Queensville: A town not found on any map, where women are larger than men, quite literally. Through unknown means, men are made to shrink when they reach adulthood. Although some eke out a living, those men in unlucky circumstances become little more than household pests. None have been known to escape the town.
*
“You have to find someway to be useful. Otherwise...it's not going to go well.” You remembered your mother saying this from across her desk. She drummed her fingers on the dark wood, looking at you somewhat expectantly, but mostly exasperatedly.
“I know Mom, it's just...I don't think I'm good at anything.” You had been racking your mind for something that could help you. You were average in school, poor in sports, and you could play a few chords on the guitar, but that was your entire life's resume in a nutshell.
“Well, you'd better find something to be good at, otherwise all you'll be good for is decorating the bottom of some girl's shoe.” Your mother bridged her fingers and looked you directly in the eye. “Maybe even mine.”
You shifted uncomfortably in your seat. With her hands shielding her mouth from view, you couldn't tell if your mother enjoyed that idea or not.
“Then again...” Your mother said, standing up from her desk and walking around to your seat, “You've always been a cute kid. Maybe you'll be good as jewelry.” She playfully tapped her hand against your cheek and chuckled, before walking out and leaving you alone with your thoughts in the large study.
*
You often reminisced about that conversation, wondering if your mother even remembered it. It certainly was vivid for you, as every ache in your shoulders and hips would remind you of that prophetic moment.
“Martha! Love your necklace, great color!” An unknown woman's voice said.
“Thanks Shelly, it's my own design. The stone was cut by Jen, over on 8th street.” Your gigantic mother replied as something warm and soft suddenly pressed into your face and body, probably her fingers, making sure you were hanging straight.
Your arms were pulled behind you, tied at the wrist. The silver chain around your mothers neck met at your wrist bindings, which dangled you neatly above her cleavage. Thin strips of metallic, cobalt ribbon wrapped tightly around your torso, threatening to cut your skin if you fidgeted or moved. One strip was fastened over your eyes. Below, your legs were bound at the ankles, from which a large, pear-cut zircon hung, pulling hard and straining the joints in your hips.
Zircons were, inch for inch, the heaviest gems in the world. You knew this because you heard your mother specifically ask for one, for that exact reason. A well cut aquamarine, the jeweler had said, would be less expensive with hardly a difference in appearance. Your mother said that wasn't what was important.
“Gosh, it really looks great. Makes me wish I'd kept my son around. Okay, well, I've gotta run, see you at the tupperware party!” Your mom's mystery friend departed.
Despite how vapid these sorts of conversations were, they were your only real moments of escape. Your mother did not acknowledge your existence often, only when you struggled too much, or when she felt the need to alter your appearance. Otherwise, you were alone in your thoughts, the only distraction from pain the equally dismal aches of nostalgia.
To be honest, you weren't sure how long you'd been a necklace for. Months? Years? It all blended together.
*
*
“I'm so ready for family beach day tomorrow!” You heard Rachel's pumped voice.
“Yeah! It's gonna be so much fun!” Olivia's voice next, trying to match Rachel's enthusiasm.
“I'm excited too. Head off to bed, so we're all rested for tomorrow.” Your mother's much calmer voice came last, “Don't forget to brush your teeth, and Rachel, no staying up all night on the phone.”
Your family said the last of their good-nights before your mother closed the door to her room. You heard all of this while sitting in your mothers jewelry box, resting uncomfortably on your back. You were prepared to sleep for the rest of the night and most of tomorrow, not expecting your mom to wear this sort of necklace to the beach, but there was a sudden moment of clattering before your prison's roof swept back, and your mom's uncaring hand reached in and grabbed you.
“Let's see here...” She said, unlatching the small clasps which attached your hands and feet to the more precious accoutrements of your situation. She turned you over and, using a small scissor, cut the ribbons from your body. For the first time in what felt like years, your eyes saw your mother's face, although it was now staring down at you through a magnifying loupe. A desk lamp shone brightly on your body and the white workspace it lay on, not unlike a surgical table.
“It's summer.” She said flatly, turning her eyes away, “And I need something nice to wear to the beach.” Her hands were searching through different bits of jewelry supplies. She returned her attention to you once she had found a piece of flat, malleable silver. “Let's see if this will work.”
You were laid supine on the cold metal, your hands and legs fastened to either side, before your mother used a pair of snips to roughly trim it down. You were lifted suddenly, although gently, as the silver was laid on a round rod marked with the number 5.
“I hope you're flexible enough for this...” Your mother said, and it suddenly dawned on you what was happening. You were being turned into a ring.
The pliant force came quickly, as the silver bent around the rod. You were forced into a hellish back bridge, shoulders and hips again displaced, chest stretched and spine compressed, until your hands nearly touched your feet. You couldn't help it as a yelp escaped your lips.
“Tch, it's not that bad. You always whine when I make you into something new. Now, what color should I use?” Your mother admonished, placing her newly made ring on its side and looking through a small case of rhinestones, “Let's go with a nice dark red. If I like how it looks, we'll have Jen cut a garnet. Hm, now how should I attach this?”
In another hour, the table-cut, false gem was in place between the palms of your hands and the soles of your feet. A combination of wire-saw and diamond file had erased the silver not covered by your body.
“There! Done!” Your mother said, after puckering her lips and blowing away any rogue metallic shavings, “Let's see how you fit.”
You tried to take a deep breath, but there was a completely unexpected change in vertical orientation. Your mother was lowering you much more than you figured, which could only mean...
“Ah! You're a perfect little toe ring!” Your mom chuckled. Your face was just below the gap in her toes, in the exact place to have your mouth mashed into whatever insoles she was wearing, and into the carpet at that very moment, “I can't wait to show you off tomorrow.”
You closed your eyes and tried to block out the searing in your joints. Stinging worse than that, however, was that you couldn't remember your mother ever sounding prouder of you.
*
The warm sun and salty air did little to ease your tension. You did not sleep well, in part because you had not yet adjusted to living in a continual back bend, but also because your mother had not taken you off before she went to bed. If your memory served correctly, she rarely took off her rings.
“I just can't believe how great my new piece looks. I'm going to go to Jen's first thing Monday.” You mother flexed her toes, admiring her handiwork and driving your face into her soft flesh.
“Yeah, the twerp makes a great toe accessory. Maybe I could borrow him?” Rachel nudged your mom with her elbow.
“Let your mother have her own jewelry for once.” Your mom chided your sister, although she really didn't seem angry, “Go find a boy from your school to wear.”
“Oh fiiii-iiine.” Rachel theatrically sighed.
“Hey mom, could we get some ices?” You heard your youngest sister return from splashing in the ocean.
“Sure thing, sweetie. Rachel, would you like some?” Your mom pulled on her flip-flops, mashing your face into the sweaty, rubber surface. You took a long breath through your barely uncovered nose and wondered how long you would be like this for. Reminiscing again, it dawned on you that being a stain under some woman's shoe seemed like a great alternative to having this sort of use in Queensville.
-End-
AN: This was a collaboration between myself and Molotav. This is the first in a series of stories following the particularly dysfunctional family I originally developed for my writing.com story. The stories will have no real continuity, nor will they all exist in Molo's Queensville universe, but the general characters will remain the same.