Trapped in the dark drawer, deflated and unable to move, you lose all track of time. Every once in a while, the drawer is slid open and new balloons are dropped in on top of you. You try to keep count of how many times it happens, but give up when you realize that the number is meaningless without any idea of how long the intervals in between are. You never seem to get tired or hungry, probably because you don't have a living body anymore, so what's the point of keeping track of time anyway? Maybe you're in the drawer for a few hours, or maybe it's days or weeks. For all you know, it might even be years.
Eventually, you drift into a semi-conscious state, not quite asleep but not really awake either. You've stopped paying attention to the openings and closings of the drawer, so you barely notice when your small prison is jerked open far more roughly than usual and a hand darts in, grabbing you and a half dozen or so other balloons. It's all the jostling and shaking that follows as well as the balloon seller's angry shouting receding into the distance which finally brings you back to your senses.
You can't see anything because you are gripped tightly in somebody's fist, but you can hear pounding footsteps as the person carrying you runs full tilt through the twisting streets of Pleasure Island. In fact, you can hear the running footsteps of several people and the laughing remarks that are being called back and forth between them, including something about having a boat to catch. Suddenly, the sounds of running change, going from shoes slapping on pavement to shoes slapping on wood. Then the footsteps slow and, finally, stop altogether. As the now sweaty hand stuffs you and the other balloons into a pocket, you can hear the growl of a large diesel engine starting. If you remember correctly, the engine of the ferry boat that carried you to the island sounded exactly like that.
Is it possible that you are really going to escape the island?
Just as you begin to feel a spark of hope, the boat's public announcement system crackles to life. The voice is scratchy and distorted, as voices amplified through loudspeakers always are, but you can still make out the words.
"Attention passengers," the voice says. "We will be leaving in ten minutes. If you have not received the antidote for any transformations that you experienced while visiting Pleasure Island, please disembark from the boat immediately and visit any of our conveniently located reversal stations, which can be recognized by their animated signs bearing the symbol to two green arrows rotating in a counter-clockwise direction."
Oh, you think to yourself, is that what those were? I thought they were something to do with recycling cans and bottles.
Before you can start laughing at yourself for not reading the 'Everything You Need To Know About Pleasure Island' brochure you had been given when you first arrived, the voice on the loudspeaker continues, saying, "If your transformation has impaired your mobility or dexterity, please make yourself known to any member of our crew and they will assist you." Yeah, that's not very helpful to you, what with being incapable of speech or movement right now. Oh well, once you get far enough away, the magic should all wear off, returning you to normal anyway, right? "As stated in the waiver you signed when purchasing your tickets, all untreated transformations will become permanent upon departure from our shores. Pleasure Island, Inc., LLC will not be held responsible for any injury or damage resulting from the negligence of its guests. I repeat, if you have not received the antidote for any transformations that you experienced..."
You have no choice but to stay where you are and listen to the voice drone through its whole message again, and then repeat it six more times, twice in Spanish, twice in French, and twice in some language that you can't identify but suspect is probably Japanese. When the voice finally shuts up, there are several moments of silence, and then everyone goes back to their previous conversations. You hear a few people declare that they are looking forward to making their changes permanent, but no one seems surprised to learn that there is a cure for the madness that you have been living through. Too bad that no one else can hear you mentally screaming that you are suffering from an uncorrected transformation and would most definitely benefit from the assistance of a crew member or two.
The remaining minutes until departure slip away all too quickly. Then the growl of the idling engine revs to a full roar, and the boat lurches into motion, away from Pleasure Island. Several minutes later, the boat crosses the invisible point of no return, and you feel a jolt all through the thin rubber membrane that is now your body. You instantly recognize the sensation for what it was, the feeling of the magic tightening its grip, sinking in even deeper than it already was, and irreversably bonding to you.
The transformation into a balloon has become permanent. You are never going to be human again.