WORK
TO SCALE - part 2 |
by
R.H.W. writing as Gulliver |
Part Two
I woke up on the floor of some metal room.
Every inch of my body ached deep, like getting hit
and hit and hit all over my arms and legs and back.
I felt beaten up and half-smothered, just left there
in the dark. My face and hands were still grimy
and sticky from whatever I’d been sprayed with and
it seemed like I’d been left for dead in some dark
equipment tunnel, my body half covered in heavy
canvas tarps with big hunks of metal here and there,
looking like the parts left out in a shipyard or
a construction site. Other than the tarps over me
I was butt naked and felt bruised and abraded, like
they had torn my clothes off of me. It feels like
hours that I just lie there, curled up in pain before
I even realize that the light around fifteen feet
over must be a way out. I see something big blocking
the way and hear a crazy distorted PA blasting something.
Barely conscious, eyes unfocused and still
dizzy, my hands scrabbling at the cold floor, I
crawl towards the light and just as I remember that
I’m completely naked Anne reaches down and picks
me up.
She’s huge, screaming down at me, her hands
wrapping all the way around me, her palms the size
of sofa cushions. She presses me too tight, and
that hurts even more, and I squirm in her grasp
while her huge face looms over me, enormous lips
blasting me with things I can’t think straight enough
to understand. I hang there, held two stories up
in the air, my bare legs dangling. The only thing
that I fear more than this vast thing holding me
is that she’ll let me go.
I try to say something and my entire throat
rips with new pain, leaving me unable to talk. Only
the slightest sound comes out of my lips. I barely
hear it, so she surely doesn’t. Each and every bone
and joint screaming for relief, a strange tearing
feeling seeming to pull at all of my skin; it’s
all I can do to focus my eyes and look around. Oh
Jesus! Anne hasn’t grown, I’ve shrunk. I look at
the monuments that every little thing has become,
the cliff sides of the desk beneath me and the enormous
plain of metal I’ve been lifted from. My own skin
seems to ripple and glow in some way that I can’t
make sense of. My neck feels pulled back and forth
with every move as these hands, suddenly the center
of my world, lower me to a flat surface.
As the hands let go my legs give beneath
me and I look far up to Anne’s face, fighting to
understand what she’s saying to me. She says that
we’ve just got to get out. This’ll wear off, we’ll
do something, but for now we just have to get away
unseen. I protest, surely something there can fix
this. But with my voice a tiny squeak, rambling,
incoherent, I’m ignored.
Looking around the room, she tries to find
something to carry me in. She carries me in her
hands, holds me out in front of her like a boiling
pot of spaghetti. I’m lifted and turned around,
raised and lowered as she holds me over drawers,
bags, garbage cans. At last she grabs an instrument
cart and empties out the largest drawer, shoving
cables and manuals to one side, making room, then
her hands come down again, lift me up, and push
me in, closing the drawer, leaving me in the dark
metal box. I hear the latch click shut.
My ears ringing from the terrible clatter
around me as the cart is pushed, dragged, pulled
right to the door of the lab. I’m pulled out of
the drawer into the cold air and wrapped in her
jacket before she strides as quickly as she can
to the car, unlocks the door, and drops me onto
the seat. I poke my head out over the lapel, my
hands clutching the fabric, which feels like rough
canvas. I see her looking down at me, my head, bare
shoulders, and tiny hands just visible.
She’s talking to herself. Where to put
me? Where will the guards not look? I’m crippled
with fear and shock, letting out a peep of terror
as she talks to herself about putting me in the
trunk, under the seats, under her legs. She looks
back and sees the gym bag with her sweaty workout
gear, now mixed in with her dirty laundry from the
last four days, and relaxes a bit. No male guard
will want to look at that too closely. She pulls
everything out and, mercy of mercies, gives me time
to pull myself into the bag, before she covers me
up with her clothes, putting her crumpled up panties
on the top. Smiling, she opens up the glove box,
pulling out tampons and maxi pads that she empties
on top, sprinkling them across the top of the bag,
half-zipped on the seat beside her.
I hide beneath, skin rubbed raw by everything
and suffocated by the close, dank air filled with
the stale smell of her days old sweat and fatigue.
I can see almost nothing through the mesh on one
side, blocked off by sweatpants and blouses that
seem to weight tons. I feel the car stop at the
front gate and hear her manage to sound calm. Just
in to pick up a few things. Quiet day. Yes, the
weekends do seem to get shorter every year.
We pull out into traffic and I scramble
my way up to the opening, grasping for the brass
cubes, the size of dice, that are the teeth of the
zipper. I get a few minutes of clear air, looking
up at her. With the wind whistling by I don’t even
try to ask where we’re going. She looks down, sees
me, and looking more annoyed than upset, pushes
me back down like a foolish puppy before closing
up the bag. The humiliation as I find that I am
too weak to open the zipper is one thing too many
and I cry like I haven’t cried in years. When the
car stops one last time the bag is lifted with me
in it and carried past a front door and through
a house. I’m dropped what feels like yards. She
opens the bag and finds me curled up in her clothes,
arms and legs pulled in and crying uncontrollably
as she picks me up and drops me onto her bed.
“I think that we’ve been through enough
for now.” She says as she drops a scarf on the bed
in front of me. I sniffle, sit up, pulling the scarf
to me, still hunched over and aching. I’m almost
too exhausted to care that I’m now covered in a
pink scarf printed with flowers and butterflies.
I shiver, freezing in the air conditioning, and
wrap the scarf around me, layer on top of layer,
trying to protect myself from what feel like storm
gusts from the vents in the ceiling. I lie back
down, and, too worn down to do anything else, drop
off to sleep, seeing this woman who now shapes everything
putting another scarf over me as I lose consciousness.
I wake hours later with her sitting by
me on the bed, worried and tense. “Are you doing
better?” she asks me and as she asks I realize that
I’m no longer cold; I’m hot, burning with fever,
with new sorenesses replacing the ones just starting
to fade. I look up to her and croak out, my voice
still a flattened chirp, “Please, take me to the
bathroom?” She picks me up, still in her scarves,
and as she carries me, my stomach churns and I vomit
uncontrollably, on her, the scarves, the floor.
She puts me down on a clean spot on the
floor and rushes out and as I sit there the spasms
hit me again and I lose all control, shit and piss
squirting out of me, leaving stains in the scarves
and spreading around me. I spasm again and more
comes out of me. She reappears down the hall, paper
towels and cleaning liquid in hand, and sees me,
twisting in pain and unable to meet her eyes. I
gasp out an apology and she covers up her momentary
disgust. “I hope this won’t last. Thanks to you
my daughter’s away until Wednesday night, so we’ve
got some time.” She picks me up and carries me to
the sink, putting me in and running the tap over
me as I flinch away from the torrent of water. “Just
stay there; I’ll be back in a few minutes.” she
tells me, pouring in some soapy liquid as she turns
the water off. A minute later she ducks back in
and grabs more paper towels, barely glancing at
me.
I pull myself up and look over the edge
of the sink, realizing that, slippery and weak,
and twelve feet above a hard floor, I’m flat out
unable to do anything. More pain and I soil myself
and the water. I struggle to keep my mouth above
bubbles the size of softballs and strong enough
to push against me. My grip weakens and the bubbles
get in and the taste of soap fills my mouth.
Waiting for Anne to come back I become
newly afraid. Where is she? Where did she go? Hours
seem to be passing and I start to worry; did they
find us? Is she dead? Did she die before telling
them and have I been left here, naked again and
utterly cut off? Yet again my bowels loosen and
brown tendrils drift up to the surface of the water.
Ashamed, I try to rub myself clean, accomplishing
little and leaving my entire body from the neck
down smeared with revolting brown muck. The intense
floral smell of the soap just makes the growing
smell of my own waste worse and I try, with some
success, to not vomit again.
This is what I’m reduced to: being proud
that I only shit myself twice. Even worse, I am
proud and I brim with the hope that when (oh, please,
when and not if) Anne comes back I’ll be able to
tell her of my new accomplishment. My shame broadens
and somehow her absence begins to feel like my fault.
What did I do to make her leave me here? All of
my pathetic will focuses on my desire for her to
come back.
Finally I hear her steps coming back and
she comes in the door. She’s surprised and a bit
confused by the relief in my still pain-filled eyes
as she washes me “Are you done peeing and pooping
yet? Good.”, dries me off, and carries me, this
time with a sense of purpose to her step.
I’m dreading what comes next and somehow
I’m not surprised when I’m lowered onto a changing
table and she starts to put oil and powder on me,
treating my balls and penis as matter-of-factly
as a pen or a sock. “Well, now I’m glad that I kept
this stuff from when Becky was a baby.” she says.
It starts to become real to me that none of these
decisions are mine anymore. She pulls out a box
bigger than I am and the shadow of it over me for
a moment is almost worse than when she pulls out
a diaper and fastens me into it, turning me over
one last time, sitting me down, and settling into
a nearby chair to look at me.
I’m still sick and after a minute I vomit
up a bit of saliva. She reaches out with a baby
wipe and cleans off my face without even asking.
“I can do that myself” I tell her and she sardonically
sits the baby wipe box down next to me, so big that
it comes up to my waist, and watches as I try to
pull a wipe loose. Struggling, I get one wipe half
out in five minutes, my hands keep pulling loose
and hitting my face. Finally she reaches out again,
pulls the wipe free and hands it to me, bigger to
me than a small blanket and so wet that I feel soaked
and immediately start to shiver again.
Taking this cue, she pulls out a large
cardboard box from a jumble that looks just dropped
there and starts to hold up baby clothes towards
me. I watch as well as I can, calling out when something
looks possible. She brings over a T-shirt, plain
white. I briefly see Baby Gap on the label, and
she ceremoniously hands it to me. I take it and
only then see a little frill of lace at the neck
and edge of each sleeve. “I can’t wear this.” I
say, my heart expanding back with my having been
at long last asked my opinion. She looks at it again,
shrugs, and digs until she finds a plain T-shirt,
not so clean, and hands me that. I’m the right height,
but much narrower, so the shirt hangs loose on me.
Pants are no better. She starts out asking
me but neither of us can judge what will and won’t
fit and I’m helpless with fastenings heavy as shot
puts and meant for full-sized hands. After a while
she just pulls out each likely pair, dresses me
in it, picks me up, looks as me, sometimes asks
how it feels, and finally settles on a pair of baby
jeans overalls that stay on but stretch only past
my knees. I start to complain about the flowers
embroidered on them and the rabbits on the buttons.
For the first time the fatigue that she’s been holding
back shows on her face and she, without a word,
picks me up, turns me over and spanks me hard, once,
then puts me back down. I only cry a little.
Over the next few days my fever gets worse
and I vomit and shit constantly. Anne did get to
grab some binders on the way out and they explain
what’s happening to me. She says that the process
has a second stage, a virus, that shrinks you down
a further twenty percent, pulling off body tissue,
a little bit everywhere, even somehow softening
and shrinking bone. All of this has to come out
somehow and I exist, tossing and turning, in a painful
haze of my own spasms and outpouring waste.
My hair has all fallen out. Anne tries
to explain something to me about boundary layer
stresses but all that I know is that my now bare
arms and legs get even colder when the chills come
and that with this constant fever it won’t grow
back. My pubic hair is all gone and I get cold even
faster. Anne jokes that at least it makes cleanup
easier.
She keeps me mostly in a crib, having now
moved it and the changing table into her bedroom.
The sides of the crib are up, trapping me in. With
my constant tossing and turning it’s the only way
to keep me from falling the crippling distance to
the hardwood floor. She tells her friends that she’s
caring for a sick baby with a contagious disease
that Anne’s immune to. In a rare moment of open
anger she takes things from my wallet, which she
had also grabbed, and makes them into a mobile that
she suspends far above my helplessly reaching hands.
In my more coherent moments I scream at
Anne, convinced that if we had only stayed a while
longer perhaps the whole thing could have been reversed.
She does as much research as time allows but stops
even telling me how it goes as each update sets
me off again. My little bird voice, which I realize
is not from my being sick but from my vocal cords
now being as small as the rest of me, just enrages
me further. She mostly tries to ignore me, treating
my rants as just a symptom of the fever. Frustrated,
my tiny piping gets flat out abusive. I call her
foolish, tell her that her panic has killed us both,
berate her for not getting me access to my consulting
resources. She is tolerant until one night I let
out what she now already suspects, that I had seen
bullet holes at Jimmy’s and hadn’t told her. She
also realizes now about the other deaths and is
astonished that I had risked getting us killed.
She is even more pissed when she figures out that
her daughter’s now at risk too.
Now tired of considering my welfare at
the sake of hers, Anne also figures out that she’s
got to put in an appearance at work. The last thing
that we can afford is for her to look conspicuous.
She leaves, saying that she’ll be back in a few
hours. I’m pleased as it gets. I’m feeling much
better and have been hiding it. Anne had found that
the virus pushes out waves of growth hormones occasionally
to give the bones time to adjust and clearly the
first of these has come. When she leaves I start
the hour-long process of wriggling past the mattress
and springs and dropping to the floor. The past
days have left me fragile and shaky, the strength
that I had always counted on seems like a distant
myth.
She now dresses me every morning which
leaves me warm enough to try this. I’m grateful
for my fresh diaper, tight and in place. Anne’s
daughter is away for the day so I have the run of
the house. The bedroom door is open a bit so I can
make my way out to the hall. My bare feet feel for
the first time the bumpy surface of her wood floor.
I pass the spot in the hall where she had put me
down and for a moment my shame at my new life overcomes
me. I’ll make it. There’s got to be a fix. I just
need to reach the computer.
It takes me ages to find the living room,
crouching down in fear every time I hear a neighborhood
cat or dog, afraid that a loose kitchen door will
let one in. I can hear scratching sounds, some sort
of scrabbling, but it doesn’t sound right. For a
while I hide behind a planter and wait but my eagerness
gets me moving again. This is never going to end
until I get connected, find out what’s going on.
I’m a third of the way across the living
room when I see a trail of ants. They’re huge, each
as big as my thumb, and even from here I can smell
sort of acidic chemical reek. They’re jerky, freakish
movements, familiar from a hundred nature videos,
are still alien, utterly wrong. I shiver and shake
as my brain struggles with caveman urges of fight
or flight. And all this while I watch them, fascinated,
and they each make their way along. I wait, trying
to think my way around the problem while reflexes
from deep within me scream, “enemy! danger! evil!
kill!, run!” I’m paralyzed and more than a bit crazy
and that, finally is what snaps me out of it.
No, I think. Not me, you evil fuckers,
I think. This isn’t a B movie and they’re not the
size of a pickup truck. They’re just fucking small
rats, I tell myself.
Just rats with shiny shells and bigger
teeth and legs I can rip off and tear apart. I can
do this. I need to do this. I can’t afford to not
get across this floor. I look for a weapon but there
isn’t one. I’m just going to have to sneak right
past them. I stiffen myself up and take one more
step. My feet don’t want to move. Oh god, how aware
I am of my bare feet, my bare shaky legs, my aching,
sore arms, m empty hands. Another step. Another.
I can do this.
And one turns its head. And stops. And
another one does. I take one more step and they’re
headed my way. Shit! You fuckers! Damn you! No!
Don’t you fucking
dare! I back up a few steps and now tey’re
clacking and hissing their way as fast as they can.
I start to run and realize they’re catching up.
I turn, face them, they come at me, i reach down
and grab one, its jaws snapping and I’m slamming
it against the floor over and over when the other
one comes at my leg. I try to step on it but it’s
way too big, the shell too thick and strong. It
tries to move aside, my foot slides off, it snaps
at my leg and gets my foot. Agh! the pain! You fucker,
no! Gonna get you! It snaps at me, backing off a
bit. I grab at it and miss, my leg exploding it
pain, burning and cut. I reach, it snaps, I stumble
forwards but get it, grabbing it in the middle.
It tries to turn its head and bite me and I hit
it against the floor. again and again, the reek
of it drenching me. Finally I can see that it’s
dead and a dozen others are looking up, around.
I run, going back the way I came.
I reach the hallway and keep running, picturing
a ripping, killing, acid dripping nightmare right
behind me, a hundred vicious little shining black
monsters about to rip me open and eat me alive.
In a little while I stumble, fall over, land on
the floor. I look up, there’s nobody there but me.
I’m all alone. I lie there and catch my breath.
My foot hurts, bleeding a bit, the pain getting
worse and the skin turning red. I’m past fear, past
anything but awareness of the pain. It’s all too
much. I lie there, silent, curled up, pressing my
foot to me, not knowing what to do, not thinking
much of anything.
But it’s actually not that bad. The pain
fades, I lie there, in a while I sit up. I sit there
and just breath. The pain is bad and I’m still bleeding
a bit but my mind is back. Nothing has changed.
I’ve still got to reach that computer. I get up,
limping, and make my way back to the living room,
looking around all the time, expecting a wave of
tearing insect jaws to appear at any moment. I reach
the end of the living room and realize that there’s
a way past the evil fuckers anyway. The trail of
ants is thinning and it only crosses along one corner.
If I go the long way around I never even need to
get near them. No question, then.That’s what I’m
doing. So I take my time ad work my way around and
as the desk gets closer, the whole horrible experience
fades away as this long-desired connection to the
outside world calls to me.
I finally reach the computer but how am
I going to get up to it? It’s on and I know that
Anne’s web connection is one of those high-speed
always-on things. I’m maddened all over again as
I try one thing after another to get up to the desktop
and fail. I pull loose thread from a rug and try
to make a rope but can’t find anything on the desk
that I can throw it up to, only managing to knock
little things off the desk and onto the floor. I
can climb up her chair, but it’s pulled back too
far across the room. I eventually climb the side
of a big wicker basket, tearing bits loose as I
go to get better hand holds, and pull myself up
to the desktop from there.
I walk over and sit down in front of the
keyboard and mouse. Almost there. But not. Nothing
I do will open a browser. Every time I try I get
some sort of error message. I can’t get past it
and as I sit there I hear Anne’s car pulling up.
From the desktop I can see plenty of ways
down so that’s not too bad, but when I get down
I find that I can’t run. The diaper bunches up between
my legs and my attempts to run are more waddle and
fall. The jumper I’m in makes it worse, designed
for a baby not yet walking, it pulls at my legs.
So that’s how she finds me, falling down on my face
in the hall, trying to run away, my jumper all askew
and my flailing arms trying to catch my fall.
“What are you DOING out here!?” “How did
you get out of that crib?!” Can’t I leave you alone
at all?!” She grabs me up and her yelling just gets
louder as she sees the state of the living room,
the rug torn up and bits of pottery where I knocked
over a pencil jar. When she realizes what I was
trying to do all of her accumulated anger and frustration
come out. “Don’t you think I tried that? How could
you? You’re gone. Your records are gone, your money
is gone. It’s all gone. Your big bad firm says you
never worked for them and there’s a warrant out
for your arrest. Do you WANT them to find out what
we did? What we saw?” “From now on you wlll pay
attention to me! You will do as you are told when
and how I tell you! The food that you eat and the
bed that you sleep on are provided by me! Everything
keeping you safe is ME! Do as I tell you and I’ll
take care of you until we can work this out. Don’t
and I’ll see to it that you’re sorry! You’ve been
acting like a child so from now on you’re going
to get treated like one!”
And as I twisted in her hands, kicking
and trying to get away from what I knew was coming,
she pulled down my pants, pulled off my diaper,
and spanked me again and again while I cried out
through the tears that came all too quickly that
I was sorry, so sorry and would be better if she
would please, please just stop. By that night the
fever was back and I was more helpless than ever,
lying limp in a barred crib while she worked on
papers on the other side of the room.
When she was changing me later she saw
the ant bites and as she put lotion on the bites
told me that I had been lucky. Some of the local
ants were poisonous and at my size I could have
been poisoned and overrun. She said that this just
proved that I couldn’t ever again be left alone.
Two days later she brought me back out
to the living room and sat me on the desk. I looked
up at her, watching her face, eager to be good and
for the first time physically afraid of what would
happen if I wasn’t. She started by saying that from
now on I had to follow house rules. I was to call
her Mrs. Thomas unless she allowed me to do otherwise.
If she gave me something to eat I was to eat it
without reluctance or complaint. No foul language.
Any four-letter words or anything even close and
my mouth would be washed out with soap. I was to
be respectful and never interrupt. If I was bad
and had to be punished, resisting or acting sullen
would just make it worse. The list went on and I
can tell you that I paid attention to every word.
All of this was leading up to something
but I now knew not to question. But it was bigger
than I expected. She paused for a bit and then told
me that she wouldn’t be able to watch me all the
time and so it was time that somebody else share
the responsibility.
I couldn’t understand who it could be when
she said that it would be her five year-old daughter
Rebecca. She would be told that I was a very special
toy and that if anybody else ever found out about
me I would be taken away. I was to be respectful
and polite and always call her Miss Rebecca. If
I ever told her anything at all about my life before
that day I would be instantly handed off to somebody
far away as she would not have her daughter endangered
any further.
She then dressed me up more formally then
she ever had before, going so far as to try to find
shoes that would fit, finally settling on a big
pair of patent leather shoes held on with three
pairs of socks. I was placed on the floor and warned
once again to be obedient and respectful or I would
be made very sorry. My hands reflexively reached
to protect my backside as she said that last and
I gave all of my somewhat fever-addled concentration
to being just what she wanted. When she told me
to stay where I was I did, waiting as she left the
room until I heard her coming back accompanied by
the sound of an eager child. The door opened and
Mrs. Thomas came in holding the hands of a girl
trying to look serious and grasping her mother’s
hand. As soon as she saw me she rushed over and
picked me up, crushing me in her arms, still almost
twice my height and strong enough to crush my chest,
leaving me gasping for breath as she swung me around.
“Now remember what I said. Be careful with
him. He’s fragile and very valuable.”
“He’s great! he’s great! I want him I want
him I want him!!!” What’s his name?”
“Well, huh, I don’t know.” What do you
want to call him?”
“Look at his big shoes!” Aren’t they cute?!”
I’ll, um, I’ll call him Bootsie!”
“Bootsie! Bootsie! Bootsie!”
“Sweetie, I’m not sure that that’s a good
name for a…”
“Bootsie! I LIKE Bootsie! He’s GOTTA be
Bootsie!”
“Why not? Bootsie it is.”
As I hung there in her arms being shaken
up and down by her manic enthusiasm I had looked
up to Mrs. Thomas, ready to be protected from this
new threat and saw only pleased tolerance for her
happy daughter. My danger, overwhelming to me, slipping
to the very edge of her awareness.
Miss Rebecca was delighted with me for
hours, as I became the best doll that she could
imagine. Watched over by Mrs. Thomas, Miss Rebecca
had me bow, dance, sit, stand, over and over, getting
angry whenever I slowed down. I feared Miss Rebecca
in ways I never had her mother, who had saved and
protected me. Miss Rebecca’s gleeful experiments
that day had me as their primary prop and the combination
of the fumbling of a five-year old over twice my
size with a strength that swept me over and pushed
me down. She hurt me in big ways and little ones
and she left me afraid and anxious every minute,
always cowering a bit before her.
It felt wonderfully safe and familiar when
Mrs. Thomas at last told Miss Rebecca that we had
to stop for today and brought me back to the bedroom.
Miss Rebecca was brought along to watch and begged
to be allowed to change me and put me to bed. Mrs.
Thomas handed me back to Miss Rebecca and set up
a stool by the changing table for her.
As deep as my shame had been being reduced
to helplessness in the hands of a grown woman, it
was nothing to the utterly humbling experience of
being stripped naked by a child and lectured firmly
by her about my incontinence and weakness. I could
only give in to her as she turned me this way and
that, patting me on the head, making a child’s mistakes;
washing my face with a wipe that she had just used
on my bottom, missing spots and leaving me feeling
still soiled as she dressed me in a new diaper.
As she experimented on me, trying first one thing
and then another, Mrs. Thomas stood back, speaking
gently not to me but to this overpowering giant
before me.
When she dropped a bottle of baby oil on
me I started an angry response that I instantly
regretted as she leaned in, wagging her finger at
me and telling me not to be bad or she would have
to punish me herself. I heard Mrs. Thomas’ voice
past my confined view as she praised her daughter
for her scolding and giving suggestions on what
to say next time. Next time? My situation further
sank in as I saw that this child, younger that shoes
that I owned not too long ago, a girl who couldn’t
even read, could casually force me to do whatever
she wanted whenever she wanted. And worse, she clearly
intended to.
After that time, my time as Miss Rebecca’s
toy defined my days. I was the center of her tea
parties and the reliably entertaining game of her
idle summer hours. I was also her servant, helping
to clean her room and being given a small brush
to brush her hair while she watched television or
played with something else. It didn’t take long
for her to discover that I fit far better into doll’s
clothing than the baby clothes that I had worn up
until then. I spent many hours being dressed up
in ball gowns, party dresses, summer frocks, most
of which still had fasteners too large and tightly
in place for me to do or undo. Sometimes Miss Rebecca
would order me to take some item of clothing off
or on and when my small weak hands failed me she
would delight in patiently explaining to me what
I had done wrong.
Mrs. Thomas was very happy about all of
this. She had been told by the workers at a childcare
center that her daughter was too withdrawn, wasn’t
coping well with her father’s death and acted threatened
around other kids. Mrs. Thomas loved seeing her
daughter talking, doing things, coming up with games
and with tricks for me to do; she set the loosest
possible terms on Miss Rebecca’s play. I found out
fast that if Miss Rebecca did something do me it
didn’t do any good to tell her Mrs. Thomas because
she would always believe her daughter before me.
When my hair, just starting to grow back
in, turned out to be a color that Miss Rebecca didn’t
like she tried coloring my head with felt tip pens,
wanting me to be a redhead and then a brunette.
When she wasn’t happy with that, hair from another
doll was glued to my head. I went along, afraid
of what she might do to get it off more than the
discomfort of her attempts to fix it.
As the weeks passed I was taught more complicated
tricks. Her obedient pet, I was trained like a puppy
to beg, roll over, point, heel. Enjoying the training
far more than wanting the results, Miss Rebecca
kept making the standards higher and higher, insuring
many scoldings and punishments. I was always eager
for her approval, because her punishments were harsher
than her mother’s. A “good dolly” became a great
treat and I looked forward to a small crumb of cookie
or chocolate if I was really good. Later on, I was
trained to act like a circus animal, walking on
top of a rolling ball and jumping through hoops.
At family meals Miss Rebecca kept me on a seat beside
her or in her lap, having me beg for my food, leaving
my diet mostly composed of brussel sprouts, rejected
bits of sandwich and the other things she didn’t
want to eat and Mrs. Thomas said were okay for her
to feed me.
Miss Rebecca was a smart girl and she started
coming up with other ways to punish me. The rare
times that I started to say anything about my old
life she would push my head into a dish of water,
holding me down for as long as a minute, telling
me to wash my head out. I became afraid to even
think anything that might bring me so close to drowning.
She also found a few things by accident, discovering
that, especially if I was wet, nine-volt batteries
from her toys could make me do a lot. She was all-powerful
in my small world and like a puppy, I watched her
all the time. Only two things mattered - making
her happy and doing as I was told.
After that time I’d tried to use the computer,
they made sure I couldn’t get out again. A thick
slab of wood was put under the mattress of my crib
and unless I was being actively watched, my wrist
was chained to some nearby object, using a length
of chain picked out at a jewelry store by Miss Rebecca
and locked with a matching clasp. When Miss Rebecca
played with me in the living room Mrs. Thomas always
kept an eye on me, telling her daughter not to ever
let me out of her sight. I had now shrunken to not
much over a foot in height so Miss Rebecca got in
the habit of putting me in a purse that she carried
with her, even to the bathroom, and locking me in
it whenever she thought best.
With the school year starting and my sickness
subsiding I hoped to finally get some time alone,
at least in the crib. Instead, I found that Miss
Rebecca spent even more of her time with me when
she got home, eager to tell me about all of her
new friends and how her day went and determined
to do even more in what time she had.
At this point Miss Rebecca decided that
I was, in fact, her baby. I was kept in some variation
on baby clothes almost all the time and told to
call her mommy. While she didn’t completely stop
my mealtime begging she now started asking her mother
how to feed me from a bottle. Now that I could keep
food down I was being fed all the time she was there,
as bottle after bottle was pressed to my mouth,
Miss Rebecca fattening me up so that I would look
like a “real” baby.
And I did. The hair on my head was still
short and there was so little you could see through
it and the hair on my body was all gone everywhere.
She loved holding me up to a mirror to see myself
like I was, all big and fat and helpless, with just
a diaper on and maybe a bonnet and it felt so scary
that I couldn’t stay still so I’d be moving a lot
in her hands and her hands were so big and strong
and showed that I was so small. You had to look
really carefully before you could see that I was
a little version of somebody who used to be a big
and strong grownup, now living only to serve a little
girl, who wasn’t even six, who saw me just as her
doll, more fun than storybooks but not as important
as peppermint ice cream.
I wasn’t permitted to talk in anything
but baby talk and if I rose up instead of on my
hands and knees without permission she hit me back
down. She made me keep my thumb in my mouth until
I did it all the time. To Mrs. Thomas it was really
funny to see me being pushed around the house in
a stroller, being picked up and burped. I slept
a lot, I have to sleep all the time since I got
shrunk. Twelve hours each day or even more. And
I got scared at night and woke up and couldn’t sleep
for hours and hours in the dark. If Miss Rebecca
woke up, she always wanted me to sleep in the bed
with her and she was so big that if she rolled over
on me it hurt and I couldn’t move and then I’d have
to push and kick until Miss Rebecca moved or woke
up. So I was tired in the day and got sleepy and
sometimes Miss Rebecca made me take a nap. So she’d
tuck me up in the stroller and feed me a bottle
and I’d get sleepy and sleep there in the stroller
and Mrs. Thomas said that I was turning into a good
baby.
Miss Rebecca was having a hard time during
the day, now that she was in school for the first
time and it was real hard for her. It made her feel
better that I was her baby, hers to figure stuff
out for and it made her feel better inside to do
it, to get home and have stuff her way instead of
somebody else’s way.
She loved coming up with scary stuff for
me that she would save me from at the very, very
last minute, making me crawl over and over again
right to the edge of the dining room table. Only
at the last second would she pick me up and “save”
me. Then she saw that she liked it better for me
to go right off the edge, a twelve foot drop to
me, and fall straight down, and she would catch
me on the way down.
I begged her over and over not to make
me do this; “Mommy, baby Bootsie scared to fall.
Little baby afraid he fall wrong and mommy get in
trouble with her mommy. Please, please mommy, no
make baby go off big place no more.”
By now, it had been so long, so many month
like this, so when I cried it was real crying, not
faking it’cause I got so scared and I was afraid
she would forget and hurt me and I’d die and it
was so bad all the time and I cried ‘cause that
was the only thing that ever made her sorry and
sometimes even say she’d do different. I begged
my mommy to take care of me. I sobbed and hung on
to her, looking up to her, because she was what
made me afraid but only she could take the scary
stuff away.
And she’d say it was okay and tell me not
to cry and sometimes she’d get mad and make me stop
crying right now and I would though sometimes my
nose would still run for a little but I always knew
that this was just for now and she’d forget and
in a few days she’d make me do it again.
And it happened again and again until one
day she had me crawl over into the air and she didn’t
catch me, she just waited until too late and I fell
and I landed on her and on the floor and my head
hurt and my head was bleeding. And I was sitting
on her and she saw that I was bleeding on my face
and she started to cry, really quiet, and she looked
at me and I could see that this time she knew. She
knew that I was real, not just a doll and she was
sorry but she was scared too and said for me to
be quiet so Mrs. Thomas wouldn’t hear ‘cause then
she’d get angry at both of us and Miss Rebecca looked
so scared sitting over me and I was scared of her
too so I tried hard and sorta stopped crying and
I looked at Miss Rebecca and she looked at me and
she cleaned me off with a bunch of baby wipes and
put a clean shirt on me and put me in her lap and
just looked at me.
She looked down at me and I could see that
she had to choose between her new game and how scared
I was. She said I didn’t have to cry, that she would
protect me. She patted me on the head and told me
that I was her baby and would be forever and she
wouldn’t make me do it again.
I think that that was the first time that
to her I was a little alive person, not just a really,
really special doll. I was really hers. For her
to play with and do stuff with and take care of
and she was in charge of me. She could see it now,
that I was a person, just little, not just a doll
she could break and get fixed. I really was hers,
to do with what she wanted. And I didn’t have any
way out and she said she was gonna keep me for the
rest of her life.
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