It was serendipitous, it was fate, it was one of those defining moments that Kevin Costner playing Tin Cup was fond of saying. I was harmlessly scrolling through televisions stations, thoroughly enjoying my new digital cable guide, when five words leapt out of the screen at me. My eyes froze on them, they seemed to grow as if I were twisting binoculars into focus. Honey, I Shrunk the Kids. An innocuous film quickly flipped my cozy new life on it's ear. I'd changed everything since That Day months-a lifetime-ago. I moved across the country, I had a new place to live, new job, new friends , new boyfriend, new hobbies... new morals. The words blurred as the memories fell like a serpentine of dominoes. Memories that I had thoughtlessly tossed into a box, marked it MISC., tightly duct-taped it and left it unpacked in the storage area off of my new balcony. Suddenly, it felt like Pandora's box was opened-it truly was a defining moment-am I the person I was? Have the last months been nothing but a farce, a game, an attempt to ameliorate my true nature? Or perhaps an amalgamation of my personality? My head was full of helium as the questions and memories-and old, forgotten desires-wrestled and tumbled about like bubbles surfacing in a glass of soda. I pushed myself off my new couch and went to dig out the box marked MISC.
I kicked empty boxes out of my way until my foot connected with one too heavy to move. The dull glow from the lone 75 watt light bulb barely cut through the murkiness of the small storage area, but there was enough illumination to see a dusty MISC. on the side of the box. I simultaneously lifted and dumped the contents, a little surprised at how many miscellaneous things I'd packed and subsequently forgotten. I picked through the items, tiny pricks of recognition striking me at some of them... but I didn't tarry. The dark green journal looked black in the dimness, but the cover had an unmistakable roughness against my fingers. I wound my way back through the clutter, gently holding the journal like a ticking time bomb. I could feel the power emanating from it, a strong magnetic pull had my fingers glued to the cover. My head spun with some jumble of anticipation and trepidation as I settled in my big recliner. The moment had begun, and there was no stopping now... I opened the journal and began reading.
The memories touched me like an old lover as I read and relived the past. Several times I stared off into space, lost in the remembrances that surfaced. I smiled, laughed, rolled my eyes... and of course, the rusty yearnings for power and control sent rivulets of anticipatory ice between my shoulder blades. I felt like I had broken my chains, burst from my shell ready to conquer the world. That Day was almost a year ago, but the memories are crystal clear now that the blinding shield of denial and forced forgetfulness have been torn away. I pulled my knees up, balanced the journal on my thighs... and began to finish the story.
I've never been a morning person. I'm not the type to relish the sound of a rooster at daybreak or jump out of bed with a smile and a song of my own. I'd learned through the sagacity of trial and error to not hit the snooze button as this only doubled or tripled my irritation at being dragged from the arms of the sandman. Maybe if it had been cloudy the day after my date with the dipshit, everyone's life would have taken a more positive turn. As it was, I opened my eyes to see Keith, ethereally bathed in only slightly filtered sunlight, rapturously sitting cross-legged on the dresser. He was staring at me like I was the most beautiful creature on Earth. Sudden and intense rage erupted in me. I hated. I hated him because of his reverence, I hated him because of his persevering passivity and I hated him for the thing I'd made him into. My anger catapulted me from under the down comforter and over to the dresser. The complete and utter devotion on his benign face rocketed my anger to the level just shy of insanity. Why didn't he cower? Why wasn't he terrified? My size alone was enough to send him over the brink of logicality.... and if my face was a reflection of my emotions, it was stormier than a grade 4 hurricane. But Keith seemed to remain oblivious to the very real peril of his existence, his countenance remained serene and rapt as I glared down at him. Why didn't he fight? Why didn't he run? Why didn't he do SOMETHING? I snatched him off the dresser and closed my fist around his entire body... my anger was a fire inside me-demanding, consuming and unforgiving. I ached to squeeze and squeeze until I'd obliterated each and every devout cell in his body. My chest rose in short and staccato bursts as my ire fought with my rationality. And still he looked at me with such a fucking exalted look, like I was his everything. Oh, how I hated him. Even as my grip tightened enough to cause him discomfort, he looked at me like I was his world, his Goddess. I don't know what stopped me from crushing his tiny body in my bare hand. He felt no heavier than a pliable piece of paper, I knew he was nothing compared to my strength... maybe it was nothing more than intuition that halted me, because it certainly wasn't a lessening of my rage. I opened my fist, Keith lay diagonally across my palm.... three and a half inches of nothing. He rolled up and sat on his knees, like he was in a meditative martial arts position, and smiled up at me. Despite the fact that I had barely been able to stop myself from squeezing the life out him, despite the fact that I completely eclipsed him-and was pissed to boot-he smiled up at me. Unbe-fucking-lievable. My anger overflowed and shot out to attack him. Immediately, he began contracting and shrinking... more quickly than I'd ever imagined possible. My rage was an avalanche as I sucked everything out of the morphing man. The tinier he got, the more my dark emotions demanded. There was no influx of calming euphoria I usually experienced with the evidence of my control... only the insatiable anger.
He was too small for me to see his facial expression change from devotion to the realization of the gravity of his situation... but I felt his terror, finally. I felt his short-lived, defiant burst of anger... he sprinted across the uneven terrain of my palm, trying to outrun or hide from my onslaught... and I felt his panic as he fell in a chasm of one of the lines in my palm and sprawled head first into a river of my sweat. I felt him pleading for his life, his bargaining-he'd do anything for me if I'd just spare him... and finally I felt his tired and almost relieved acceptance of his sacrifice. I absorbed his feelings on the periphery-like I was outside of myself, watching myself. I wasn't able to really feel anything except the rage... but as I took the last remnants of his strength, a part of me realized his feelings too.
Smaller, smaller he shrank... until he was no bigger than my imagination. I couldn't see him, and I'm sure that the only thing he could see were walls of my hand. There was a pinch in my palm, it felt like I'd been snapped with a rubber band... and Keith was no more. I leaned down and inhaled the slim wisp of smoke that arose from my palm. The last symbol of his existence and essence was mine too.
I stopped writing for a moment to speculate what it must have been like for him... but could I ever know what it was like, what he truly experienced? What would make him look at me, enraptured, while he faced his own demise? What must I have looked like to him? What must the whole world have looked like to him? I held my hand out and remembered how tiny he'd looked lying there, and how powerful I'd felt as I towered over him and greedily consumed what I'd wanted. I tried to imagine his thoughts as he felt the heat from my hand surround him like an oven... my tiniest movement would have been world-altering to him. Was he drawn to me because of the terror or in spite of it? Did he get a reciprocal jolt by being helpless when I felt powerful, tiny when I felt immense? I shrugged... I hadn't been concerned with his feelings that day, and there wasn't any way I would ever know what his thoughts had been. And if the same events transpired today, and I became that pissed again... nothing would be different. I would still do exactly what I wanted... and his feelings would still not matter. I think that taking a look at the other point of view does nothing but make me crave more control, it makes me long to change someone's world... knowing that I'm affecting their entire world is very erotic to me... their confusion, fear, trepidation... whew... I'm getting off the subject...
The story is not yet done... the final chapter of the final chapter remains to be told. But now I want to go to bed and dream of what has been and what is going to be. Obviously, I can't turn back to yesterday or deny what I lust for... and the lust is stronger than ever, perhaps tempered with a bit more self-control... but undeniable in it's voracity. With a shiver of anticipation, I close for now....