’t look up. I know it’s you.

You step into view, pausing at the top, taking in the scene: me kneeling, face a wreck, hands pressed to my pregnant belly like I’m holding myself together.

“Carl?” Your voice is thick with worry. You drop whatever you were carrying—a tray with drinks, maybe—and rush over, kneeling beside me without hesitation. “Hey—hey, what happened? Are you okay? Is it the baby?”

I laugh through the tears—bitter, broken, ugly. “Okay? Do I look okay, Joe? She’s gone. Tiffany. She left me here like this. After everything. All those blackouts, all those times I woke up just to lose control again... and now this. Pregnant. With your kid. Our kid. Whatever the hell it is.”

You reach for me, arms open like you always do when things get bad, but I shove your hands away—harder than I mean to. The motion makes me wince, the belly throwing off my balance, but I don’t care.

“Don’t,” I snap, voice rising. “Don’t touch me. Don’t act like this is okay. Like we can just ‘figure it out’ like we always do. This isn’t some bar fight or bad breakup. This is me—Carl—stuck in this body, carrying a baby I never asked for, while you got everything you ever wanted handed to you on a silver platter!”

Your face crumples. “Carl, I—”

“How long?” I cut you off, voice shaking with fury. “How long have I been Tiffany? How long was she driving this thing while I was locked away in the dark? Tell me, Joe. How fucking long?”

You look away—eyes dropping to the deck, jaw tight. You don’t answer. The silence stretches, heavy and damning.

“Joe.” My voice cracks like glass. “How long?”

You swallow hard, still not meeting my eyes. “Carl...”

“Answer me!” I scream, the sound ripping out raw and desperate. “You owe me that much! After everything—after the possession, the changes, the blackouts, the wedding, the sex, the kid—tell me how long I’ve been gone!”

You finally look at me, eyes glistening. Your voice comes out small, broken. “Two years.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Two years. Two entire years of my life stolen. Two years of blackouts and fragments, of waking up just long enough to feel violated and then sinking again. Two years of you living with “Tiffany,” building a life, making a baby, while I was... nothing.

I stagger back a step, one hand flying to my mouth. “Two... years?” The whisper turns into a yell. “Two fucking years? You let this happen for two years? You married me—married her—fucked me, knocked me up, and never once thought to wake me up? To fight harder? To tell me?”

“Carl, I tried—” you start, reaching again.

“No!” I slap your hand away, tears pouring. “Don’t. Don’t try to fix this now. You got your family. Your kid. Your happy ending. And I got... nothing. Two years of nothing.”

I turn away from you, gripping the railing so tight my knuckles ache. The ocean stretches out forever—empty, indifferent.

“I’m leaving,” I say, quieter but no less firm. “As soon as this boat docks, I’m gone. You can have your kid. You can have the life she built for you. But you’re not having me anymore.”

You stand slowly behind me. I can hear the hurt in your silence, the way your breath catches.

“Carl... please,” you whisper. “Don’t do this. We can—”

“What’s next?” I cut you off, spinning back to face you one last time. My eyes burn into yours. “What’s next is I walk off this yacht and figure out how to live with what’s left of me. Without you. Without her. Without any of this bullshit magic fairy-tale ending you think we deserve.”

I don’t wait for your answer.

I turn and waddle—slow, painful, determined—toward the stairs, one hand braced under the swell like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

You don’t follow.

Not yet.

But the knot in my chest tells me this isn’t over.

Not by a long shot.