If I were forced to construct a list of my ten least favourite words, it would probably end up like this:

1. Tiny/Small/Puny (whichever fits in that particular sentence)

2. Handicapped

3. Fairy

4. Hallucination

5. Sports

6. Amplitude

7. Normal

8. Staircase

9. Defence

10. Embarrassment

In any other circumstance, I would choose to elaborate on each choice, but I think my point is made clear enough. Although, maybe number three, fairy, is a little hard done by. Well, this word actually fits into my day right now, so yes, I will describe this one a tad more.

Fairy. Commonly referred to as a tiny, winged being capable of casting charms and hexes. Well, judging by the look on the shopkeeper’s face right now, then I think he’s begun questioning what I am. And let me guarantee that on everyone’s list, the fairy pops up. Maybe not as prominently as the Borrower, but still there. And it’s a little too obvious for my liking that he’s guessed I’m a fairy. Sitting himself down alongside a table of miniature, unfinished pairs of butterfly wings that would slip nicely onto my back kind of prove my point.

Enough said. He thinks I’m a fairy. So let’s get on with things. It’s not the worst assumption around. I mean, people take one look at me and their head screams anything but human. Not even tiny human. Their guesses are always comical, fake. Things that I’d laugh upon if I was normal. But I feel for people. It’s true that they wouldn’t exactly have seen a midget before. At least not a real life one.

“So, um… Marcus…” The shopkeeper asks, as he sits down. His son, Kyle, looks up curiously from his drink, obviously hearing us talking, but he says nothing. Strangely, I feel as though I’m similar to the boy. He may be a normal, healthy size, but he’s handicapped. Like me. It’s nice in a way, to know that there are others sharing similar difficulties. Maybe not as odd as my own, but nonetheless similar.

Mum sighs and I feel her shoulders beneath me sagging slightly. “Ok, let’s get this all sorted out.” She says, before slowly giving the man behind the desk the details. What details, you may ask? My details. Because quite frankly, I’m no pixie. As she launches into a discussion about my past, I slide off her shoulder onto the polished wooden table the two adults are sitting at. There’s a computer beside me, as well as a keyboard. The screen is a paused game of pac man. My lips curl into a grin.

The shopkeeper is startled at first, to see a teenager of a smaller stature walking calmly along the table like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And to me, it kind of is. It’s basically all I know. Only someone who recently or became midget a few years back would understand. When I was five years old and a hair over four inches, I had to think maturely. My childhood wasn’t the same as an average kid’s. The obstacles I face each day I’ve faced since I could barely think properly for myself. Being too small to tackle basic things, my brain had to adapt to survive. Which means that while Cameron struggled to stop wetting his bed at night, I was already reading, writing and moving about normally. Normally for my size, that is.

By the time Cameron could walk, I could somersault between objects and perform basic manoeuvres like dive rolling to absorb the impact, leaping across the couch and exerting my upper body strength to tackle the staircase. While my brother was afraid of thunder, I was afraid of nothing. Being so small and so weak to everyone of greater proportion, I couldn’t afford to live in fear. I still can’t.

I don’t live in fear. Yes, I am lonely. I’m weak. I’m depressed a lot of the time. But I’ve learned that fear is a sign of weakness. And I have too many weaknesses as it is to take fear on board. As mum finishes explaining my condition to the Shopkeeper, the man straightens in his seat.

“Right.” He says, smiling gently down at me, where I’m standing atop his desk. “Well, my name is Mr Johnson. You both can call me Alex, though. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Marcus.”

“You too.” I reply evenly, shifting on my feet. My fuzzy yellow socks are silent on the table.

“So, you tell me you’d like a job here?” Alex asks.

“Yes, sir.” I say.

“Right…” The shopkeeper tugs open a drawer, retrieving the envelope mum gave him on our arrival; my resume. I wrote it myself on my IPod, but it’s been printed out on an A4 sheet of paper for the sake of the man’s eyesight. Alex tears away the corner of the letter, retrieving the resume inside. His eyes flick between the lines as he reads. I remember every single sentence I wrote on that sheet of crisp white. I’d spent hours contemplating what to say, pacing my bookshelf back and forth. After much consideration, though, I’d written the truth. It had taken me a while, but I’d realised eventually that if someone were to hire me, then they wouldn’t want a bunch of lies.

Even if those lies made me feel the slightest bit better about myself.

Alex slides the printed sheet into a folder, before addressing me again. “You’ve mentioned in your resume that you enjoy building things.” He informs, tilting his head to the side. “What have you built before, Marcus?”

The list is endless. When I was ten, I built my first hang glider out of an old plastic bag and some pipe cleaners. It worked well enough, that is, until I got it ensnared in the branches of a tree. I was up there for hours, waiting for Cam to grab a ladder to get me down. I made myself a flying fox set at seven. A pulley system at six. Little things that helped make life that little bit easier to manage. My entire house is wired up with gadgets and gizmos I’ve made out of scraps. At the moment, I’ve planned out a complete airlift system for travelling downstairs more efficiently.

“I usually use what’s lying around.” I tell him after a pause. “Anything I can make into something useful.”

Alex nods. His glasses slipping a fraction down his nose. “See, the reason I requested a worker with smaller hands was for cleaning out all the doll’s houses and things. But I also requested a helper. Someone who could give ideas for my doll’s houses. Maybe even someone who could craft the items themselves.” He gestures to the machines scattered around the room. Countless rolls of colour coded fabric line the back wall. The place reminds me a little of Geppetto’s workshop, from Pinocchio.

“Kyle and I have run this business ever since he was diagnosed with optical cancer as a toddler. He’s only just begun to work here as the sale’s assistant, but we’ve still been needing someone else…” Alex continues. “He had to have both eyes removed to prevent the cancer from spreading, you know. They’ve spoken of an operation which implants glass eyes capable of sight, but I doubt that’ll work.”

“That’s horrible!” Mum says sadly. “There’s no cure to Marcus’s condition, either.”

None of us have noticed how Kyle hasn’t stopped looking in our direction. The mug of cocoa cradled to his chest. He raises it to his lips, drinks, and sets it on the table beside him, without averting his gaze. As he returns his hands to his lap, his thin lips curl up into a smile. I wonder whether he knows we’re directly in front of him.

Alex’s eyes swivel down to me again, this time warier. “I’ve heard of Shrignakemia, actually. A woman came here once, looking for girl’s clothes for her daughter. The name was Sawyer, I think. That or Leebeck…” He tells mum.

“Yes; we know the Sawyers. Their daughter is good friends with Marcus, actually.” She replies with a smile, before checking her watch. “Well, I should probably get going now, but did you want to give Marcus the details for the job? I can pick him up in an hour or so…”

Alex nods. “Of course! Go right ahead.”

As mum departs the store, I glance up a little wearily at my new boss. “Thanks for hiring me.” I say. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted a job…”

“Oh, that’s no problem at all!” Alex answers, looking sheepish. He gestures over to Kyle, who’s still perched on the couch with his mug of cocoa. He doesn’t turn to smile at us, or even acknowledge us in anyway, but continues to sip at his steaming drink. I guess it’s understandable, considering he’s blind. “Why don’t you get yourself acquainted with my son while I man the counter.” Alex suggests as he catches me staring across the expansive room.

I shrug apprehensively. “Sure.”

If Alex’s smile could have stretched wider than the limits of his narrow face, then I’m sure it would have. He looks giddy, probably since he’s talking to someone who’d be able to physically wear and utilise every single item in his store. Usually I’d be a little giddy too, at the sight of all this mini stuff. I’m not going to screw up with this, though. I refuse to be fired for… irregular behaviour. If that’s even legitimate.

“Great!” Alex says. He quickly jogs around the workshop to place a hand on his son’s shoulder. Sighing, I allow myself to sit down cross legged on the desk as the shopkeeper guides Kyle around the machinery and over to the desk. Kyle’s head swivels around, dazed, but he never looks in my direction. It’s understandable, I guess. When you’d usually go to talk to someone, you wouldn’t go staring at the desk, would you? You’d look the speaker right in the eye and, well, talk.

“Well, I’d better get back to work. The store closes in twenty, so we’ll be able to start training you up in a few!” Alex beams down at me, with his hands clutched to his chest. As he leaves the workshop and shuts the door behind him, I let out a quiet sigh. He really is excited about all this. Maybe even more-so than me. Now that he’s gone, though, it’s dead silent. Kyle looms above me, even though he’s sitting down with his back to me in the desk chair. It’s one of those wheelie ones that allow you to rotate around on the spot in. When Cameron and I were little, he used to seat me down in the centre of our chair and spin it around until I finally puked. He thought it was funny…

“Where are you?” Kyle asks suddenly, his head swivelling around aimlessly. He’s got one hand clutching the edge of the desk firmly as he studies the room. I wonder what he sees, instead of what’s real, that is. Does he see complete darkness, or the lingering shapes of the furniture. I’ve never formally met someone blind, before. Heck, being a midget, I barely meet anyone.

“I’m here.” I answer after a pause. Kyle’s ear prick slightly at my voice. He scrunches his brow in confusion. “Why are you sitting on the desk?” Without warning, he brings his arm around out in front of him, the power behind his blow so forceful that I stumble backwards a few midget metres. His giant hand whistles overhead as he feels for my apparent ‘normal’ body. Kyle must have pretty good hearing, to be able to pinpoint my voice so precisely that he can realise where I am. I read somewhere that when you lose a certain sensory organ, like hearing or sight, your remaining sense work on an overdrive.

“You aren’t on the desk…” Kyle frowns, evidently confused.

“I am!” I protest, willing him to see me. It’d make the whole midget curiosity process a hell of a lot easier for the both of us. “And do you mind not trying to bludgeon me?”

Instantly, Kyle retracts his hand and peers sightlessly in my direction. “Are you under the desk? This isn’t funny, picking on a guy like that!” He snaps, growing angry. “Everyone thinks it’s funny…”

I expel a breath, kicking the table beneath me with my toes. Well, I guess I should get this off my chest then… “I’m standing on the desk, Kyle. It’s just… I’m not exactly-“

His arm swings out blindly again, whipping across the space on top of the desk. I yelp under my breath, dodging the giant hand. Somehow I manage to trip over my own feet during the entire process and fall flat onto my face. Picking myself up gingerly, I glare at Kyle.

“For Christ’s sake!” I yell up at him. “I’ve been trying to tell you this gently, but I’m a real life midget!”

Kyle’s giant eyebrows crease almost instantly. The glasses covering his missing eyes show a reflection of my smaller body, my arms folded in a pout and my eyes glaring.

“What the hell’s that?” Kyle snaps, loudly. I grunt under my breath, wishing I still had my good old earmuffs.

“It’s exactly as it sounds.” I say curtly. “I’m a little under five inches tall.”

“That isn’t funny.” Kyle says. “Just because I can’t see, doesn’t mean I’m some stupid idiot!” I wince at his raised voice, out of habit.

“Look, man… I don’t lie. I can prove it to you, if you promise not to… well, move too quickly.” I say.

“You’re a dick. Get out.” Kyle snaps, practically ignoring me. “You want this job so you can make fun of me like everyone else. All you wanna do is stare at me, knowing I can’t even fucking see-“

“I don’t want to stare at you.” I interrupt quietly. “In fact, I know how you feel. I’m different, too.”

“No. You’re not. Trust me.”

“I told you I’d prove it.” I say. “So I will. Hold out your hand and I’ll show you.”

“Stop acting like some crackpot freak! It’s impossible to be five fucking inches tall! I know the facts!” Kyle rages.

“That’s it.” I mutter under my breath, storming across the desk to the boy’s hand, which is still holding onto the side of the wood for support. Taking a deep breath, I walk into his palm, settling myself down into the centre. His hand is filmed with sweat, but I barely notice. I’m too busy fuming at Kyle. His entire body goes rigid at my presence. Slowly, he brings his hand up so I’m suspended centimetres in front of his giant face. “Believe me now?” I snap.

Kyle swallows tightly, raising his other hand to poke at my chest. His touch is purposely gentle, but I still hate it when people prod at me like some voodoo doll. I purse my lips as he studies me with his fingers.

“Ok, ok, I believe you.” Kyle breathes.