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                “Okay.  Now, can you go over that one more time, just to make sure I’ve got it?” asks Sophie softly, peeking up over the edge of the dresser to check on you, having returned back to your house again to put the plan into effect.  This time, though, you find yourself in the relative safety of the guest room Sophie happened to have slept in the previous night.

                “Sure,” you shrug, tightening the wrapped up Kleenex toga around your waist as you walk across the wooden surface, walking around a purple hair barrette resting on its side.

                “Is that… gonna hold up?” whispers your cousin nervously, resting her chin on the top of the dresser to get a better look.

                “Yeah, it’s fine,” you answer simply.

                “I’m sorry I don’t have anything better right now, I’m betting you’re… kind of embarrassed right now, huh?”

                “Don’t worry about it,” you say with a reassuring smile.  “Honestly, I haven’t worn clothes in five years.  I almost feel weird WEARING them!” you chuckle, then cough uncomfortably, realizing how odd this sounds.  “That was a joke.”

                “I got it,” she smirks.  “Okay, so just to make sure…”

                “We go downstairs, you find Carly, and tell her mom needs her to swing by the grocery to grab some more vegetables for dinner tonight.”

                “But won’t she go and get her purse for…”

                “She won’t need it.  Tell her mom said to grab the grocery card from the home office before she goes.  Believe me, Carly’s not the type to bring that purse with her unless she needs it.”

                Sophie nods at you, frowning a bit.  “Yeah, I… I guess you’re right.  You sure know her well, don’t you?”

                “Yeah,” you grimace sheepishly.  “Anyway:  we don’t want a lot of attention on this, so after that, you need to go grab my mom and ask her to come upstairs.  Then… I guess just get her in here, make sure you give her some space.  I don’t think this is going to go smoothly no matter what we do, but we can at least soften the blow.”

                “Right,” sighs Sophie, closing her eyes and running a hand through her hair, still a bit overwhelmed.  “Okay.  You ready?”

                “Hell yes,” you breathe heavily, your head swimming at the mere idea of it.  This is it.  You’re finally about to wake up from the nightmare.  Five years of mind-blowing, unreal torture and agonizing dehumanization, all about to come to an end right now.  You practically want to double over in ecstasy, but now is not the time.  “Let’s do this.”

                “Okay,” she answers sweetly, raising a hand up to the top of the dresser and laying it, palm up, in front of you.  “Climb in.  I’ll take you with me.”

                “Thanks,” you answer, gingerly clambering over her fingers and into the center of her hand.  It’s a unique experience to you.  Despite all the time you’ve spent at this inhumanly small size, you’ve never once had a good reason to climb into a person’s hand.  In fact, more often than not, you’re not offered the chance so much as grabbed roughly up into some probing fingers like a helpless ragdoll.  The realization that you are, in fact, handing your safety over to Sophie willingly as you take a seat in the center of her soft, fleshy palm is new and startling and you can’t help but feel slightly exhilarated.  This is what it feels like to be safe again.  You had entirely forgotten up until now.

                Sophie’s fingers curl around you, circling into a protective layer of flesh without actually constricting you cruelly into her clutches, but instead allowing you the freedom to move your arms.  Gently, she raises her hand up to chin level to more closely examine you.

                “You feeling all right, Jack?” she whispers softly, careful not to breathe too hard on you.

                “Yep.”

                “I’m… I’m so sorry about… everything,” she coos, her eyes beginning to glisten with tears again.

                “Sophie, it’s fine.  I’m serious.”

                “Just… tell me one thing.  I have to know.  I… I want to start trying to find out what happened to you.  Something.  I don’t know.”

                “What do you mean?”

                “How did you… get like… this?” she asks carefully, probably not wanting to sound politically incorrect.

                You nod, catching her drift.  You’ve had a long time to sort through this, and now know precisely what it was.  You quickly rattle off the chemistry lab elements that were used, how they were prepared in the burner, and your electrification a matter of hours later in the day.  She nods, wiping the tears.

                “Okay.  Thank you.  I… just had to know.”

                “Sophie, really, we can talk about this later.  We need to do this now.”

                “I know,” she nods, lowering her hand back down to waist level.  “I’m going to put you in my pocket, okay?  I don’t want anyone to see you while I’m finding Carly and your mom.”

                “That’s fine,” you answer almost confusedly, noting how this is probably the first time you were actually asked by a comparatively giant person to be put somewhere, rather than being forcibly inserted there without consent.

                “I’ll be careful with you, I promise.  I won’t let you get hurt.  Don’t be scared,” she reassures quickly as she slowly tips her hand into the crevice of her fresh jeans pocket, allowing you to slide gently down the fleshy slope of her fingers.  “Just hold still in there.”

                “Will do!” you gulp as you land softly in the darkness of Sophie’s pocket, the claustrophobic fabric ensuring that you have to practically keep yourself pressed against the denim-lined wall of firm quadriceps contained behind the pocket in order to stay in one piece.  You breathe slowly and methodically, the air around you becoming warmer already with the reduced space, but you mentally repeat Sophie’s comforting words before depositing you into her pocket, and soon find your breathing returning to normal again.  Delicately, you feel a wall of her fingers outside the pocket patting gently you to ensure you landed safely.

                God damn it, you wonder aimlessly.  Why couldn’t it have been Sophie that found me five years ago and not Carly?

                A second passes, and soon you feel the wall of toned leg muscle beginning to pump gently behind the layer of jean pocket.  Sophie must be walking.  You close your eyes, focusing your attention on the steady vibrations of the fabric against your skin.  A few minutes pass.  You hear the hum of voices and the occasional popping through the chatter of high-pitched laughter.  You hear your youngest cousins squealing as they charge around the house, hopped up on too much Christmas candy.  You hear the clinking of wine glasses.  You hear the crackling of the fire in the hearth.  You hear the clattering of pots and pans as the food is prepared.

                The last time you were exposed to these sounds, despite how wonderful it was to hear everything again, the experience was severely tainted.  After all, you note to yourself, being separated from the world by a massive padding of your sister’s disgusting, lint-laced, unwashed toes while being worn around Christmas day was probably going to make anything unpleasant.  

                You almost chuckle at this last thought.  That’s the understatement of the year.  You have a strong feeling that even if you were being handed a million dollars, the keys to a sports car, and the number of an available swimsuit model, the thrill would be significantly dampened if it was happening while you were pinned under five juicy, line-backer sized, grime-coated toes for an entire day.

                Now, however, that you’re not being subjected painfully and dangerously under your super-bitch of a sister’s foot, and instead are residing safely in your cousin’s warm pocket, you can actually concentrate more fully on the sounds, and even the smells of fresh Christmas cookies wafting in the air.  It reminds you so readily of the wonderful holidays of your childhood that you’ve been unable to participate in for so long, and you almost want to cry as you are tempted so potently with the potential to experience it once again.

                No.  Focus.  Can’t get distracted, you remind yourself.  The plan is sound, but there will only be one shot at it.

                It occurs to you suddenly that Sophie’s leg hasn’t been vibrating for a few moments.  You listen as hard as you can, trying to make out what’s going on through the fabric.  You’re not sure over the overwhelming hum the rest of the family is making around the colossal body of your cousin, but you’re pretty sure Sophie is talking to someone.  Apparently she’s found Carly.  After a few more minutes pass, you can feel the steady steps resume.  If all is going as planned, Carly is on her way to the grocery now.

                You wipe a bead of sweat off your forehead.  So far, so good.

                The walking continues, and stops again in a place where the light streams more readily through the extreme filter of the jean pocket.  Probably the brighter bulbs of the kitchen.  You hear speaking again, and this time because it’s more secluded from the crowded hustle and bustle of the living room, by straining your ears you can actually make out a jumbled bit of the exchange.

                “Aunt Leah?” you hear Sophie query innocently.  “Could you show me where Carly keeps her hair products?  She told me where to look, but I can’t find them, and she said she had to leave for a minute.”

                “Of course, honey,” answers your mom enthusiastically.  “Give me two minutes to finish slicing the fruit here, and then I’ll come up and show you.”

                “Thanks!” says Sophie cheerily before continuing onward.  You can’t help but smile smugly to yourself.  This is going beautifully.  In a matter of minutes, your rescue will finally come.  You can hardly stand the anticipation.  You feel the slightly more violent pumping of Sophie’s legs as she scales the staircase to the upper level again.  A few more steps, the creaking of a door once as Sophie enters and again as she closes it behind her, and you feel her come to a stop.

                Slowly, the fabric of the pocket is pushed apart, and light flows through as Sophie’s hand creeps slowly in, her fingers curling as if fishing for you.  Taking the cue, you clamber into the makeshift shelf of skin on her firm fingers and are quickly lifted out.  You grip your fingers tightly around a single crevice between Sophie’s enormous middle and pointer fingers, wind rushing past you for a moment before her hand comes to rest on top of the dresser again.  Catching your breath in your chest, you step slowly off of your cousins’ soft fingers and back onto the dresser.  Turning to face your beaming cousin, you nod approvingly.

                “You did it, Sophie.”

                “I… hope so,” she answers nervously.

                “That was perfect.  Thank you so much.”

                “It’s fine, Jack, really.  Don’t worry about it.  You’d do the same for me, I know.”

                “Of course,” you smile warmly, receiving a gleeful grin in return from the tremendous glistening white teeth of your cousin.  “Now… I guess… we just wait a minute…”

                “Right,” she nods confidently, swaying slightly from nervousness.  “Jack….”

                “Yes?”

                Before her next word can come out, a sound that makes your heart fall directly from your chest and into your ankles cuts through the soft silence.

                “SOPHIE!” exclaims Carly loudly from the hallway, exasperated and clearly stressed about something.  You hear the slamming of her footfalls, and a second later the doorknob to the guest room is being twisted.

                There’s no time, and the next thing you know, you’re being plunged into darkness.  You look up just in time to see Sophie, as an emergency response, pinching a red scarf between her fingers and plopping it gently enough on top of you to conceal from your rapidly approaching sister.  Holding as still as possible, you peep through a few fibers of the loosely knit scarf, ensuring you are still shrouded in darkness.

                Carly enters the room so forcefully her blonde hair is whipped messily across her face as she almost allows the door to slam against the wall.  Her face is tensed, her deep blue eyes narrowed, her fists clenched at her sides.  You can tell something’s up, and it doesn’t take a genius to know that, despite what you believed, for whatever reason, your sister found a need to go to her purse before heading out for the grocery.  And, you’re willing to bet, she found it necessary to check the purse for a certain pet sibling of hers before heading out.

                “Hey… uh…” gulps Sophie, composing herself despite the surprise and near-horror of seeing her taller and more high-powered cousin entering the room.  “Something wrong?”

                “Is something wrong?  I… I mean…” sputters Carly, clearly panicking internally over what’s going on.  Never, in all these five years, as Carly not been able to find you exactly where she left you.  Despite her affinity for cruelty and calculation in your subjugation, Carly is always a person totally in control of the situation.  Right now, though, you have a feeling that your totalitarian sister is experiencing the closest thing she ever has to true “helplessness.”

                “Calm down, cuz,” says Sophie as nonchalantly as she can.  “What’s up?”

                “Did... did you go through my purse?” hisses Carly accusingly, before coughing lightly to correct herself and starting again.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like that.  But really, did you get in my purse?  I… don’t care if you did, I just want to know,” she says more slowly, trying to cover up her shock and deep care for the scenario.

                “Umm, no, not that I know of, Carly.  You know I wouldn’t do something like that to you.”

                “Okay.  Good.  I’m sorry, girl,” laughs Carly, clearly trying to help cover up her brash approach to the questioning.  “I’m willing to bet it was one of the younger kids.  But listen, one of them got in there and took my…” she says slowly, pausing for a moment.  “…make-up case, and I… I kind of need it back.  So, could you go downstairs and help me ask some of them about it?”

                “I’d love to Carly, but I need to stay here for a minute, I…”

                “Why?” questions Carly again, narrowing her eyes.  This time, the look freezes for a second.  “I mean, c’mon, why not?  I need you to give me a hand before they decide to cover the walls with my blush or something.”

                You peer through the fibers of the scarf over at Sophie as she chews this thought over.  You can see it in her eyes and understand what needs to happen right now.  Explaining the same story she told to your mom would blow your cover.  Carly is obviously still suspicious, and the only way to get her off of Sophie’s back is to leave the room and help out, if only for a few minutes.  You gulp hard, but know what must be done, and know that Sophie is smart enough to do it.

                “No reason.  It’s fine, I’ll help you ask them for a few minutes, sure,” answers Sophie a bit hesitantly.  You see her eyes glance for a nanosecond over at the scarf, as if to reassure you that she’ll be back, before following Carly back out of the room.

                You swallow hard, counting the seconds in the silence.  Just a few minutes.  Just a few.  Just hang out, and Sophie will be back.  Nothing to it.  A brief flaw in the plan.  Sure, Carly isn’t going anywhere for the time being, but it’s okay.  Your mom will be upstairs as soon as she finishes chopping up the food for dinner, and your little rescue rendezvous can still take place.  It will happen.  It will still happen.  You’re saved.   It’s over.

                You feel yourself wince as the silence is broken again.  Peering out the fabric of the scarf, you see an even newer complication.

                Chloe.

                Sophie’s twelve-year-old sister dashes frantically into the guest room, looking wildly around for something.  Her blonde bob cut seems to bop lightly as she turns her head quickly from side to side, searching for whatever it is she’s lost in here.  As she walks past the dresser, you shiver a little.  Just get what you need and go, you whisper to yourself in your head.  Just get it and leave.

                “SOPHIE!  I CAN’T FIND IT!  WHERE DID YOU PUT IT?” she half-shouts, half-whines, cupping her hands around her mouth for volume.  The cry is so jarring you have to clasp your hands over your ears.  Despite her smaller stature compared to her much lankier sister Sophie and cousin Carly, Chloe makes up for her shorter frame with a spry, energetic kind of presentation that rattles your bones with anxiety.

                Readjusting herself after screaming out, Chloe pats her hands along her sweat pants and ruffled pink t-shirt reading “Floyd Middle School: Varsity Soccer Team” with a design of a flying checked soccer ball printed on the front.  Having done this, your cousin blinks her green eyes a few times and scratches, puzzled, at her hair before placing her hands on her hips and doing a final scan of the room with her squinted eyes.

                Just go away.  Just find it.  Find it and go.

                Suddenly, her eyes fall onto the dresser.  Her green irises light up like Christmas lights, and her mouth spreads into a victorious smile.

                “THERE’S my scarf!  Never mind, I found it!” she cries out.

                You feel your stomach flip over inside of you as, an instant later, the scarf is whipped right off of you and into your cousin’s hands.  Not more than a second goes by before you, sitting very plainly and exposed in the center of the dresser, find yourself directly in the gaze of your younger cousin.

                Chloe’s green eyes widen wildly, and her jaw drops completely open, practically putting her tonsils all the way in back of her throat on display.  She gasps loudly, as if all the oxygen is being yanked from her lungs.

                Slowly, you pull yourself to your feet, gulping.  Not all is lost yet.  Play your cards right, and maybe, you think to yourself, you can get Chloe on your side too.  After all, you don’t have the same kinds of memories with her that you do with Sophie.  While Sophie always prided herself on copying the pious nature of Carly, Chloe was always considered more of a tomboy, off doing her own thing, coming up with creative and goofy new games while also being the kid in the family who tended to get her cheeks pinched the most often, as she had what the grandparents called a sort of baby face, with her cherubim-like rosy cheeks and dimples.  So maybe, you think again to yourself, this is doable.

                You open your mouth to speak, but before you can say anything, the rushing wall of Chloe’s right hand is flying at you so rapidly, the wind is knocked from you as her fingers wrap powerfully around you, clasping so hard against your back you think your spine might have been put out.  As you are pressed painfully into a massive pad of sweet-smelling palm skin, you feel your feet effortlessly lifting from the ground, and you powerless to stop it.

                You huff and puff wearily, trying to catch your breath, as you soar through the air and off the dresser, still clenched tightly in the fist of your twelve-year-old cousin.  A moment later, you come quickly into view of her whole titanic face, her green eyes still frozen, her jaw still hanging widely.  So shocked is your cousin, in fact, you can tell she’s not bothering to keep most of her normal functions in check.  Rolling wave after rolling wave of hot breath is expelled from your cousin’s lips, and you’d prefer it if you could cover your nose, as it smells strongly of day-old, gooey macaroni and cheese.  Unfortunately, with your entire body pinned into the tightly wound wrap of Chloe’s fingers and hand, this is not a viable option.

                “C-C-Chl…” you gasp weakly in her grasp.

                “No way…” she whispers, still clearly in shock.  “It’s a little person.”

                “No C-Chl…” you try again.  “It’s m-me… J-J-J…”

                “Are you real, little man?” questions Chloe simply as her facial expression suddenly reverts to normal.  “I’m not dreaming, right?”

                “P-Please… l-l-loos…” you wheeze, as Chloe’s death grip on your body is still intact.

                “Whoooaaa… you TALK, too!  This… is… so… cool…”

                “Chloe…” you cry out desperately, before hearing footfalls on the staircase.

                Finally.  It must be Sophie coming back to your rescue.  You shiver, terrified, in the overly firm grip of your elated cousin Chloe, trying your best so squirm in your vice of finger flesh but finding it impossible.

                However, before you get the chance to see Sophie rushing through the door, Chloe’s hand is shooting back downward, and wind is flashing past your face again.  Roughly, the fist gripping you is jammed into a sweatpants pocket and releases, allowing you to tumble downward into the darkness.  Violently, you try to claw your way up the pocket, but find it impossible as the crack of light is slowly closed off again, sealing you into your little cousin’s pocket.

                You listen as hard as you can for a voice.  Something.  Anything.

                “Hey there, sweetie,” comes the voice of your mother.  “You hungry?  Dinner’s in about an hour.”

                “Okay, Aunt Leah.  Thanks!”

                “Do you… need something in here?  Isn’t this where your sister is staying?”

                “Umm…” hums Chloe playfully.  “Nope!  I just… came in here looking for something, but…” she giggles, and you can feel her fingers pat at her pocket, pinching at your legs through the fabric of her pants, just to remind herself that you exist.  “…I found it.  It’s fine.”

                “Have you seen your sister?  She wanted me to show her something,” your mom responds.

                “MOM!” you scream at the top of your lungs.  “PLEASE!  MOM!  I’M HERE!  HELP!” you shout out so loudly you feel like your vocal cords will burst.

                “I haven’t seen her, Aunt Leah,” says Chloe shyly.  “Maybe she’s back downstairs.”

                “No, no, it’s fine.  She probably found it on her own,” your mother answers simply, chuckling a little.  “Why don’t you go find your cousins and hang out with them instead of being alone up here, sweetie?”

                “Sounds good, Aunt Leah,” answers Chloe, and a moment later you hear your mother padding out of the guest room and back downstairs.

                Clutching your sore throat in vain, you stare upward with horror at the opening of the pocket as Chloe’s hand slides back in, her fingers arched like claws preparing to scoop you up.

                “Hey, little guy!” she whispers.  “C’mon back out!  It’s safe now.”

                You feel a new sense of deadness settling inside you as your twelve-year-old cousin’s firm fingers fix themselves around your body, grip you like an action figure, and slide you back out into the open from Chloe’s pocket.

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