Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ The Bulma in Me ❯ Chapter 3

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
Chapter 3


The alarm went off and my hand instinctively rose from the covers to slap the snooze button. When my hand hit air, my foggy mind righted itself to the present and I opened my eyes with a groan.



‘Who moved my alarm clock?’



In my clock’s usual spot, to my left, I gripped wildly for something but felt nothing but air. I grimaced against the shrill beep of the clock and realized fuzzily that the clock was now on my right. I could’ve pondered this longer but the noise was too overwhelming that early in the morning, so without thinking I swatted violently to my right, hit the button, and swung my legs over the bed.



I could feel the dust collected in my eyes and began rubbing them with both hands, trying to make my way to the bathroom on unsteady feet. After the night I had I was not eager to face this morning.



I began navigating blindly toward the bathroom. My hand reaching for the doorknob, I finally became full awake when my hand, followed by my body, collided with a wall.



“What the…” I muttered, my eyes growing wide in shock when I realized the wall I had banged into was the wrong color. There in front of me stood a tall, dusty yellow wall where my bathroom should’ve been.



My mind righted itself for the first time that morning and I stared at that wall for a long time, not daring to move, thinking that this still may be a dream…then I turned slowly to face the rest of the room and realized with a start that everything was different, even the bed that I had just crawled out of.



Where the nights before there were dark short walls, now there were high ceilings and big bay windows. Sunlight flooded the room, which seem to extend to twice the size of the one I had fallen asleep in. The four poster bed was huge, with a thick, lacy comforter and silk, lavender sheets. There was a sweet, very feminine smell in the air.



Looking around the room, taking in the large, wooden armoire, the beautifully carved vanity table with the delicate, plushy stool, and the big screen plasma TV against the wall, I began to feel an irrational pang of jealousy at whoever owned this room. Then I looked down at myself and all rational thoughts faded away.



In place of my flannel pajama bottoms and voluminous t-shirt shirt was a hot pink tank top and the tiniest pair of lacy boy shorts I had ever seen. I had gained a few pounds in my 4 years of failure in Chicago but somehow, overnight, my body had shrunk. My skin was tight and my abs were flat. My arms were long and thin and my nails were beautifully manicured, not chewed and bitten.



I began to hyperventilate; all previous rationalizations of having woken up in someone else’s room vanished. This room felt familiar. These clothes, the smell in the air, the sunlight…acting on pure instinct, I ran into what I was sure this time was the bathroom, flipped the switch that I somehow knew was there, looked in the mirror, and screamed.