• 4 •

I awake somewhat fuzzy-headed. The events of yesterday’s evening are present immediately. Present doesn’t mean clear, though. I can’t even begin to explain what happened. It cannot have been a dream, for it’s been far, far too real.

I need a coffee first.

A huge cup of hot, strong, black coffee in hand, I climb back into bed. Several sips later, my brain seems to start up.

I killed Justin. No, not killed, I slaughtered him. Executed him. Snuffed him out of existence. In a most degrading manner. Though he begged for his life.

Surprisingly, I’m fine with it. No remorse, no regret. Quite contrary, when I concentrate on it, I almost feel him underfoot. Which makes me enjoy at least a vague recollection of the gorgeous sensation I felt last night.

I wonder if I’m brainsick. I know, I should feel guilty, but I’m just all right. Give me ten more Justin’s and I might try ten different ways to deal with them, but I’ll spare no single one.

Was it an overreaction to annihilate him for a simple project work? It wasn’t the work he died for. It’s been that he made my blood boil with his arrogance and recklessness.

So I killed him because I lost my temper? I’ve been calm and controlled as I finished him off. Even more so the second time.

I almost spew my coffee over the sheets. Why was there a second time? I heard his body snap and I felt it giving way under my shoe the first time, I’d swear black and blue. Assuming he survived that by sheer luck or marvellous resilience – which I doubt, because he seemed amazingly fit when he awoke again – his bones shouldn’t have cracked a second time! And the crucial question behind all this is: why was he at the size of a finger, suddenly?

I gulp down the coffee, lean back and close my eyes. Rubbing my temples feels good, but doesn’t help against the clutter in my thoughts.

What happened last night?

There must be answers, but I won’t find them in bed. I pour me another cup of coffee. On the floor lie the shoes I wore last night. I pick up the right one. A plain white canvas sneaker, nice and comfortable. About two weeks old and not worn much, yet. I turn it over, the sole is rubber with some simple stripe pattern with rough surfaces. Like the rest of the shoe, worn but far from worn out. I examine it closely for traces of the last night, but I can’t find any.

A cushy shiver runs down my spine. These shoes are so casual, so unspectacular, but for Justin they became larger-than-life, figurative and literally. What did he think when he realized that something this ordinary and innocent would become the instrument of his doom? I imagine his point of view, along the shoe, up my leg and torso to my face endlessly far above him, knowing that he’ll end with the same insignificance as a bug. The notion gives me the creeps so pleasureable, that I get goosebumps.

The sudden knock on my door almost make me hit the ceiling. I put the shoes away and open. Leah looks me over and grins.

“You forgot it, right?” She is dressed for a training run and I recall our appointment.

“Aww, I’m sorry! Gimme a few minutes, will you?” I enter the bathroom and with haste I get ready within 20 minutes. We’re going to run, after all, not to a prom.

“How comes you slept this long? Had another phone talk with your friend, exchanging lover’s oaths and stuff?” Leah sits cross-legged on my sofa, grinning amused. A mumble has to be enough of an answer. Last night was too strange to even tell about it.

The fresh air, the constant monotonous motion, the blood pumping vibrantly through my veins - the sheer joy of running wonderfully soothes my troubled mind. I feel more focused every minute. We run at a speedy yet relaxed pace. Relaxed to me, that is, Leah is sweating and breathing heavily. Deem it a cliché, but I’m an east African.

After six miles we reach our preferred training ground, some sunbathing area at a lake not much frequented at this time of the year. We do some stretching, then fall into our training routine. While we practice throws and joint locks alternately on each other, we chat about this and that. Nearly an hour passes like this, unnoticed by us.

“Warmup is done, time for some real activity!” I increase the pace on our way back, hard enough to make Leah going to her limit. Back at the dorm, she drops panting to the front lawn. Though I’m quite exhausted myself, I’m in better shape. I straddle on her tummy and grin down on her.

“I’ve worn you out, it seems!”

“Aww, Kim… I surrender!” Leah moans afflicted.

“Oh? So this is the day I can finally make you my pleasure slave?”

“Whatever, as long as you let me catch my breath.” Her indifference make me chuckle. She’s sincerely tuckered out.

“Boring! I thought you’d offer more of a fight.”

“Another day, then. Get off me if you don’t want to get puked all over.”

With a yelp I’m off her. As I stand beside Leah, her prone form before my feet, the events of the last night recur.

“Since you dragged me out of bed at some ungodly time, I haven’t had breakfast. Meet me in an hour at Toni’s?” The small Italian café offers wonderful dishes for small prices and an equally wonderful privacy for talking.

“Agreed, if you help me up, put me on my bike and give me a push that lasts until home.” Despite her words, Leah rises energetically. We hug, Leah gets on her bicycle and I wave her goodbye.

I make it to Toni’s just in time. The café is well patronized but not crowded, so I can reserve a small table. I sip an excellent Cappuccino while I wait. I take out my smartphone, open the browser and type ‘shrink person’. There’s a lot of results. Magic spells from P&P roleplaying games. Movies. Entries from dictionaries. Videos. Pointless scrap!

I use the term ‘reduce man’. The outcome is even more hilarious: the best ways to reduce a man’s boobs, buttcheeks, even nipples. Bullshit.

I need to search more methodical and specifically. Just as I think about the strategy, Leah enters the room. I wave and she slumps into the chair.

“Today’s run was 110% of my limit. I had to take magnesium and gulp it down with 2 litres of water. Your fault when I have to pee every 15 minutes!”

“Plentiful diuresis is healthy, I read.” I chuckle at her niggling.  

“I need some more input, then.” She beckons to the waitress and we order a couple of individual dishes and drinks. We chat about this and that before I can’t hold me back anymore.

“Have you ever heard of people shrinking? Not the loss a few centimetres with the coming of old age, I mean shrinking to dollsize.”

“You mean like in the eighties movies? Not really… I heard of a fetish some people have, to interact with a much larger partner. Why do you ask?” Her response is so mundane it impresses me.

“Somehow, yes. Have you ever heard something like that happen for real?” The questions so incredibly silly in my own ears that I’m really glad Leah’s reaction is just an amused smirk.

“Of course not, I even doubt it would be possible at all.” She stuffs another Croccanti in her mouth. “Would be cool beyond words, though. I’d love to have certain people dollsized at my disposal.” she adds munching.

My initial relief gets overlapped by the fevered sting her endmost words deal me.

“Would you utilise the power you possess over them?” I realise, her next answer could determine the course of our future relationship.

“Sure! What good is power, when it’s unused?” Her shrug emphasizes her factual tone. She sincerely means it! “Again: why do you ask?” This time she’ll not be distracted, I fear.

“Just some idea I had, lately.”

“No way! It’s not just some idea, it’s something very palpable to you. Don’t take me for a fool, out with it!” Her triumphant protest is quite demanding. Silly me, should have concocted a story before!

“Wait… Is your new friend one of those fetishists into this subject? Did you had a kinky phone call or chat last night?” Leah’s dirty imagination provides me a suitable loophole. I mumble something unintelligible and look away.

“Priceless! Lucky you, having a guy with a submissive streak is so much fun, and the BDSM slaves are very polite and servile. Enjoy it!”

After she assumes to have solved the mystery, Leah is satisfied and it’s no problem for me to change the subject.

Back in my apartment, I do some course work, but find it hard to concentrate. Two hours later I’ve written just one meagre page.

The phone relieves me from my misery. It’s my mother calling, retrieving the weekly report and delivering another bunch of good advice. She’s an intellectual, a high-class scientist, but when it comes to me, she’s as much a clucking hen like any other mom. How much I love her!

“Mom, you’re a doctor, may I ask you a question?” Of course, she assumes that I am ill or injured. She prepares for a full diagnosis in her best worried tone before I even have a chance to go on. I have to interrupt her with some insistence.

“Do you know any disease, incident or method that makes a human shrink down to just a few centimetres?”

I expect laughter, I get silence.

“Mom?”

“We’ll meet for lunch this Sunday. I send you an address near you where we’ll meet.” She sounds so grave and mysterious that I get a shiver.

“Don’t worry, luv, we get this straight. Bye!” She must have sensed my uneasiness and her words are indeed soothing, but not overly.

Baffled. That’s it, I was baffled before, now I’m additionally worried.

The day started strange and turned into bizarre.