You stare blankly at your shivering hands, still gagging from throwing up out of disgust with yourself, realizing what’s going on.  You don’t want to admit any of this to yourself, but your dream just revealed it to you, and even in your sickness, you note how true the feelings were.  You just weren’t ready to face yourself about it.  Subconsciously, you realize your mind has been on this track for some time, but it’s only now that it’s come to the visible forefront in your dreams.  Slowly, you repeat the truth to yourself in your brain, almost stumbling over a few of the words but knowing the veracity remains.

                You, Jack Arton, two-and-a-half-inch tall prisoner of your younger sister Carly, enjoy your captivity.  You have developed an insane, endless need to not only be the property of your sister but to have her use you for whatever cruel, merciless game she sees fit to utilize you in. 

                You enjoy being talked down to by your sister: being called her pet, her toy, her pleasure object.

                You enjoy when she places you inside her mouth and body slams you with her slimy tongue, threatening to swallow you whole. 

                You enjoy when she ties you tightly into her locks of hair and leaves you there to have all the blood rush to your head. 

                You enjoy when she grips you in her firm fist, giving you no chance for escape and taking complete responsibility for your life.

                You enjoy laying on her warm, firm abs and feeling her stomach rise and fall with each calm intake of breath.

                You enjoy being trapped in her shoes while she wears them and being exposed to the stale stench of sweat and fabric with each breath of air you take.

                You enjoy kissing and licking every square inch of flesh along those sloping, creamy, wrinkled bare soles of hers as they stamp you mercilessly into the carpet.

                You enjoy when she runs her soft fingertips over your crotch until you are forcibly brought pleasure and raped.

                Your head swimming, you lean over and throw up again as everything hits all at once in your mind.  You can hardly stand it.  For a fleeting moment, you feel the overwhelming desire to kill yourself, for the sake of what an inhuman creature you have truly become.  You hardly dare consider what has happened to your brain. 

                What you feel for Carly is nowhere near the normal “love” a person feels for another person.  What you feel is the overwhelming desire to please.  To be of some small use to your veritable goddess of a sister.  To make yourself completely available for her omnipotent whims.  You don’t just want to, you have to.  Your existence depends on it. 

                It’s hard for you to make sense of.  All you know is that it’s time to get out of this at this precise moment, now and forever, and if that means ending your life, then so be it.

                No.  Not yet.  Never.

                A part of your brain that you thought had silenced itself long ago reawakens at these suicidal considerations, forcing you to focus on something fresh in your brain.  You’re not through.  You’re not going to kill yourself.  You don’t want to die.  You want to get out of this place that would make hell look like a peaceful glen of wildflowers.  And finally, you think you know how.

                You dash for the edge of the drawer, which is now opened just a crack.  Carly must have done that before leaving for her basketball tournament.  On top of a sock by the edge, there’s a small post-it note resting idly with some writing scribbled across it.  You grab ahold of the paper edge and pull it into the crack of light shining into the sock drawer in order to read.  The letters are written in loopy, overdone swirls in a sparkly pink gel pen, and all the “I’s and “J’s” are dotted with tiny hearts.

                You read: “Little Bro, I’m sorry about yesterday.  I hope you’re not mad at me.  I’ll be back by 9 tonight.  Be a good boy, and we’ll cuddle when I get back.  Be a REALLY good boy, and I’ll let you play with my toes.  XOXOXO Carly”

                From this alone you want to vomit again, but you can’t.  You force yourself not to.  For the first time in a very long time, a new kind of determination and focus has entered your mind.  Sure, you’ve had plenty of moments where you wanted to escape or get back at Carly for what she’s done to you, but not like this.  You’re not mad.  You’re not vengeful.  You’re not sad.  You’re just in control, and you’re not sure you know how just yet, but your brain seems to know what it’s doing, so you shrug this minor detail off and begin following pure instinct with the single-minded determination of a samurai.

                Grabbing ahold of the thick woolen sock you normally sleep in, you take a deep breath, almost feeling some level of guilt for what you’re about to do to your loyal and comfortable bed, and find a fuzzy loose thread.  Wrapping it several times around your hand, you begin tugging, etching along the entire sock until you have a rope of loose thread coming undone like a fire hose.  Winding it around your shoulder, you walk toward the crack of light entering the drawer without disconnecting the thread from the sock.  Looping the end of the rope into a triple knot like a lasso, you spin the end around and toss it up and over the edge of the drawer, then tug.

                No go.  The lasso comes flopping back into the drawer next to you.  Closing your eyes and doing your best to imagine the layout of this drawer that you’ve seen so many times from the outside, you make another toss, this time further to the left, and tug.

                It tightens, catching on the drawer knob and securing the line.  You gulp, knowing the terrifying part is about to take place.  Wrapping the line around your hands again and pressing your feet against the drawer to test the tautness of the line, you take a deep breath and begin rappelling up the side of the drawer.  It doesn’t take long to grasp the edge of it, but this is what you weren’t looking forward to.

                Carefully, you clamber upward, going into a crouching position as you stand precariously on the ledge-like cusp of the drawer, staring at a death plunge directly to the ground below.  You swallow and close your eyes, turning instead to the other direction.  Reaching outward, you can just manage to touch the top of the dresser.  It’s going to hurt if you fall, but you’ve got little option at this moment, with a swan dive of doom being the other prospect behind you.  Grappling at the edge of the top of the old dresser, you leap outward, pushing off of the drawer edge, and clamber up top with strength to spare.

                Righting yourself and looking around, you place your hands on your hips.  The danger is becoming real again, and it’s spiking your adrenaline like never before.  The thought crosses your mind to find a way to the floor so you can slip under the door and search for safety, but this sticks out in your mind as a bad idea.  On a day like this, after the Christmas holidays, when a lot of the residents of this hall are liable to be at least minorly tipsy and probably not capable of seeing clearly all the people right in front of their faces (let alone the ones less than three inches tall), you decide you’re less likely to end up as a gory stain on the bottom of some nineteen-year-old’s shoe tread if you find an alternative method in this case.  Dashing to the back edge of the dresser touching the wall, you just manage to climb up to a wall shelf normally used for books that Carly instead uses to house all of her basketball league trophies.                

                Dashing between the gleaming faux-gold trophies as if you were going on a jog through a museum hallway full of old statues, you reach the other end of the shelf and, looking down, realize you are now directly over Carly’s homework desk, full of supplies, textbooks, and her open laptop.

                Bingo.

                The drop is a little too long for comfort, but after looking around for a moment, you notice that Carly has a bright purple squishy pillow resting on the desktop for use in resting her head during late night study sessions.  It’s not going to be pretty, but it’s your best chance, and you figure your odds are stacked mainly at you getting a couple bruises, and worst case scenario a twisted ankle if you land wrong.  Breathing steadily to yourself, you smile.  The spirit of rebellion you once had is back in full force, and it’s like it’s never left, except this time the urgency is far greater than ever before.  Closing your eyes, you dive over the edge, plunging downward toward the pillow.

                You bounce once in the silky fabric folds of the pillow before coming to rest in the center.  The landing didn’t feel terribly comfortable on your legs, but you can tell you can still walk, and that means nothing was twisted.  Good.  Clambering over the awkward layers of soft pillow fabric, you make it to the frilly edge and finally find yourself standing on the desk, with the laptop laying before you in all of its opened, fully charged glory.

                Stepping up to it, you slam your fist a few times on the touch pad mouse and the machine springs to life.  You’re in.  Instantly, you pull up the email program on the computer and prepare to compose a note to your mother and father.

                Grasping at your chin to consider what to do, you stop yourself, and exit out of the program.  Despite how desperately you want to solve things with this particular method, it entails far, far too much risk.  You heard Carly’s threat last night loud and clear.  Never have things become this serious, and you know that she actually means she will snuff the life right out of you without a problem if you so much as dream of another escape attempt.  If your parents come over and Carly becomes at all suspicious, you have a feeling there would prove to be little difference between you and a fly trapped in pasty form under the heel of Carly’s tennis shoe.

                No.  You have to be smarter than that.  You have to make sure there’s a guaranteed safety net.  You stare questioningly at the glowing screen of the laptop.  Five years ago, you were a pretty skilled programmer.  You’re aware that things have changed greatly since then, but from the numerous times you’ve gotten to watch Carly working at her laptop for homework while simultaneously playing with you, you are familiar with the most basic of changes.  You stare at the clock in the bottom right corner of the screen. 

                8:23 AM.  You have 12 hours and 37 minutes until your sister returns.

                “I’m a fast learner,” you reassure yourself smugly as you crack your knuckles and drop to your knees over the mouse pad to get to work, a determined smile on your face.

                At 9:04 PM, the doorknob to the dorm jiggles a few times before swinging wide open, revealing an out-of-breath and entirely exhausted Carly, freshly showered after her day-long tourney at the campus stadium, her sweaty clothes packed up in a duffel bag, a simple t-shirt and sweatpants adorning her towering form now.

                You happen to be observing this from behind a flowery designed cup full of pencils on the desk.  You peek slyly out, watching her plop her gear on the floor and run her fingers through her hair before heading toward the drawer.  Goose bumps ripple along your skin, satisfyingly. 

                You absolutely cannot wait for her to discover you’ve gone missing.

                “Sorry I’m late, little bro.  Some of the girls wanted to go out and dance a little afterward, but I told them I had things to do back here, I…” she says jovially before opening the drawer.  Instantly her cheery, smiley expression reverts into stone-cold anger and fear, her eyes bugging, her lips pursing.  “All right, you little motherfucker…” she growls.  “Now you’re going to get it.”

                Bring it on, bitch.  You feel your breathing actually slow down, as if you were falling asleep.  Somehow, you are calm.  Completely, one hundred percent peaceful, at least for the time being.

                “All right, Jack,” she drawls coolly, beginning her search of the dorm, peeking under the bed and under shelves.  “You have ten seconds to come out.  If I have to come and find you… God, you don’t want to know what’s going to happen.  I’ll tear your stupid little arms off, I swear… okay, I’m counting.  Ten.”

                You smile to yourself, tapping your foot.

                “Nine.”

                You scratch at the top of your head absentmindedly.

                “Eight.”

                For the first time in years, you feel nothing negative impacting your system.  No fear or pain.  Only optimism and sheer, unavoidable glee.  What’s even better, you feel a refreshing sense of control in your life.  Despite the fact that your colossal sister is currently stamping around the room in search of you while fantasizing about all the violent acts she could perform on your God-forsaken body, you are in complete control of the situation.  You aren’t the toy right now.  Carly is.

                “Seven.  Oh, I swear to God… Six.  Five.”

                You’re exhausted, hungry, and thirsty beyond belief, but none of these are even enough to drag you down.  You wouldn’t want to miss what’s about to happen for all the world.  This whole day, as you sat at Carly’s laptop, busily familiarizing yourself with new programming rules, all while you were working quickly and efficiently you had a single, beautiful image in your mind.

                The image of your sister crying pitifully for her own sake.

                “Four.  Jack, if you don’t come out right now, you’re going to wish you never asked to be my pet.  God damn… I… Oh, you stupid little… Three.”

                You smirk to yourself, drumming your fingers against your hip.

                “Two.”

                You inhale.

                “One…”

                “Over here, Aphrodite!” you call out pleasantly and lovingly, leaping out from behind the pencil cup.  “I’m over HERE!”

                Her gaze falls to you, and her eyes are burning with so much passionate rage you think she might just be capable of shooting flames from her deep blue eyes.  Her fingers curl together into tight fists and her knuckles crack simultaneously.  She’s pissed, all right.

                You smile, crossing your arms.

                “You stupid… little… son… of… a… bitch,” she curses through gritted teeth, stomping over to you in one fluid, flashing motion, standing over you so angrily she can’t even come up with another reaction.

                “Woah, watch your language there, sis,” you chuckle.  “That’s your mother, too, you’re talking about, after all.”

                Carly’s hands come crashing down on the desk right in front of you, her fingers splayed out, her nails digging into the soft wood of the desk.  Her hands quiver violently, as if about to pounce on you and break you in half like a wishbone.

                “What do you think you’re doing?” she asks with sudden calmness, her voice returning to its normal sugary sweetness.  “Did you… FORGET… what I told you yesterday?”

                “Oh no, not at all.  I actually thought a lot about it today.”

                “Then WHY are you…”

                “Well, see, here’s the thing, sis,” you say nonchalantly, beginning to pace across the desk back over to the laptop.  “I know you mean what you say.  And I’m cool with that.  You’re a girl of your word, like you tell me all the time.”

                Carly raises an eyebrow and withdraws slightly, taken aback by your sudden calmness with a situation in which, by all rights, you should be pissing in fear.

                “And so, while I was escaping again today which, by the way, was reeeeally easy…” you continue with a piteous laugh.  “I thought, after you’d treated me so… fairly… like that, telling it like it is and whatnot, I thought I owed you the same courtesy.  Believe me, I was just going to send an email to most of the people you know…”

                At this, Carly’s eyes narrow so much, and her throat opens so wide, her teeth baring, it looks like lava might come spewing from the back of her dark mouth at any moment.  Her hand descends and, using her thumb and forefinger, she pinches you by the right arm, lifting you directly into the air and up to face level.

                “You little fucker,” she sneers.  “What did you DO?”

                “DO?  Oh, nothing.  Nothing yet, anyway,” you add helpfully, grinning into the enormous, enraged face of your sister, locking sights with her stormy blue eyes.  “Seriously.  Believe me.  Check your outbox if you want, I didn’t send any emails, I swear.”

                “What do you mean nothing yet?  You’re not going to get another chance.  I swear to God, you’re never getting another chance at anything.  We’re done.  Completely done.  You’re never leaving this room again.  You’re…”

                “Hold up, Aphrodite, you may want to hear the whole thing before you go that far,” you interrupt, taking Carly by surprise and actually causing her to shut up for a moment.

                “Whole what?”

                “The whole deal I’m about to offer you.”

                At this, Carly can’t help but break her dagger-eye glare, and she snickers in spite of herself, her eyes squinting condescendingly at you.  “A deal.  Really.  YOU… want to offer ME…” she breathes, barely able to process the humor of such a concept.  “…a DEAL.”

                “That’s right,” you answer simply with a smile, your arm beginning to go numb as you continue dangling above the death plunge carpet, held up by the loose grip of your sister’s two fingers.

                “Let’s get something really clear right now, little bro, because I think you must have found some weed or something today after you got out…” chortles Carly, barely able to contain her throaty laughter.  “You don’t call the shots here.  I do.  That’s why I’m big, and you’re small.  I’m the goddess, and you’re the pet bug person who does what I tell him to.  Make sense?”

                “Oh, absolutely,” you grin.

                “In fact… here’s MY deal for you, Jack!”

                “Can’t wait to hear it.”

                “You stop speaking right now.  Don’t say a single word ever again.  Don’t look me in the EYE ever again.  Look straight down.  Do EVERYTHING I tell you to.  Anything.  And then… if you do all that… I’ll consider not eating your stupid little fucking arms and legs off.”

                You nod before making clear eye contact with Carly.  “Sounds like a plan, sis, but tell you what: I’ve got a better deal.  You can tell me what you think.  I’ve got a video minimized at the bottom of your desktop on the computer there.  Why don’t you pull that up and play it?”

                Unable to muster a response to your insane defiance, Carly instead takes a seat at the desk, too flustered to hide how intrigued she is by your ballsy confidence, and plops you down on the table.  Reaching for the mouse pad, she moves the arrow down toward the video viewing program and clicks.

                “Enjoy,” you encourage warmly as the video starts up.

                The screen is fuzzy for a moment before coming clearer.  It shows Carly’s desktop, a few pencils and lipstick tubes strewn about, and in the middle of it all is you, wearing a Kleenex wrapped around you again for modesty’s sake, your hands proudly on your hips, a smug smirk on your face.  You clear your throat.

                “Hello, everyone,” you state simply, stepping forward to the mouse and clicking a few times before it zooms in more closely on your face, instantly giving a clear and identifiable image of your features.  “My name is Jack.  Jack Arton.  You may or may not have heard of me, but I guarantee if you check the online public records with my parents Jonathan and Leah Arton you’ll be able to find me.  As you can probably figure out with a little bit of research… I’m dead.  Or at least, that’s what everyone thinks.  I was pronounced dead in a statement by the police after they gave up on a months-long search that didn’t turn up a single clue about my whereabouts.  But, as you can see…” you drawl snidely.  “…I’m not dead.  In fact, I’m… for the most part… very much alive.  And where do I happen to be?  I happen to be in my younger sister Carly Arton’s college dorm room at St. Helena Catholic University on the east coast, where she’s been keeping me this entire time.”

                Taking a pause, you reach down and nudge at the mouse a few more times, zooming the camera out just enough to get another good look at the desk and room, which is almost fully lit by the sunlight trickling in between the cheap window shades and the computer backlight being turned up to full power.

                “Now, I guess I’ll address the elephant in the room,” you answer nonchalantly.  “Or, I guess you could say… the MOUSE in the room because, well, in case you can’t already tell by all this stuff around me, I stand at less than three inches tall.  I wasn’t born this way.  I used to be just like you.  Maybe taller.  Six foot one, actually.  This was all because of a few scientific laws going screwy that even I haven’t been able to work out for myself, but here’s what I need you to be aware of.  The very day this happened, while my parents were gone, my sister.  Carly.  Fourteen years old at the time.  In the eighth grade.  Found me.  Kidnapped me.  Hid me.  Tortured me.  Lied to my parents about where it was I’d gone.  And has kept me as her prisoner for FIVE YEARS!” you bellow loudly and clearly at the camera, clearing your throat again.

                “But hey, listen, I know all this must be a lot to take in.  And if you know Carly personally… well, this might actually be impossible to believe.  It’s all good.  Maybe THIS will help convince you…” you chuckle, clicking again at the mouse.

                The video cuts off for a moment, going fuzzy, before reverting into a slideshow style presentation.  It’s a series of pictures Carly has taken on her phone of her pastimes with you that she uploaded to a secret file on her computer, purely for her enjoyment and your humiliation.

                A picture of you dangling upside down, your leg pinched between two of Carly’s fingers as she laughs maniacally in the background, her face fully visible in the frame.

                A picture of Carly pulling your arms behind your back so far that you’re screaming violently.

                A picture of you hanging from a few tied threads of her long blonde hair, contorted into a dangerous position.

                A picture of you fighting to escape from under the hulking, sweating mass of her big toe, painted a gleaming purple and bearing down on you with supreme muscle.

                A picture of you laying, clearly bruised, battered, and even bleeding a little, in the center of the palm of her hand.

                A picture of your arm poking out from between her lips as she smiles devilishly.

                A picture of you cowering powerlessly at the bottom of a tennis shoe as her socked foot, toes gleefully wiggling through the fabric, lowers toward the mouth of the shoe to seal you in.

                A picture of you plastered against her palm as she flattens her entire heavy, sopping tongue against your body and slathers you in saliva.

                A picture of her holding you under some bath water in an attempt to nearly drown you.

                A picture of her holding a pair of scissors near your leg as you cry uselessly, threatening to snip your limb right off.

                A picture of you at the bottom of her sock drawer, looking pitiful and hopeless, as the shadow of her hand, fingers outstretched, descends fatefully toward you.

                Static crackles rip across the screen momentarily before transitioning into a separate video feed from the one containing your confessional.  As it comes into focus, you, sprawled in a helpless ball in the center of Carly’s wide palm as she films the scene from about two years ago, comes into focus.

                “Smile for the camera, Jack!” she giggles, tickling you with her thumb and forcing you to splay out in her hand.  “I want you to look happy.”

                “C-C-Carly… n-nooo…” you sputter weakly, fighting against her finger, which remains firmly in place.

                “No dice, bro.  We’re filming for a reason.”

                “We a-a-are?”

                “Sure!” she smiles cheekily.  “I’m making an instructional video.  It’s going to be called “How to Brush Your Teeth” and you’re going to be the star!” Without another word, she opens her jaws wide, and flattens her palm against her lips, forcing you to tumble downward into the darkness of her mouth.  She opens her lips widely for the camera, laughing as she does so, in order to reveal you kneeling fearfully on top of her tongue, which instantly begins flapping wetly around, knocking you against her cheek.  She chuckles heartily, a few spit dribbles sloppily leaking down her chin.

                “Ow et ‘oo ‘ork!” she mouths, unable to speak clearly as she holds her lips open to keep you in full view of the camera.  “Ick the ‘ood ou ugh aye ‘eeth!”

                The camera fades into black as you pitifully begin scraping at your sister’s gunk-flecked teeth with your bare hands, with her snickering wildly the whole time, the camera jiggling as she is barely able to contain her chortling.

                The video static pops for a moment before returning to the footage of you standing on the desktop, hammering away at the mouse.

                “See that?  If you need more convincing… well, I’d say there’s plenty of physical evidence around this room, but I’m not really in a place to get to it.  Here’s the point.  Carly is not who you think she is.  She is a sick, sadistic, scheming, selfish BITCH, and she is going to KILL me soon.  I know she is.  She told me so, and after you’ve seen those pictures… and that video… do you honestly doubt that?”

                You stoop back down over the mouse pad to zoom in a final time.

                “Maybe you’re not buying this whole scenario.  Hey, I get it, I wouldn’t believe it either if someone told me they’re only a few inches tall and being held captive by their sister in a freaking sock drawer.  But nobody.  NOBODY.  Can deny that this face…” you state indignantly, leaning forward and allowing your features to be even more clearly seen, “…is the face of Jack Arton, a seventeen-year-old who died five years ago, according to the world.  And honestly, if you’re seeing this, I may be dead, or will be dead very soon.  In that case, I need you to do everything in your power to stop Carly Arton and see that she pays for what she’s done to me.  Because someone has to make her burn, and if she’s already smashed me into the concrete or eaten me or whatever, I NEED… someone… to make sure she burns… for me.”

                The video snaps to black.