“I hate you, you disgusting, ugly piece of shit.” Spit flew from your sister’s mouth as she belittled you. If you were still normal sized, the spit would have covered your face. But at 5 inches tall, the spit spread out and missed you completely. 

Your heart ached. Cristi was the only family member who still talked to you, and outside of a few of her friends, she was the only person outside the family who knew he was still alive. Her opinion meant everything to you.

You held back tears as you knelt over on the carpet floor of her bedroom. Cristi hated when you cried, it made you a weak little bitch. “I love you, princess.” You kissed the tip of Cristi’s running shoe— once white but now blackened with dirt. “Please let me worship your sneakers again.” 

Cristi stuck out her finger and paused, leaning forward on her bed as she thought of something more maleficent to say. “Why would I want such a pathetic loser worshiping my sneakers? You know I have to walk in these, right? I’d run these shoes through a mud puddle to clean them before I let your pathetic little fingers touch them.”

“I know,” your body shook. You didn’t know what to expect. More verbal abuse, physical abuse. Cristi could continue to degrade you, or her foot could kick you across the room. “But I love you.” Tears dropped on the sneaker, mixing with the dirt and dripping down the treads. You lick the tears and dirt up, hoping to show Cristi you were willing to put in the work. 

“I love you so much,” you continue. “Please let me worship you.” 

Before Cristi could degrade you further, the door creaked open. You wondered who it was— your older sister home from work, your younger brother coming to tease his little sister. But you knew better than to turn around and look up at them, because they’d never look down at you.

“Hey, sweetie,” said your mother. “Dinner is almost ready, Maria is cooking.” 

Cristi smiled. You craned your neck for a better look, Cristi never smiled when she looked down at you, but it was a smile you loved to see. Cristi looked softer talking to your mom, like the innocent way a 13 year old girl was supposed to look.

Footsteps shook the ground as your mother approached, leaning over and kissing Cristi on the forehead. “I love you, sweetie.”

“I love you too, mom. I’ll be down in a minute.” 

You were graced with the opportunity to attend family dinner, but only at Cristi’s feet. You lapped away at the dirt on her sneakers, the only meal Cristi allowed you to have for the night. 

You were happy to lap it up, happy to do something that would make Cristi happy. It had been weeks since she last thanked you, since you last felt the intense rush of emotions associated with praise. You’d do anything to feel it again.

Above the wooden frame, your family spoke. They talked about their days, how school went, and what their plans for the weekend were. You used to find these conversations dull, mundane. But you saw them differently now.

Nobody asked the slave how his day went. Nobody asked the shoe cleaner if he had weekend plans. Nobody sought advice from the object only good enough to use as a dish cleaner when the sponges were rung dry. Nobody cared about him, nobody loved him. So they never asked, it never even occurred to them. 

You bite down on a thread of Cristy’s shoelace. You closed your eyes, dragging your tongue along the fabric. Your family laughed, Maria’s high pitched cackle overcoming them all. They used to laugh at you when you first shrank, when they all still paid attention to you. You hated it, felt belittled, but you’d do anything now for that kind of attention. 

You’d do anything to be loved like you used to be.