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Story Notes:
Okay, so here's the deal.

I've always been slow to update, but I've never actually abandoned a story before. However, as much as I love the ideas, the characters, and the whole past/present narrative structure of this one, I've sort of written myself into a corner.

I've already done the whole "tiny man imprisoned by amorous giantess must find a way to escape" thing a couple of times, and while it's certainly a lot of fun to write, I'm really not interested in revisiting it again as a major plot point. Plus, I feel like I really limited the story potential by setting the past/present bits just one year apart.

So I think I'm going to reboot this story. In particular, I'd like to move the past bits back a few years, so more time has elapsed between "Then" and "Now." And in the present bits, I'd like to focus on the adult Aaron, who has become something of a minor celebrity and now faces legal travails as his sister sues for conservatorship of him. I'm also thinking I'll postpone the breakup between Aaron and Carrie, to give them a little more time together during their high school years. I'm particularly interested in how Carrie will react to having a perpetually shrinking boyfriend!

So that's the plan. I'm hard at work on the new Chapter 1. Thanks for reading, everyone!


Minutism
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Minutism (pronounced /mahy-NOO-tiz-uhm /) is a progressive form of proportional dwarfism resulting from an abnormal medical condition. This condition can manifest at any age, although cases of minutism in adults or children over the age of ten are rare. Minutism affects the pituitary gland and causes a chemical change in the human growth hormones (hGH) secreted there; how this occurs is not well understood.

Minutism has a strong genetic basis, although the genetics of minutism are complex and it is unclear whether the condition stems from rare mutations or by rare combinations of common genetic variants. Controversies surround other proposed environmental causes, such as pesticides, heavy metals, or childhood vaccines. However, several pharmaceutical companies have funded extensive studies that prove there is no link between minutism and vaccinations. [citation needed]

The first case of minutism was documented in 1961 by the Russian pediatrician Eduard Gutyik, who described the condition in twins boys Stepan and Timur Drubich (Mamati, Lanchkhuti, Georgia). Since then, the prevalence of minutism has gradually increased. Today, it is estimated that 1 out of every 100,000 people suffer from minutism, with 95% of the cases occurring in children under the age of 10, and 75% affecting males.

Minutism is also known as Gutyik's Syndrome and Pervasive Somatotropic Dystrophy (PSD). Other names, such as "Lilliputianism" or "shrinking disease" have fallen into disuse due to their insensitive or politically incorrect nature.


--------------------------------------
THEN
Sunday, March 22, 2009
71.24 inches


Woke up, fell out of bed, dragged a comb across my head...

I'm not usually an early riser on Sunday morning, but I'd been promising Carrie I'd go to church with her. I'd managed to weasel out for the past few weeks, but last time she'd made it clear that she would accept no more excuses.

It wasn't that I had any objections to church, in principle. Dad had been fairly devout, and we had attended Dawes Street Methodist pretty regularly when I was younger. But after he died, Mom sort of lost interest in the whole thing. My sister and I would accompany Mom to the Easter and Christmas services, but that was about the extent of my family's piety.

Carrie, on the other hand, attended Odetta Bayside Baptist Church, where they liked to flail around in the aisles and speak in tongues. I'd always found the whole thing kind of creepy and offputting, which is why I was so reluctant to go. But I was hoping if I put in the face time for one Sunday, I'd buy myself enough slack for the rest of spring.

After my shower, I pulled on my dress shirt and slacks, and noticed they were feeling a little loose. But it had been months since I'd worn my Sunday clothes anywhere, so I didn't pay it much attention. Figured I must've dropped a pound or two since Christmas.

I checked myself out in the mirror, relatively pleased with what I saw. I affected a catalog model pose and said, in my best Sean Connery voice, "The name is Ledbetter. Aaron Ledbetter." Satisfied that I looked appropriately suave, I grabbed my keys and headed on downstairs.

My twelve-year-old sister Heather and her friend Stephanie were sitting in the living room in their pajamas, eating cereal and watching Hannah Montana. Heather barely paid me any mind, but Stephanie looked up at me with a sheepish smile.

"Hi, Aaron," she said shyly. "You look really nice."

"Thanks," I said nonchalantly. Stephanie was our neighbor, and had been sporting a crush on me for the past three years, which bugged Heather to no end. I usually acted like it was an annoyance, but the truth was that I found it rather flattering. Stephanie was just a kid, but she was pretty as hell, and I had no doubt she was going to break all kinds of hearts when she got older.

"Aaron and Stephanie, sitting in a tree," Heather said in a sing-song voice, her mouth full of Lucky Charms. "K-I-S-S-I..."

"Shut up," Stephanie whined, blushing as she looked away from me. She picked an orange star out of her cereal and flicked it at Heather. Heather returned fire, and I decided that was as good a time as any to leave.

***

Carrie was all business when I got to her house to pick her up, much to my annoyance. Sometimes she would get in these manic moods where she couldn't sit still or enjoy a leisurely moment. She had to have thirty things going on at once, and it could be so damned exhausting.

She was wearing a pretty pink dress and strappy sandals to show off her pedicure. Her dark brown hair hung loose, framing her pale, delicate face. She looked lovely, and I told her so.

"Thanks," she said, barely acknowledging the compliment. "Mom and Dad are already at church, so we're going to meet them for lunch at Salino's. After that, I need you to take me to the grocery store so I can pick up the stuff for potato salad, because I'm supposed to make some for the picnic tonight. While I'm doing that, you can run home and change, and then I'll need you to go pick up Katie and Jen before we..."

"Oh, come on," I said, wearily. "You just said we were going to church. You didn't tell me it was going to be an all day thing."

She glared at me. "I'm so sorry, Aaron. I didn't know that being my boyfriend was such a horrible job."

"It's not that," I said, feeling a familiar argument coming on. I knew it was only a matter of time before she'd somehow turn the discussion to Christ's agony on the cross. "It's just I've got stuff to do."

"What kind of stuff?" Carrie demanded, her hand on her hip. "Hanging out with Megan and Leon? I swear, sometimes I feel like you're dating them instead of me!"

"They're my friends! We do stuff with your friends all the time. How come we can't ever do anything with mine?"

"Because your friends never do anything I like!" Carrie actually wagged her finger at me. "There's lots of nice people at my church. Why can't you be friends with them?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake," I muttered.

"Don't take His name in vain!" Carrie shouted, slapping me angrily on the arm. "You have no right! Do you know what Christ did for you, Aaron? They beat Him with whips that had hooks on them, and then..."

"I don't care," I shouted back. "You know what? Screw this. I'm out of here."

I turned and started for the door, and I felt her hand clamp on my arm. "Where are you going? Aaron Ledbetter, stop being such a baby!"

"I'm going home," I said, yanking my arm free. "And then I'm going to call Megan and Leon, and we're going to spend the rest of the day doing stuff you don't like."

She started crying, and I felt like a total heel, but I kept walking. As I drove away, she was standing in the door of her home, weeping and staring after me like a lost little girl.

Goddammit.

***

Carrie and I had always fought. A lot. We'd broken up three or four times since we'd started dating, but somehow it never seemed to stick. I knew she'd be angry with me for a day or two, and then she'd call or come by and apologize, and tell me how much she loved me and how much she missed me. She'd be sweet and affectionate and playful, and I'd remember why I fell in love with her in the first place. And we'd end up back together.

Shame spiral, thy name is Carrie...

--------------------------------------
NOW
Monday, April 12, 2010
3.39 inches


"Aaron, sweetie?" Mom calls my name, and I can hear her fingernail tapping gently on the roof of my dollhouse. "Time to get up."

The dollhouse, as well as all of the furniture in it, is at 1:24 scale, which is just slightly smaller than me. It's like being seven feet tall, which is admittedly a welcome change.

I wait until I hear her footsteps recede, and then I sit up. My bed is a Victorian replica with a real foam mattress, just barely long enough to accommodate me. But still, it's comforting to wake up in surroundings my own size, rather than being immediately confronted by the sheer expanse of a world that has completely outgrown me.

Over the past year, the shrinking has tapered off and appears to have stopped altogether. The doctors at Collin-Mewes tell me that I'm still growing smaller by infinitesimal degrees, but I shouldn't lose any more than a few thousandths of an inch by the time I stabilize in November. I am, for all intents and purposes, as small as I'm going to get.

So welcome to the dollhouse...

After I relieve myself in the ketchup cup that serves as my toilet, I splash some water on my face from the plastic wash basin and head back to my bedroom to get dressed.

I don't have a lot of wardrobe choices, but Heather's friend Stephanie actually cut up her mom's black glove liners last month and sewed me a couple of shirts and a pair of pants. They were kind of stiff and uncomfortable at first, but after a couple of washings they softened up quite a bit. And they're definitely preferable to that damn toga I was wearing.

Once I'm dressed, I throw open the doors and step out onto the balcony. My dollhouse sits in the corner of what used to be my bedroom, until Mom turned it into a home office last June. Her manager at Xpress Freight and Shipping agreed to let her work from home three days a week, so she only has to go into the office on Monday and Tuesday.

Leaning on the balcony railing, I look out across the vast expanse of beige carpet. Mom's computer desk looms in the background like a landmark. A plastic filing cabinet stands next to it, doubling as a printer stand. Despite the cheap particle board bookshelf standing against the wall, there are probably a dozen books scattered and stacked about. One is entitled Minutism vs. Big Pharma: The Vaccination Connection, and it features a drawing of a tiny child being menaced by a massive hypodermic needle.

I hear the sound of Mom's high heels coming up the stairs and down the hallway. She comes into the room, dressed for work in a navy skirt and matching blazer. She approaches the dollhouse and kneels down, gently setting a folded napkin on the balcony next to me. It contains a couple of Cheerios, diced apple chunks, and some torn shreds of turkey.

"Aw, Mom," I complain, regarding the food. "Seriously?"

"Sorry, kiddo," Mom says. "We're out of MiniMeals, and we're going to have to make do until we get things settled with Aetna."

"Like that'll ever happen," I mutter under my breath.

"What?" Mom asks, a hint of annoyance creeping into her voice. "What did you say?"

"Nothing."

Mom sighs. "You've already lost internet privileges for a week, Aaron. Keep smarting off, and I'll make it two."

I offer her a sheepish smile. "I was hoping you'd forgotten about that."

"I changed the password last night," she says. "Behave yourself this week, and I'll tell you what it is."

I know there's no arguing with her, and I don't want to risk further punishment, so I just nod and say, "Yes, ma'am."

"That's my boy," she says. She kisses the tip of her finger, then reaches down and gently touches the side of my face. The smell of her perfume is very comforting. I turn my head and give her finger a kiss.

She stands up and brushes the wrinkles out of her skirt. "I love you," she says.

"Love you, too."

***

Mom's insurance company has been giving her grief since the beginning of the year, denying her claims and offering up only the flimsiest of excuses by way of explanation. The latest incident in the ongoing battle with Aetna occurred a couple of weeks ago. Not only did they announce they would no longer pay for a private tutor for me, but they retracted all of their payments since last September and sent her a bill for the amount due.

Darla, my tutor, was very apologetic about the whole thing. She even came over while she was off the clock and left Mom a copy of her lesson plan, so I could stay caught up until the situation gets resolved. Mom's benefits director at XF&S is checking into things, and has assured her that they'll settle the matter eventually. Apparently, Aetna pulls this kind of crap all the time.

So for the time being, I'm left to my own devices on Mondays and Tuesday, while Mom's at work and Heather's at school. To tell you the truth, I don't mind so much. I haven't exactly been basking in privacy since the whole shrinking thing started, and it's kind of nice to have a little time to myself.

***

My eTouch PDA sits in the living room of the dollhouse, resting on its side in landscape mode. I walk over and touch the screen to wake it up, and am greeted by a warning message that reads "Network connection lost."

Last week, in Darla's absence, Mom told me it was important for me to do my reading and complete my assignments so I wouldn't fall behind. If Aetna refused to cough up the money to rehire Darla, she was going to check out the home school co-op that Dr. Luna had told us about.

So I honestly had the best of intentions. I mean, I really do want to graduate in June with Megan and Leon and the rest of my friends. But I just kind of procrastinated. I spent all day Monday and Tuesday watching movies. The rest of the week, while Mom was there in the office, I just quietly surfed the net. I kept meaning to get to my homework, but I kept telling myself there would be time.

On Sunday evening, Mom came in and asked if I'd been doing my lessons, and I told her I was all caught up. She opened up the front of my dollhouse and reached in for my eTouch. I knew I was busted and, in my panic, I threw a melodramatic fit about how I couldn't believe she didn't trust me.

She wasn't impressed. And once she pulled up my worksheets and found them blank, she grounded me. Not for blowing off my school work--although she made it clear she was plenty upset about that--but for lying to her.

So no internet for a week. That's really, really, REALLY going to suck.

***

True to my word, I'm drudging my way through a week's worth of calculus when I hear a noise from downstairs. Real downstairs, not dollhouse downstairs. I pull up the music app on my eTouch and shut it off. Then I listen, wondering if I was imagining things.

I hear it again. Someone's knocking on the front door. No idea who it can be. Maybe it's FedEx or UPS dropping off something Mom ordered. Or maybe it's someone selling something.

I hurry out of the dollhouse and across the floor of Mom's office, into the hallway. Past the door to Heather's bedroom, I find myself standing at the top of the staircase. The stairs fall away like cliffs, leading down to the foyer.

It's curiosity, more than anything else, that drives me to have a look. Well, curiosity and the fact that I'm sick to death of reading about the Stolz-Cesaro theorem. There are narrow windows to either side of the front door, and I can make out two indistinct figures through the ornate glass. Hell, it's probably Jehovah's Witnesses.

There's another knock at the door, this one a little harder. It's followed by the doorbell. Whoever this is, they're quite persistent. One of the visitors suddenly presses her face against the window, holding her hands up to shield her eyes so she can peer inside. And even through the beveled glass, I recognize her instantly.

It's Carrie.

What the hell is she doing here in the middle of a school day?

She vanishes from the window, and I hear muffled conversation. Then I hear her jiggling the doorknob, trying to open the door.

She wouldn’t, I tell myself. There’s no way she’s going to break in. And even if she does, she’ll set off the security alarm. All I’ll have to do is evade her until the police show up. Right?

A tire iron hits the small window, cracking one of the panes in the sidelite. Another hit, and the pane of glass shatters inward. The alarm begins chirping shrilly, but Carrie is undeterred. Her gloved hand snakes through the broken window, fumbles for the deadbolt, and snaps the lock open.

Carrie walks into the house, followed by her friend Katie.

***

It’s funny, the things that flash through your mind when you’re terrified. You know, that whole life flashing before your eyes thing? Well, my flashback is oddly specific.

It was Halloween of 2008, and Carrie and I had been dating for about a month. In fact, I don’t remember at which point we actually started dating. I just know she had suddenly started introducing me to her friends as her boyfriend.

Anyway, I was blowing off Leon’s Halloween party so I could attend the Hallowlujah party at Carrie’s church. Seriously. You couldn’t make this stuff up, right?

So it was after school, and Carrie and I had swung by my house so I could grab my costume (I was going as a pirate, if you must know). I unlocked the front door, and the alarm started its annoying beeping. I walked over and punched in the code, 418, to deactivate it.

“Hmm,” Carrie said. “That’s one of my favorite Bible verses.”

“What?”

She smiled prettily and touched my arm. “Proverbs 4:18. ‘The path of the righteous is like the first gleam of dawn, shining ever brighter till the full light of day.’”

“Oh,” I said, shrugging. “I think Mom picked those numbers because they’re Eric Roberts’ birthday.”

***

Carrie walks over to the alarm control panel, crushing broken glass beneath her sandaled feet. She punches in the numbers, and the alarm falls silent.

“Aaron,” she calls sweetly, peeling off her gloves. “Where are you?”

I bolt and run on trembling legs as she and Katie begin searching downstairs. I keep hearing them calling my name and giggling, which makes it even more terrifying.

I run through the massive doorway to Mom’s office and scramble across the carpet to my dollhouse. I snap the plastic front door open and rush inside. My calculus textbook is still open on my eTouch, so I swipe the window out of the way and slap my palm against the Connect Network icon.

As the PDA searches for nearby wifi connections, I hear footsteps, and the unmistakable slap of sandals, coming up the stairs. “Keep looking,” Carrie calls to Katie. “I’ll check up here.”

The list of available networks finally comes up. Mom’s is at the top of the list, and is marked as Security-enabled. The second one belongs to our neighbor, and is showing up as Unprotected. Unfortunately, the signal is almost non-existent. Still, I touch the icon to select it and slap the Connect button.

Carrie has reached the top of the stairs. “Aaron,” she says softly, as if calling a pet. “Come on out, Aaron. I just want to see you.”

The little stopwatch ticks away on my eTouch to let me know it is working diligently to connect. I clench my fists and whisper, “Hurry up, goddammit! Hurry!”

Carrie pokes her head into Heather’s room. “Come on, Aaron. You don’t have to hide from me. If you come out right now, I won’t be mad at you. I promise.”

A window pops up to let me know the network connection attempt has timed out. I let out an exasperated growl and punch the touch screen as hard as I can. My eTouch responds by popping up a screen asking if I wish to work offline.

I’m a sitting duck in this dollhouse, so I spring out the front door with heedless abandon and run for the cover of the bookshelf. But when I hear Carrie’s footsteps approaching from down the hall, I realize I don’t have enough time to make it. I dive desperately behind a stack of books, just as she appears in the doorway of Mom’s office.

I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming out loud. Carrie walks in and looks around, posing prettily in her gray wool skirt and pink sweater, as if she suspects I might be watching. Her dark hair hangs loose about her pale and delicate neck. Her eyes, large behind her glasses, grow even wider when she spots the dollhouse, and her lips curl in a mischievous smile.

“Are you in there, Aaron? Is that where you’re hiding?”

She walks past my hiding place on the way to the dollhouse, and I find myself staring in awe as the way the brown leather sandal dangles from her toes as she lifts her foot, then slaps against her bare sole with each step. Her nails are pale pink, and she’s wearing a turquoise ring on her middle toe.

God, in spite of everything, I’m still aroused by the sight of her. I don’t want to be. I wish I weren’t, but I can’t help it. She just has this hold on me. She knows my buttons and has always taken such delight in mashing them. And there’s no doubt in my mind that the sandals, the nail polish, and the toe ring are all for my benefit.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she says in a singsong voice, kneeling to peer into the dollhouse. She grabs the front panel and pulls it open with a snap, revealing the meticulous Victorian décor. She reaches down and picks up my eTouch, then glances around the room.

“You’re up here, Aaron,” she says, climbing to her feet. “I know it.”

Her gaze falls on the stack of books I’m hiding behind, and that infuriating smile returns as she slowly approaches.

“There you are,” she says gleefully. I make a desperate run for the bookcase, but her foot comes down in my path, blocking me. Her toes wiggle playfully as she looks down at me. I can’t escape from her, and she knows it.

“I got him, Katie!” she shouts. “He’s up here!”

I make another break for it, but Carrie nudges me with her sandal and knocks me onto my back. “Where do you think you’re going,” she scolds me.

She lifts her foot and lowers it gently over me, pinning me beneath the hard leather sole of her shoe. Only my head is visible, peering up helplessly from under the edge of her sandal. I squirm beneath her wiggling toes.

“Are you going to try to run away again?” Carrie asks me. I shake my head. “Promise?” I nod emphatically. Carrie slowly lifts her foot and sets it down next to me. As I climb unsteadily to my feet, she kneels down and sets her hand on the floor, palm up.

“Now step into my hand,” she says, gently but firmly. Her fingers are long and slender, and smell faintly of berries. Her fingernails are pale pink, just like her toenails, and match her sweater perfectly.

“My mom’s coming home for lunch,” I tell her. “If you and Katie leave now, I won’t tell her it was you who broke the window.”

“I’m not going to tell you again,” Carrie says. “One... two...”

I step up into her hand, my bare feet pressing against the leathery flesh of her palm. I walk to the center of her hand and sit down. Her fingers close protectively around me as she stands up, and I feel myself being lifted high into the air.

I hear Katie’s heavy footfalls on the steps, and she’s breathing heavily by the time she makes it into the office. She’s a heavy girl, not fat but definitely solid, and she stands nearly a head taller than Carrie. Her blonde hair hangs long and straight, and she wears too much makeup. She’s dressed in jeans and sneakers, and a Young Life t-shirt. She carries a large Northlake Centennial tote bag slung over her shoulder, and I can see the end of a tire iron protruding from it.

Her wide face breaks into a grin as she approaches me. “Oh my God,” she says. “I can’t believe how tiny he is. I’ve never seen one in real life before!” She leans in for a closer look, prodding me with her massive index finger. Her nail is ragged and unpainted, gnawed down to the fingertip.

“What do you want, Carrie?” I demand, desperate to gain some sort of control over the situation. My attempt fails, as both girls begin to giggle.

“What do you want, Carrie,” Katie mimics in a high pitched, squeaky voice. “How adorable! He sounds like a cartoon!”

“I want to step on you and squish you like a little bug for the way you treated me,” Carrie says. “But I’ve decided to give you a second chance. It’s going to take a little time, but I just know that one day you’ll realize it was a mistake to try and break up with me.”

“Carrie, what are you saying?”

Carrie is still holding my eTouch in her other hand. She touches the screen with her thumb and checks the time. “We better get back to school,” she tells Katie. “Fifth period starts in 20 minutes.”

“Right,” Katie says. “Hang on.” She rummages through the tote, and pulls out a hard plastic eyeglass case. She opens it up to reveal the gray felt lining with the word “GUESS” embossed in silver.

“Carrie, please...” My begging falls on deaf ears as Carrie drops me into the case and Katie snaps it shut, leaving me cramped in total darkness.

--------------------------------------
THEN

When I got home, Mom was up and making an omelet. The kitchen smelled comfortable, like coffee and fried food. There were several pieces of bacon sitting on a folded paper towel, so I snatched one up and took a bite.

"Home already?" she said.

"Never made it to church," I told her. "Carrie and I got in a fight."

"Oh dear," Mom said, shaking her head. "Did she bring up the crown of thorns?"

"Whips with hooks," I said, and we both snickered.

"Well, I'm sure it'll blow over soon, and the two of you will be back to making each other miserable."

Mom had never been all that wild about Carrie, but fortunately limited her distaste to the occasional passive-aggressive snipe. As often as Carrie and I had broken up and gotten back together, I think Mom had learned not to get her hopes up too much.

"Maybe I should break up with her," I said. "I mean, for real this time."

"You do what you need to, sweetheart," Mom said, crumbling a piece of bacon into the omelet. She added a couple of pinches of grated cheese, and then folded it over deftly with a spatula. "But I know there are plenty of girls out there who would count themselves lucky to have a sweet, handsome man like you. And your really do deserve someone who's going to treat you well."

I sighed. "I know."

"You know, I've always wondered why you and Megan never got together."

I shrugged. "I've known her since the first grade. It would be like dating my sister."

"That's silly," Mom said. "She's adorable. She's smart and she's sweet, and the two of you look really good together."

"Yeah, okay," I said, snatching another slice of bacon. "When Megan and I get married, we'll be sure to thank you in the wedding toast."

***

I called Leon, Leon called Megan, and somehow the three of us agreed to meet at Chili's for lunch. As I slipped into my jeans, I noticed they seemed a little baggy on me. My sneakers were kind of loose too, and I had to pull the laces tight to get them to quit sliding around on my feet.

Leon and Megan were already sitting in our usual booth when I got there, munching on chips and salsa. I patted Leon on the shoulder as I passed him and slid into the seat next to Megan. She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me noisily on the cheek.

"Hiya stud," she said.

"Eew," I said, pretending to pull away. "Salsa breath."

Megan pursed her lips together and blew right into my face.

"So, what's the story?" Leon asked, grabbing a handful of chips from the basket. He'd slimmed down since we'd started high school, making the transition from fat to simply beefy. He played tuba in the Northlake Centennial Marching Band, and was apparently quite the stallion among the girls in the flag corp.

Megan had really come into her own over the last couple of years as well. She still wore her hair short, but it really suited her in an Audrey Hepburn kind of way. She'd outgrown her gawkiness, and now looked downright elegant, even in her usual t-shirt and jeans.

"The story?" I asked.

"How come you're lunching with sinners?" Megan asked. "I thought you were going to spend the day handling snakes and drinking Kool-Aid with Carrie."

I shrugged. "We kind of got in a fight when I went to pick her up."

"Oh, for God's sake," Leon said in a weary, deadpan voice.

Laughing, Megan affected a high-pitched voice that was a spot-on impression of Carrie. "And then they gave Him thirty-nine lashes with a whip that ripped the flesh from His back! You can't know the pain he suffered!"

Leon joined in, his voice almost as shrill. "And they drove nails into His flesh and they thrust a crown of thorns onto His head! And they set Him on fire and made Him watch Jersey Shore!"

I was laughing at this point. "Stop it! You guys are giving me flashbacks!"

"So did the two of you break up?" Megan asked.

I shrugged. "Not yet, but I think I'm going to."

"Yeah, heard it before," Leon said.

"No, I'm serious," I told him. "I might even make it stick, this time."

"I still don't know why you started going out with her," Leon said. "I mean, she's kind of cute, I guess. But, damn!"

"I know why," Megan said, a smirk on her face. "It's because she has pretty feet."

"Quiet, you," I said, blushing.

"Oh, that's right," Leon said around a mouthful of chips. "Aaron gets his kicks from waaaay below the waist."

"Leon used to whack off to Wonder Woman on Justice League Unlimited," I blurted out, glaring at him.

Leon looked hurt. "Hey!"

"So you're both freaks," Megan said. "Swell."

"At least I don't write slash furry Harry Potter fanfic," Leon said.

Megan snickered. "Oh, please. When did I ever write anything furry?"

"You better be broken up with her before we graduate next year," Leon said, pointing at me with a stubby finger. "I'll be damned if I'm going to let her tag along with us to Dublin."

Since we'd started high school, the three of us had been planning our trip to Ireland for the summer of our graduation. Megan had an aunt and uncle in Dublin who'd said they'd put us up for a couple of weeks, and Leon's dad was a travel agent who was going to get us a good deal on the air fare.

"I think Carrie would do all right in Ireland," Megan said. "They'd probably think she was a banshee or something."

"Don't worry," I told them, with far more confidence than I actually felt. "We're not getting back together this time. Carrie and I are done."

"Heard it before, pal," Leon said.

"I'm serious. My mind's made up. My iron will is indomitable."

"Unless she wears sandals," Megan added with a wink. "You just can't say no to the sandals."

"Quiet, smut peddler," I said.

"Good," said Leon. "I'm not going to let Little Miss Psycho ruin this trip. I've been saving my money since last year."

I gave an impressed whistle. "Congratulations, Leon. You must be up to nearly $40 by now."

"It must have been hard," Megan said. "Just think of all those Justice League Unlimited DVDs you could have bought."

"Okay, you both suck," Leon said. "Remind me why I hang around with you?"

"We're funny," I said.

"And pretty," Megan added.

"You're nuts," Leon said, laughing. "The both of you."

***

Megan Beasley, Leon Byrd, and I had been friends since 1998, when we'd met at Sommerset Elementary. Leon had been a ridiculously fat kid with bright red hair and freckles, and Megan had been a gawky tomboy with hair like Beck. And me, I'd been scrawny, shy, and socially-awkward.

I don't remember how we ended up hanging together, but somehow the three of us just got in the habit of eating lunch together. But I do remember the day that Curtis Crenshaw walked up to our table, slammed his fist into my chocolate pie, and started chanting, "Ledbetter, Ledbetter, big baby bedwetter!" Megan nailed him in the side of his head with her carton of milk, and Leon tackled him to the ground and sat on him. I was smearing the remains of my pie in Curtis' face when Ms. MacFarlane ran over and broke things up. All four of us were forced to write, "I will not fight in the cafeteria during lunch" a hundred times and hand it in the next day.

Curtis never forgave us, and went on to make our lives miserable until 2001, when his family moved to Boston. But Leon, Megan, and I remained united in an epic friendship, born on the first-grade battleground.

That was then...

--------------------------------------
NOW

I’m trapped within the dark, sweltering confines of Carrie’s eyeglass case. It sits at a steep angle, probably tossed carelessly into Carrie’s purse. There’s barely enough room to shift around, and it’s difficult to find a position that’s comfortable for more than a few minutes at a time.

I can feel the movement in the case as Carrie’s purse swings back and forth. Sounds are muffled and distant, and I know there’s no way anybody’s ever going to hear me crying for help. Still, I have to try. So when I feel her purse coming to rest, I figure she must be in class. I pound on the felt interior with my fists and scream until my voice is gone.

Nothing. Not even a reprisal from Carrie. She probably has her purse zipped shut.

I finally give up, and I find myself weeping angrily. She’s so smug, and so certain of her power over me. It’s just not fair...

***

I first met Carrie in August of 2008, when we both ended up in Ms. Caldwell’s World History class together. She sat in the desk in front of me, and before we ever spoke a word to each other, I found myself infatuated with her. Every day when Ms. Caldwell was lecturing, Carrie would slip off her shoes and toy with them absentmindedly. Or she’d cross her leg and let her sandal dangle playfully from her toes. And I would just sit there, pretending to take notes as I watched her pretty feet.

Carrie was tiny, barely five foot tall, with a penchant for wearing dresses and skirts that showed off her lovely legs. But there was something innocent in her exhibitionism, and I could never tell if it was intentional or not. She was smart about some things, hopelessly naďve about others, and just a little socially awkward. She wore her long, brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and had big brown eyes that were made even larger by her glasses. Definitely pretty, but more cute than beautiful, if you know what I mean. But God, those feet...

Being a bit socially inept myself, it was a week before I finally spoke to her, and that was just to ask her for a pen. I remember she was a little flustered as she fished through her purse, talking in that frantic, speedy voice of hers.

“Do you need blue or black I have Bic pens they’re cheap but they work and you can get like a million of them at the store so you never run out and I have green but it’s a felt tip and Ms. Caldwell always takes off points if you write in felt tip or pencil oh I have a pencil too but here this pen can write in blue or black or green or red I really like this one.”

I accepted the pen, and when I gave it back to her after class, I asked her out. She told me her church was having a picnic that Saturday, and invited me to go with her. Not exactly what I had in mind, but I was just stoked that she had said yes.

I don’t remember a point when we started officially dating. I just remember that, sometime in late September of 2008, Carrie started introducing me as her boyfriend, and started lecturing me on how relationships required hard work, perseverance, and a strong faith in the Lord. She was willing to overlook the fact that I was an indifferent Methodist so long as I would attend church with her on occasion and “keep an open mind.” And I made a good faith effort to do so, much to the chagrin of my mom. She never much cared for Carrie. Neither did any of my friends, to tell you the truth.

But I didn’t care. I was in love, right? So I ignored the protests of my friends and I attended church with Carrie every week. And in return, she’d hold my hand in public and she’d let me kiss her. And any time she got the chance, she’d slip her bare feet into my lap and let me play with them. She really seemed to take great delight in mashing that particular button.

Throughout the month of October, I forsook my friends and spent all of my time with Carrie. It turned out that Carrie didn’t much care for my friends either. Especially Megan, because “she makes me feel like I’m stupid just because I love Jesus, and she’s always looking at me like she’s so much better than me.” Carrie was also convinced that Megan was carrying a torch for me, and felt threatened by the fact that we had remained friends.

So one night, I made the mistake of speaking up in Megan’s defense. It was Halloween, as a matter of fact. Carrie and I were in the church parking lot following the Hallowlujah blowout, making our way to my car, and I mentioned that Megan’s birthday was coming up and we should take her to dinner. Carrie reminded me that she didn’t care for Megan and suggested that I should worry less about my friends and more about my girlfriend. I told her I thought she was being unfair, and then HOLY CRAP!

I remember she stopped walking and whirled to face me, still in costume as Cleopatra. Her fists were clenched at her side as she tore into me. She stomped her sandaled foot several times during her tirade, and even at the time I remember being a little ashamed for noticing.

“I’ve got better things to do with my life than waste time with your friend Megan, especially when she doesn’t even like me, and I don’t understand why you have to keep going on and on about her when I’m your girlfriend and you’re in a relationship with me, and you’ve got responsibilities, and I put up with a lot, you know, because you don’t believe like I do, and there’s no excuse for that! Jesus died for you, Aaron, and you can’t imagine what He went through, because they beat him with whips...”

And so on. I turned and kept walking to the car, and she stomped after me, scolding the entire way. I got her home, and it was a good fifteen minutes before her lecture finally came to a close. She got out of my car and stormed into her house, leaving me in blessed silence.

That was my first indication that Carrie was bipolar. What can I say? Sometimes I’m a bit slow on the uptake.

We broke up for about a week after that. Or rather, I did. Carrie kept insisting we were in a relationship, and that I couldn’t end it just by saying so. Each day in class was met with a blistering lecture on responsibility, or stony silence. Although she still made a point of wearing sandals, just to remind me of what I was missing.

She called and left rambling voicemails that wavered between tearful pleas for understanding and angry accusations about what a horrible boyfriend I was, often within the same message. She texted, she emailed, and she left cards in my locker. It was, at the time, the longest and most exhausting week of my life.

My friends took me back, as friends do. We celebrated Megan’s birthday, and I apologized for being such an idiot and promised it would never happen again.

And then Carrie showed up in class one morning, all smiles, as if nothing had happened. She told me her meds had been a little out of balance, but she was fine now and ready for us to start dating again. “I miss you, Aaron,” she whispered, brushing her foot along my leg. “I really miss lying on the couch with you while you massage my pretty feet.”

And by the end of class, Carrie and I were back together. My friends tried to take it in stride, but I could tell they were disappointed. Especially Megan and Leon.

Shame spiral, thy name is Carrie...

***

I’ve lost all track of time in the eyeglass case. It feels like I’ve been in here for days. I’ve sweated myself dry, and my throat is sore from screaming. I’m just glad I didn’t eat anything this morning, or I would have thrown it up by now.

I wonder if Heather has gotten home from school yet and discovered the broken window. Has she called Mom? Has Mom called the police? I know they wore gloves when they broke in, but they took them off, so maybe they left some prints.

God, I just have to believe that help is on its way. That somehow, I will be rescued from Carrie. Because I don’t even want to consider the alternative right now.

More bumping and swinging, and I’m tossed back to the other side of the case as it shifts again. More muffled voices, more movement, and then I finally feel the unmistakable sensation of the eyeglass case being lifted and held level. The lid snaps open, and I’m blinded by the sudden burst of light.

“What’s wrong with you?” Carrie asks with a chuckle. I blink as my eyes adjust, and glance around. I’m sitting in Carrie’s bedroom, on top of her desk. She’s sitting at the desk, resting her head on her arms as she regards me. Her window is open behind her, and bright sunlight is pouring in.

Carrie’s purse and books are stacked on the desk, along with gigantic paper cup from McDonald’s. They must have hit the drive-thru on the way home.

“I’m thirsty,” I try to say, but the words are barely a wheeze in my throat.

“What?” Carrie asks, lifting her head and leaning in close.

“Thirsty,” I say hoarsely. “Please, can I have something to drink?”

“Oh, you poor little thing,” Carrie says. She reaches for the McDonald’s cup, then hesitates. “It’s diet. Is that okay?”

I nod. Carrie places the tip of her finger over the straw and lifts it from the cup, then holds it down to me. I lick at the bubble of Diet Coke at the bottom of the straw, drinking like a hamster. I expect at any minute for her to lift her finger and let the drink pour on me, but she doesn’t. She simply holds the straw in place until I finally drink my fill.

“Better?” she asks.

I nod. “Thanks.”

“Sorry I had to keep you in there for so long,” Carrie says. “Katie promised she’d give a couple of her friends a ride home if they’d cover for us in fourth period, so I couldn’t take you out until she dropped me off.”

“Carrie, when are you going to take me home?”

She gives me an amused smile. “You are home, Aaron. You’re with me, where you belong.” She slips the straw back into the cup and takes a sip.

“Carrie, this isn’t funny!” I snap, frustrated. “You’ve kidnapped me! You know that?”

“I know you feel like that now,” she says. “Your friends have had a year to poison your mind against me, and you always get confused when I’m not there to help you keep your priorities straight.”

I climb out of the eyeglass case and stand on trembling legs. “What do you think is going to happen, Carrie? Seriously. What do you think is going to happen between us?”

She reaches for me, slowly and gently, hooking her finger and thumb under my arms and lifting me up. With her other hand, she reaches up and grabs the leg of my pants. She gives them a yank and removes them with no problem, despite my kicking and struggling.

“I think eventually you’re going to realize you made a mistake, and that you’re much happier with me than without me,” she says.

She grasps my shirt by its collar and gives it a gentle tug. I try to keep my arms down, but she pulls them up effortlessly as she slips the shirt off. Naked and helpless, I dangle between her finger and thumb.

“I kept praying that God would bring us back together,” Carrie says. She mashes between my legs with her fingertip and giggles at the ferocity of my reluctant erection. She gives it a playful flick with her fingernail. “When I heard you’d caught that shrinking disease, I knew it was God answering my prayers.”

She lowers me down, bending over to set me on the carpet between her bare feet. Her sandals lie discarded to the side. Her toes, lovely and slender, twitch playfully at my nearness. She slides one foot forward and lifts the heel, leaving the toes resting on the ground.

“Come on. Just admit it. You’ve been waiting for this to happen.” She giggles. “I know I have. Ever since I heard you were shrinking, I’ve been fantasizing about having you all to myself.”

God, I can’t deny that the temptation is there. It would be so easy to just let go, to let myself fall under her power as I have so many times before. Every time we got back together, I’d swear things were going to be different that time. And yet, I’d eventually find myself abandoning my friends, my principles, and eventually myself.

Shame spiral, thy name is Carrie...

But somehow, I find the will to refuse.

“No,” I tell her, standing as defiantly as I can, considering that I’m naked and the size of an action figure. I’m also sporting an obvious erection that sort of undermines my rebellion. But still, it’s the thought that counts, right?

Carrie is amused by my defiance, but in the end it doesn’t matter. She grasps me between her big and second toe and then crosses her leg, watching gleefully as I struggle. She wiggles her toes slowly, grinding me between them. I writhe and moan and squirm, and finally come in a violent spasm.

She lowers her foot and releases me, and I fall to the floor in an exhausted heap when she nudges me with her big toe. She lowers her foot on top of me, gently pinning me beneath her soft, wrinkled sole. There’s a faint, pleasant smell of sweat and leather, as well as berries.

“I know it’s going to take some time, Aaron,” she whispers to me. “But don’t worry. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

--------------------------------------
THEN

That night, I was in my room, reading my American Government assignment for Monday when my cell phone rang with Leona Lewis' "Bleeding Love." Carrie's ring tone. I let it roll over to voice mail and tried to forget about it. My phone rang again about twenty minutes later. After the third time, I finally grabbed the phone and turned it off.

A couple of hours later, while I was getting ready for bed, I turned it back on and saw that I had three messages from her. Like a masochist, I dialed in to listen. Her voice was shrill and urgent, going a million miles an hour without pausing for breath.

"I just wanted you to know that I hate you," the first message said, "and I told Katie and Jen what you said to me, and they told me that I was right and you were terrible and I could do so much better and they're right because I need someone who is willing to share my faith with me and who understands the sacrifice that Jesus made for us when He let Himself be nailed to that cross for our sins..."

Annoyed, I deleted the message and listened to the next.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said I hate you because that's not the Christian way, and I always try to live my life the way Christ led His, so I don't hate you but I'm disappointed because we're in a relationship and that means you have responsibilities, and I'm tired of you always putting your friends first..."

I deleted that one and, reluctantly, keyed up the third.

"Aaron, I really need to talk to you because I don't like it when we're mad at each other and I'm going to have trouble sleeping tonight but I just want you to know that I forgive you and I hope you forgive me because we're in a relationship and that's how relationships work, so I'll see you in class tomorrow and we can put this whole fight behind us, okay? I love you."

I sighed wearily and set my phone on the nightstand. She was talking like our getting back together was a foregone conclusion. Usually, I'd just go along with it because it was the path of least resistance. But this time, I was determined to ride this thing to the end. I vowed to myself that, by this time the next day, Carrie and I would be broken up. For real.

--------------------------------------
NOW

Carrie snores gently, her face illuminated by the pale blue glow of her clock radio. She looks so beautiful, so peaceful...

I’m standing on her nightstand, trapped beneath an overturned drinking glass. It’s been a long night, and I’m exhausted, bruised, and sore beyond reason. I want to sleep so badly, but my brain just won’t shut itself off.

If I threw my full weight against the glass, I might be able to budge it. If I did this enough, I might be able to move it off the edge of the nightstand. If I timed it right, I might be able to cling to the ledge as the glass fell away, and then pull myself back up. And if Carrie weren’t awakened by the noise, I might be able to slide down the power cord of her clock radio, drop onto the carpet, and make my escape.

It could happen. But it won’t. Not tonight.

She murmurs something in her sleep, and I realize I’m smiling. I wonder if she’s dreaming about me.

It isn’t that I don’t want to escape, I tell myself as I watch her sleep. It’s just that I’m too tired. Maybe I’ll feel up to it tomorrow night. Or the next...

Shame spiral, thy name is Carrie...
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