A woman attends regular sessions with her therapist following a transformative body experience. Yet, the exploration puts the therapist in danger.

My hope is that this play will leave the listeners curious about what was true, and what was the result of a psychotic experience.


This play is based on my flash fiction, Transformation (2021):

In the morning, I got up with a strong headache. Nothing unusual for me, really, but still, the pressure on my head was making me want to collapse within. Maybe this is why, when I thought about going for a run, I decided that it is better not to. Later I got invited for a meeting with some friends, but somehow my legs did not want to take me there. I would have shrugged it off, if not for the weird hump that developed on my back.

In the morning, I sat up in the bed and realised that my legs are gone. Maybe it was for the best, I thought later, when I managed to climb up to the ledge of a cold white bath. Afterall, they were of no use to me anyway. I clambered on the sofa to catch my breath. I grabbed the remote control, but I did not feel there was any sense in switching the channels. There just wasn’t going to be anything good in there. I reached for the laptop, but no words jumped from my fingertips to the keyboard. There is no story in my head to tell and the dreams of my future were evaporating. My cat startled me, he was clearly disoriented, for there were no knees for him to jump on. I stroked the cat, but I could not feel its fur. It was soft and fluffy once, I remembered.

In the morning, I tried to sit up. I couldn’t as I had no arms and no hands. I looked around finding nothing to do and deciding, that maybe it was for the best. Would you like to read something, perhaps, male voice asked, and I nodded, though with a struggle, as my neck seemed to be rather short these days. I saw his worry, a question painted on his face, so I turned my eyes towards the book he put in front of me. But still, there did not seem to be any words on the pages. Just a never-ending row of full stops.
In the morning, I did not even know it was the morning. Everything around me was black. Why are you not getting up, I heard. I remember blinking, surprised, that someone thinks there is a point of getting up in a total darkness. When will you be better, he asked and I did not have a clue what he meant. I got this uneasy feeling in my stomach, hearing the concern in his voice. Maybe it was for the better that I could not see his face.
In the morning, I realised that I was awake. I could not see anything apart from the darkness. I could not hear anything. Maybe it was for the better, though I could still feel the warmth of the duvet on my skin. I think someone touched me, shook me, as if trying to get me to do something. To want something. There was nothing I wanted.

In the morning, I found myself in a comfortable space. In a shell that kept me safe. And in this shell, I had dreams about going to work and seeing people. And with each, so exhausting, dream, my shell grew thicker. More comfortable. Until these dreams stopped too.

I settled in my shell, wrapping around the yolk so small, that I could barely tell it was there. This is the last bit of who I was, I thought. I stayed in my shell, calming down after the events of past weeks or months, who keeps count. And when I was finally able to take a deeper breath, my shell cracked a bit. Through the crack I thought I saw some pictures. I started imagining them, moving them around into various designs. From time to time I heard a female voice, asking me how things make me feel. I did not understand it at the beginning. What does she mean “feel”? They do not feel. They are, or they are not. There is no other way I could describe them. When the yolk was much bigger, I decided to answer. She did not hear me, so I moved a little bit, until the shell cracked. When she asked me next time, I was able to answer, and I was heard. By that time, the yolk was quite big, and I felt that perhaps now it could start nourishing me.

In the morning, I reached my hand out of my shell and felt the air. It was cold and grey outside, but the yolk was starting to push me out. I ate a bit more, feeling my limbs elongate. I grabbed the pictures that I was imagining and felt them under my fingertips. They were real, as real as the fur on my cat, who has been sleeping by my side, snuggled to the grey shell I was scrambling out of. I tripped on my weak, shaky legs and felt like was dropping down and down, but a strong hand held me up. It did not allow me to crash.

In the morning, even now, I sometimes look in the mirror and see the way dark morning weighs on my shoulders. Sometimes I get a twinge in my fingers after they grew back and my feet, more often than not, seem to face backwards. Sometimes I open my eyes and can feel a dream in my head. My story does not disappear once the light filters through the window.

Maybe that is for the better.