PROLOGUE

September 17, 2009.

My name is Alex and I am just your regular exchange student in France. I won a scholarship to study at a little county music school near Avignon and I’ve been here, practicing with my “hautbois” ever since. The music school assigned me a French teacher that spoke Spanish so that I would learn the language as fast and as effective as I could. They looked everywhere for someone that could be my tutor that spoke Spanish even though I told them I was just as comfortable with an English teacher (which they already had), but they decided they wanted me to feel more “at home”. I am truly excited to be here. Even though I’ve been here two months, every day feels like the first day. This represents one step further towards my dream of becoming an orchestral and choral conductor. Finally, all those extenuating hours practicing in my little house in Mexico had paid off.

So far, I have been taking both Counterpoint and Solfège, as well as French with Minerva, my tutor, and I have been really having a bad time with the language. Somehow it sounds like they’re suffocating with their own tongues when they speak and I sure as hell feel that way when trying to pronounce difficult words. But, fortunately, some of the guys from school that I already met seem to think it’s cute and are patient with me; they even invited me to a party or whatever this Saturday, before classes officially start on Monday. I’m completely positive this will be the best years of my life.

September 18, 2009.

“L'analyse au niveau de la proposition fait apparaître différents groupes qui constituent le sujet, les compléments d'objet, les compléments circonstanciels, les compléments d'agent ou l'attribu…” What? … Seriously, though: WHAT!? I’ll just go grab my oboe. That Telemann’s Concerto isn’t going to play itself anyway. This is ridiculous. 

September 19, 2009.

I have not seen any French Textbook today, my mouth and my lungs hurt from blowing through the reed for hours and my hands are shaking crazy, still trying to play out of motor memory. Today has been a good day. And it is about to become even better: tonight is the first time in the two months that I have been in Carpentras that I’m actually going out with people. I’m going to a small bar downtown with Irina the clarinetist, her boyfriend Guillaume, the baritone, and Mélodie, the most-suitably-named soprano (I wouldn’t want to forget their names mid-conversation). I am already prepared to defend myself against the unending, unforgiving jokes about oboists. I even have a few comebacks up my sleeve for each and every one of their respective instruments, even though most only work on Spanish. I don’t think they’re going to work anyway.

It seems I got to the bar a little early. It smells rancid and moist; the walls are just very old bricks, sweating from all the people inside, luckily I found a little table for three on the walkway. It is very dim lighted and heavily decorated with signed portraits of jazz, swing, and even gypsy musicians, and they were all positioned in a weird symmetry that exalted a huge Django Reinhardt signed portrait in the middle. It’s clear to me now why they had chosen this place. If I didn’t devote myself entirely to classical music, I would’ve liked to play some of these other styles. It smells like alcohol, cigarette, and lots of teenagers. I sat on my table and ordered a 1664. I still don’t know how they drink this having Belgium and Germany this close.

The jukebox is playing Dizzy Gillespie’s ‘The Champ’ as they arrive and I am nearly done with my beer. I will discretely order a second one while they get seated.

“Salut, Alex! Ça va?” asked Irina with a clearly more practiced French than mine. She speaks beautifully even though she is Russian and has been in France for merely eight months. I envy her. “Ça va bien, Irina. Merci. Et toi?” Damn it, I knew if I came I’d have to speak French but as soon as I heard myself talk I felt even more insecure. They all giggled a bit. Thank the gods, Irina knows a very decent Spanish (only those gods know why) and she might be able to translate parts that I do not understand, correct phrases I say wrong, and more than anything, she will make what could have been a rough night, much more bearable. She is a very charismatic, very tall nineteen-year-old beauty with short blonde hair and pale blue eyes. She is the oldest of us all, she is also supposed to be one of the finest clarinetists at school and is known to go to great lengths to get a passage perfect. They say she’s got a bit of an attitude, though. Some students call her Baba Yaga. Guillaume, on the other hand, looks very Rastafari. He is very calm and happy and pierced everywhere, not the kind of look you would expect to see on an opera singer. He even smells like freshly burnt weed. His speech is slow and full of wisdom (or nonsense, I don’t know anymore). And lastly, Mélodie reminds me of my little sister somehow. She is very cute and sweet with long brown hair and a tiny nose. Her teeth are brownish from years of smoking non-stop, but her smile is as heavenly as Cupid’s tender rear cheeks.

And that way we spent the night between watery beers, loud laughters, and Thelonious Monk’s dying piano. It was perfect, I was having a great time and I was making great friends. Until, suddenly, I began feeling drowsy and light-headed. I feel like passing out. Maybe I had too much to drink. I don’t think so; I only drank three beers. “Je dois aller à la maison, je suis ‘mareadé’” I muttered (what the hell on Earth is ‘mareadé’?). I can’t speak well, I can’t even tell them what’s wrong. “Tout va bien, Alex? On dirait que t’est bourré.” said Guillaume. I have no idea what he said, but I’m going home to sleep it off. “Sí, sí. Voy a casa a que se me pase la peda” I respond, expecting Irina to translate, but I don’t know if she did. As I stand up and start to walk, they react and start saying things that are unrecognizable to me until they become inaudible. I continue walking with a foggy vision. I can feel the whole world spinning beneath my feet. I look up and see some electric cables above my head; I reach them and start playing notes out of them as if they were strings on a guitar. The walkway becomes a huge drum that I hit with every step. The music is beautiful, but I don’t know what it is. Everything is dark now, and then, nothing.

First Part

The Limbo

I am alone. I tried screaming but no one is listening. My throat hurts now and it has been an eternity of darkness. I’m cold. I can see nor hear anything. I’m not even sure I recognize my own screams anymore. More like weeps now. Perhaps I’m dead. Maybe this is Hell. Am I being punished? There is nothing here and I cannot move. I don’t think I’m dead because I am terribly hungry and I can feel pain. But then again, I’ve never been dead before, I have no idea how it is meant to feel like. This is tiring; all I have left is the music in my head. Perhaps I should go to sleep.

Introductions and new beginnings

I don’t know how long I have been shrouded in this endless nothingness. If I am not dead, I’m starting to feel like I wanted to be. My large intestines are trying to devour the smaller ones. My muscles don’t seem to be able to try to move anymore. Maybe I… What was that? There was a huge stomping sound somewhere, I swear! Or am I starting to have halluci… There it is again! “Hello! HELLO! Somebody, please, help me!” My throat feels like it’s bleeding from all the screaming, but maybe this is my chance and it’s definitively worth a shot. What if it’s something evil? I’d believe anything at this point. Should I remain silent? I would rather have something evil kill me than keep on living on this Limbo (if living is what I have been doing lately) “Help m..” Whoa! Everything’s shaking and I feel like I’m getting pressed down against the floor as if moving upwards. What is going on?

Ouch! My eyes! There’s too much light. I can’t see anything. “Oh, putain!” I can hear a sweet voice coming from above, but it is no ordinary voice: it sounds everywhere and has a very goddess-like nature. “Ça a marché. J’y crois pas que ça a marché!” My sight starts adjusting to the blinding light and I can see a huge shadow looming above what I currently consider to be my most fragile body. As everything starts to get clearer, I see my reflection. I look like I am about to die. Color has left my body and my face looks emaciated. Upon further inspection of myself y see something moving behind my reflection, something brown and round. It appears to be a giant…Oh, my God! Is that an eye? It is an eye and it’s looking straight at me!

Whoa! A gigantic hand is holding me. She is definitively a girl, she probably isn’t even 16 yet, but how can she be so huge? Her enormous fingers are wrapping my motionless body and lifting me up towards her moist lips. I’m trying to scream but words don’t seem to be able to pop out of my mind. “Tu est trop beau! On est enfin réunis!” She starts pressing me against her fleshy lips repeatedly as if kissing me. She IS kissing me. Jesus! Her breath is awful! I can tell she just ate chocolate or something. She starts spinning around with me tightly held between both of her sweaty hands. So. Fast. I don’t think I can… Thank heavens she stopped! The world is moving so fast. I think I was about to pass out. “Maintenant, rien pourra nous séparer.” she says as she starts pulling towards her lips again, yet this time, the look on her face is different. She’s… She’s pulling her lips apart and her humongous tongue is coming out. She’s pressing my face against her wet tongue! The gigantic meaty serpent that is her tongue is wildly swirling around my entire head. She starts sucking and I feel like my face will peel off my skull any second now. Luckily she retreats and I desperately gasp for air as her saliva started filtering inside my mouth, nose, and ears, but my luck is short lived as she pulls me to her lips again and her slippery tongue starts forcing its way inside my mouth. It is so big that I fear I will end up like Heath Ledger’s Joker. I try to fight it off with my own tongue as my arms are trapped by her hands, but this only makes her go even wilder, and I swear, the smell!

“Who the hell are you? Why are you doing this to me? How is it even possible!?” I ask as soon as she gives me a break from my torment. I have so many questions. She just frowns. “Ah, c’est vrai! J’ai oublié que tu ne parles pas français encore.” What did she just say? God, I hate French. “Heureusement j’ai rétréci cette autre gamine aussi. Où est-ce que je l’ai mise?” She says as she put me down on what seems to be a desk and storms off the room. I can hear the slapping of her bear feet as he walks across her wooden floor like a prelude to my own death as I imagine being under those pale feet and getting stepped on like a bug. Is that what I am now? A bug? One thing’s for certain: she’s a heavy, lousy walker.

I’m still soaked from a dense coat of saliva but I think it’s smart to get to know my surroundings in case I imperatively need to escape soon. Her room is very girl-like: she likes horses (not a hard deduction, as she hung around 14 horse posters, I am no Sherlock) and she has the whole equipment necessary to practice horse riding, form helmet to very dirty, muddy riding boots. Her bed is pink as most of her room and everything is very rustic, so I assume I’m still in the south of France. It smells like cinnamon or something. Perhaps if I wasn’t drenched in saliva I would be able to tell for sure. She has 1,2,4…8 CD’s!? Who has only 8 CD’s? Does she live in a cave? At least she has more CD’s than books. There’s not much in her bedroom apart from that, a closet with more stuff inside, and the laptop I’m currently walking on as a small sign of revenge. How did I become so small? I figure I must not be taller than 4 inches.

I can hear her coming back. That horrible foot slapping of doom approaches. “Rebonjour, mon p’tit bonhomme.”She says as she sits on her chair, placing her cupped hands in front of me. “Comme je savais que tu ne pourrais parler pas français avec moi, j’ai pris le temps de rétrécir à ta copine pour nous aider. Allez, dites vos bonjours.” As she opens her hands, I see the trembling figure of Irina that is red from crying and cursing. “Lâche-moi, salope! Je t’ai dit que je suis pas ton animal de compagnie et moins encore, ton esclave!” says Irina to what the giantess angrily responds after violently smashing her fist on the table mere inches beside us: “faittes attention sur la façon dont tu t’adresses à moi. Ne oublies pas que tu m’apartiens maintenant et que ta vie dépend de moi.”Irina falls to her knees and cries. “What did she say to you?” I asked Irina and she started translating automatically while sobbing: “She told me to be careful on how I address her because now I belong to her and my life depends on her”. As she translated, she finally looked in my direction and recognized me. “Alex! I’m so glad to see you! This has been a nightmare.” She says as she jolts up and hugs me. “Why are you so wet? And what is that smell?” She asks. “Chocolate, I think.” I respond.

After a few moments of being really happy to see a familiar face, the giantess coughs as to remind us that she’s still there above us. I gather a lot of courage and, with messy dry and hardened hair, I ask Irina to translate: “We are human beings, we are not your property and we do not belong to you to do whatever the hell you want to do with us, so set us free, giant, before I decide to take legal actions!” Irina simply looks at my like I’m an idiot and says “How are you going to take legal actions against her when you are the size of a lollipop to her, as she apparently already used you as such. And, by the way, that is Élise, she plays the tuba at our school”. Damn it, I had forgotten about school. I think I might be late for class. Élise understood that what I said was addressed to her so she demanded Irina to translate and she did. Élise said something to Irina who tells me that only she is her property, that I am the love of her life and that she’s heartbroken that I did not recognize her, and that we met on my first day on France at the airport. As Irina translates, I see Élises face starting to gloom and then turning red of rage. “Mon p’tit amoureux n’est pas capable de me dire de choses comme ça. Je crois que le problème c’est le traducteur et il faura faire quelque chose pour le réparer. Merci pour ton service, Irachka.” Irina started getting pale as she translated: “My little sweetheart isn’t capable of telling me such things. I think that the problem is the translator and I’ll have to do something to fix it… Thank you for your services…Oh, God! No, please! NO!!”

Élise is swiftly lifted Irina by the waist and is dangling her above her anticipating mouth. Her screams are more frightening that any other sound I have ever heard. I should say something. I should do something. But I can’t. I’m not able to move a single inch. Élise dropped Irina into her mouth and is now resting with her mouth open, using only her tongue to prevent her from escaping. Her screams are provoking chills down my spine; I can’t believe what I’m seeing. She then slowly closes her mouth and now I hear her muffled screams inside the teenager’s mouth. Judging by the screams and the movement of Élise’s jaw, I can tell that she’s still playing with Irina with her tongue. I can picture myself being there inside, between those sharp teeth bigger than basketballs, getting crushed by the wet tongue, getting soaked on gallons and gallons of saliva, and the overwhelming smell of chocolate combined with a whole day’s breath odor. Eventually I hear the first crunching sound and the screaming intensifies. Then another and another. The screams stopped. That was the worst part. Then she started to casually chew and I was able to see for a brief second the bloody mess inside her mouth. Most of it was unrecognizable now; some of her was between her teeth. That used to be a person. Worst of it all, that used to be a great clarinetist. A drop of blood drips from the left side of her mouth and into the desk. She lightly tilts her head back and I see a little lump going down her kilometric throat and with a loud gulp, Irina was no more. All she ever was, all she could ever be, all the hours she spent practicing, all the great moments she enjoyed around Guillaume were now reduced to nothing more than a little girl’s snack. What the fuck have I got myself into? This is sick. I’M feeling sick. Élise’s huge hand is reaching towards me but I am too ill to fight back. Everything is dark again.

A new life

It’s been a few days since Irina became a snack. She has been properly digested and probably excreted already. Élise has been trying to teach me some French and I have been trying to behave as best as I possibly can in order to avoid sharing Irina’s fate, but the connivance has been considerably difficult because of our communication deficit. Her temperament is rather short-fused, even though I can see how she tries to maintain a serene posture around me. She even brought a shrunken Minerva home to help us. How many more people will have to suffer at the hands of this seemingly sweet teenager?

I’ve learnt that she does horse riding on Wednesdays, she rarely ever practices the tuba, and she drinks lots of coffee with powdered chocolate everyday (that’s what the smell of her breath was). One time I told her I found it odd that, as a musician, she only has 8 CD’s to which she responded that she didn’t want to be a musician but was forced by her mother. I told her that she shouldn’t be studying music if it wasn’t her true call and I’m pretty sure she almost threw me in the trashcan. Anyway, ever since Minerva is here, things have been a lot easier. I have to repeatedly remind her not to say anything mean to Élise but she keeps telling me that “no one can be that bad”. She has not seen what I’ve seen. But at least that keeps her at bay and she’s managed to live here with us for a couple of days now.

Speaking of living, Minerva and I are almost always separated unless we require her as a translator. I have been sleeping over a folded clean sock in her nightstand, using the other clean sock as a blanket. Normally I sleep on the socks she’ll be using the next day to school (which I’m already missing. I wonder if they’d think I quitted and went back home) and, even though, they’re clean and generally smell like chamomile, there’s always a faint smell of her feet and I have to sleep embraced by that smell. I still don’t know where Minerva sleeps but I have a few theories: either she sleeps inside a drawer among clothes or she sleeps inside the shoes she’s worn that day. If she sleeps in the shoes, it has been very warm lately and I imagine they’d stink as hell. I should probably ask her.

“Hey, Minerva. Good morning.” I say as Élise drops her rather harshly on the desk I was sitting on. Minerva rolls around for a bit, she clearly hurt the knee she landed on. As I approach her to help her up, Élise starts talking rather quickly: “Puisque tu étais impolie avec moi hier soir, je vais te donner du travail à faire pendant que je sois au lycée. Comme ça tu pourrais me rembourser pour ce qu’il faut pour que tu sois là.” Immediately, and out of pure habit, Minerva starts translating, “Dice que, ya que fui grosera con ella anoche, me dará trabajo para hacer mientras se va a la escuela y que de esa manera le puedo reembolsar lo que necesita por tenerme aquí ((She says that since I was mean to her yesterday, she’ll be giving me work to do while she’s at school, that that way I can repay her for what it takes to have me here)).” “Eso me parece medio injusto, ¿no? No es que como que estemos aquí por voluntad propia ((I think that’s kinda unfair, isn’t it? It’s not like we’re here on our own free will)).” I tell her. “I think only I’m expected to work.” Minerva says. Élise starts looking for something inside her closet for a few seconds until she comes out with a pair of old leather brown sandals and drops them on the floor in the middle of the room and storms off through the door, shutting it hard behind her. This is, literally, the first time I give a thought about anything outside this bedroom that has become our entire world. Is the house big, does she live with her parents? Any parent at all? It seems strange to me now to figure out that no one has come through that imposing wooden pink door other than our captor. After a few minutes, the slapping of Élise’s bare feet approaches and she enters the room carrying a sponge, a pair of scissors, and two old, rusted silver thimbles.

“Vas a limpiar la plantilla de mis sandalias porque ya están muy sucias y me da pena que me vean con ellas ((You’ll be cleaning the insole of my sandals because they’re very dirty and I am ashamed to be looked at with those)).” Translates Minerva as Élise cuts the sponge into several small pieces that could easily be grabbed by our tiny hands. “J’aurais besoin d’eau aussi, tu sais? ((I’ll be needing water also, you know?))” Says Minerva to Élise, to which she responds: “Je le sais bien, petite bête, c’est pour ça que j’ai amené les dés à coudre.((I know it, little beast, that’s why I brought the thimbles.))” And without any preamble whatsoever, Élise proceeds to pull both thimbles closer to her face and spit into them. A single spittle on each thimble was more than enough to fill them both entirely (one even overflowed and Minerva had to use her shirt to clean it from the desktop as ordered by the giantess). She carefully places all the devices required to complete Minerva’s job right next to the awaiting sandals on the floor and comes back to face us. Her otherwise petite, round face approached us too fast to be comfortable, her small, pointy nose hovered over Minerva’s meek frame and I was able to see myself again in the reflection on her glasses. I remember that first time I saw myself there. “Tu ferais mieux de finir tes devoirs en temps, ou bien… ((You better finish your homework on time, or else…))” Threatens Élise as she grabs Minerva by the hips and places her on top of one of the old sandals, she then stands up. “Tu est si minuscule de là-haut, on dirait que tu est juste un tout petit insecte à mes pieds, en attente d’être écrasé ((You look so insignificant from up here, one would say that you’re just a tiny little insect at my feet, waiting to be crushed)).” Says the gargantuan teen as she menacingly and repeatedly pokes her new property with her right big toe, pressing slightly harder on the last part. Minerva is so small and so far away for me to see her clearly but she doesn’t seem to be moving. I’d be terrified if I saw a gigantic foot in front of me, I’d probably be running until my lungs burn out. Élise is now coming towards me and her hand is – Whoa! – She’s carrying me and taking me to her bed, she… drops me on the pillow? Well, this is nice. “Tu n’as rien à faire, juste repose-toi jusqu’à ce que je reviens du lycée, d’accord? ((You don’t have to do anything, just get some rest until I come back from school, OK?))” Oh, Minerva. Why are thee so far away when I need thou? Oh, God. She’s coming in for a kiss. I hate that sucking, smelly sensation.

Our new owner then returns to her closet and pulls out a pair of old, very worn out white converse shoes. She deliberates whether or not to wear my bed and blanket today but decides to just put the shoes without socks. She grabs her school bag and her tuba case and off she goes to school. Where I should be going too. At least I’m comfortable here on this cloudlike pillow. Oh, God, Minerva is not moving.

The shoe shiner

I jump from Élise’s bed unto her nightstand, travel across a valley inhabited by various coins, a teen’s magazine, and a watch to reach the big, pink lamp. I use the cord to slide down to the floor and walk as fast as I can towards Minerva (What? There’s no need for me to get tired, is it?) until I reach her.

“¡Es enorme! ((She’s huge!))” says Minerva as I approach her. “Oh, por Dios, Minerva, mírate. ¡Mira cómo te ha dejado esa loca! ((Oh, my God, Minerva, look at you. Look at how that crazy girl has left you!)) I respond. Minerva’s left arm and leg are crushed completely flat on the blackened insole of the sandal. Apart from a few bones that are protruding from the gory mess, it looks as if part of her body has fused to what she’s supposed to be cleaning. “¡Es gigantesca! ((She’s gigantic!))” She keeps saying. I, honestly, have no idea how she’s not agonizing in utter pain. Perhaps the shock of actually seeing Élise at full size from the floor is greater than the pain. She’s sweating cold and her eyes are wide from total fear as if she was on ecstasy. I haven’t yet seen her from bellow her cute small breasts. I mean I’ve seen her far away from a safe distance. Minerva doesn’t seem to be bleeding, though. All the blood on the insole is from her arm and leg alone. Maybe her limbs were so strongly crushed that any way the blood could come out is sealed. I think I’m about to vomit. Still, the pain must be unbearable.

“AAAAAAAAAGH!!!!!” The screaming started. I knew it was a matter of time. The initial shock is over; the adrenaline running through her veins must have stopped. “AAAAAAAAAHH!!! ¡¡¡AYÚDAME!!! ((HELP ME!!!))”, “¡No sé cómo ayudarte! Ni siquiera sé si es posible ayudarte! ((I Don’t know how to help you! I don’t even know if it’s possible to help you at all!))” That’s not very reassuring. Between the screams, the smashed limbs, the blood, our tears, and the vomit all over my mouth, shirt, and floor, I think I’m turning off again.

I have no idea why I keep passing out. It’s beginning to become annoying. At least Minerva has fallen asleep, maybe due to a pain shock. I am only 100% certain of three things: Minerva is still alive, I don’t know how nor why, but she’s just unconscious; I am a mess, I am covered in the remnants of my fruity breakfast and Minerva’s blood; I need to clean these sandals as fast as I can before that crazy bitch comes back from school because she’s going to kill Minerva for sure if I don’t. Plus, I have no idea how long I was out. I don’t think I have much time.

With lots of effort, I manage to get back on my feet and walk towards the sponges and the thimbles, which I carry back with me to the sandals. I realize that, in order to fully clean both shoes, I have to move Minerva at some point. I almost puke again at the thought. I think I better start with the left one.

I grab a sponge and submerge it into the… EW! I had forgotten that the thimbles were filled with Élise’s saliva! This is so disgusting! The slimy substance is slowly dripping down my hand and my arm. I shake my arm to try to get rid of the sticky fluid until I realize I have a very limited amount of resources. I gag at the strong smell of spit and toothpaste covering my arm, but I think I’m going to have to suck it up for Minerva’s sake. Great! The sponge is now at the bottom of the thimble and I’m going to have to stick my hand into it and pull it out. This whole thing reaches just bellow my nipples. I’m going to have to submerge myself to get it out. Would Élise really kill Minerva if she’s not done with the insoles? Should I just wait and see? What am I thinking? I cannot risk Minerva’s life because I find something disgusting. Well, here goes nothing.

I can’t breath! The saliva is so dense that it doesn’t fall off easily. I manage to spit some of it and breath through my mouth and I proceed to roll on the insole to try and spread as much of it on it. As most of the spit is now on the floor, I can use my hands to free my nostrils and my eyes from the reeking fluid. I feel as if I were myself a parcel of food that has been spitted. At least I got the sponge. I should have taken my clothes off before diving into the thimble. Now I am covered in vomit, blood, and spit. This day cannot get any worse. And what’s even worse, I just now remembered that Élise cut the sponge on several other tiny pieces and that such pieces are merely 20 feet away from me. I’m stupid! So stupid!

As I’ve been cleaning Élise’s left shoe for about three hours now, scrubbing tirelessly the smelly, soaked sponge across the insole, I’ve come to realize a few things: 1) These sandals are so worn out that I can perfectly feel the relief on the insole where the foot usually rest with each and every toe; 2) The insole has molded to Élise’s feet so naturally that I can deduce that she has very high arches; 3) I am barely the size of her big toe; 4) The strap says the size of the sandal is 26.5cm; 5) It takes me roughly 22 to 24 steps to walk from one end to the other; 6) That means I must be around 1 inch tall; 7) Élise is bigger that I had previously estimated or rather, I am way smaller than I though. Now I understand why Minerva was in such a shock.

The sponge I was using is no longer usable so I started using the second one and finished the first shoe with it still in mildly good conditions. Luckily I still have another one for the other sandal. Also, the saliva inside the first thimble has run out and I will have to start using the second one to clean the other shoe. It’s as if she had known the exact measures of materials I would need. Creepy, right? I have to move Minerva now. I think she entered a comma or something. She’s still alive and asleep. This sandal is going to be harder to clean as it has vomit, blood and spit (just like myself!). All right, I can do this. I know I can. How hard can it be? I just have to move a half dead, half glued comatose person out of a teen giantess’ insole so that I can use a sponge drenched in saliva to clean the imprint drawn by the mentioned giantess’ foot, the blood of the comatose person, and the barf of the one cleaning before my owner arrives so that she doesn’t crush the life out of me with her huge, wrinkled foot like an insect. Piece of cake.

Now that I have assimilated my Kafkian predicament, it’s time to finally move Minerva. I’m trying to pull her as gently as possible but she is well stuck to the shoe’s insole. Even using my whole strength it has proven difficult but, slowly, she starts peeling off the floor and it becomes easier. Minerva is waking up I guess. At least she reacted to my pulling. I grab my trusty sponge, soak it in my not so fresh, stinky saliva and get myself to work. I pass it sidelong and sideways. I pass it in circles and straight lines. I pass it between crevices and cracks. Four hours later my arms are burning like hot racecar’s tires, my knees are swollen like a wine’s cork after being microwaved; my back aches as if I had been carrying elephants for several hours, but at least I’m done. I hear sobbing. It’s Minerva!

“Me duele, Alex. Me duele mucho ((It hurts, Alex. It hurt so much)).” I can barely hear Minerva talking through her tears. “No lo voy a lograr. No podemos hacer nada contra ella, es inmensa ((I’m not going to make it. There’s nothing we can do against her, she’s immense)).” “Por favor, no digas eso. Vas a salir de ésta. No me abandones ((Please, don’t say that. You’re gonna pull through this. Do not abandon me)).” Now I am crying too.

Those giant foot stomps start echoing through an air so thin it could be cut with a butter knife and we start crying even harder. We have no idea whatsoever of what is going to happen but we hug each other ((she hugs me as best as she can, considering the pain and the missing limbs)) and we brace ourselves when the old pink door squeaks open. Élise immediately kicks her sneakers off and looks for me on the bed and I can see her turning red of anger when she can’t find me, she then looks down at her shoes and see us cowering besides them on the floor. She’s fucking taller that I could have ever imagined! It is the first time I truly see her at her full height right in front of me. Her kilometric thin legs reach higher than any building I have ever seen before. I feel so tiny, so powerless, so fragile. Élise looks down and reaches down to grab her sandals. She lifts them with so much ease it makes me angry. “Tu as fait un bon travail, petite salope ((You’ve done a good job, little bitch)).” I try to urge Minerva not to translate and save her energy to no avail: “Dice que hice un buen trabajo. No parece saber que fuiste tú quien las limpió y no puedo creer que hayas pasado por todo eso por mí. Te lo agradezco ((She says I did a good job. She doesn’t seem to know that it was you who cleaned them and I can’t believe you’ve been through that for me. Thank you)).” Élise kneels so that she’s closer to us: “Et qu’est-ce que tu fais ici? Je t’ai dis de rester au lit ((And what are you doing here? I told you to stay on the bed)).” As she speaks, Élise realizes Minerva’s state and mine, “Que s’est-il passé à vous deux? Il faura que je te lave, Alex. Et que pour toi, Minerva, je suis vraiement désolée, mais je pense qu’il serait mieux de te mettre hors de ta misère ((What happened to you two? I will have to wash you, Alex. And as for you, Minerva, I am truly sorry, but I think it’ll be better to put you out of your misery)).” Minerva starts translating as Élise stands up again to her full height. “Pregunta que qué nos pasó, que va a tener que bañarte y que será mejor librarme de mi miseria. No llores, Alex, es mejor así. Ya no soporto el dolor y ahora nunca podría regresar a dar clases en la escuela de música. Prométeme que vas a sobrevivir. Prométeme que vas a salir de aquí y que matarás a esta bruja de una vez por todas. ¡Promételo! ((She asked what happened to us, that she will have to wash you and that it’d be better to free me from my misery. Don’t cry, Alex, it’s better this way. I can’t stand the pain any longer and I could never go back to teaching at the music school like this. Promise me you’ll live. Promise me you’ll get out of here and that you will kill this witch once and for all. Promise me!)).”

As tears start committing suicide out of my eyes, I look up and see Élises massive foot right in front of me. It’s only a few feet away from us. It sees me as a raging bull about to dash towards me. It can stare into my soul. And I can see the vague color of Minerva’s blood from the morning at the tip of her big toe; the fleshy tyrant has mostly absorbed it by now. The bull slowly rises above us until we are completely overcome by its enveloping shadow. It dangles atop our heads as if waiting, yet I am ready to take on the bull face to face. “BOUCHE ((MOVE!))!” screams Élise, “Muévete!” translates Minerva. I run from under the menacing foot as it slowly descends upon my teacher. It must’ve been a few seconds but they felt like hours. Every second I see less and less Minerva and more and more foot until the foot is all I can see. And then comes the crushing sound. As beautiful as an autumn leaf getting trampled yet as terrifying as Irina getting chewed on. Élise is now fully on top of Minerva. Her full weight is supported on that foot, on that specific spot near the center of the ball. She then twists. She’s fucking twisting! Like she’s stepping on a pest! Blood comes out form under her foot. A little bit of it travels through the small crevices on her foot. I can’t see this.

Élise then grabs a tissue from her nightstand and wipes Minerva from under her sole. She uses the same tissue to wipe the blood off the floor near her sandals. She tosses the tissue inside the garbage can. And there goes Minerva, as disposable as the pest she was treated like. No ceremony, no burial, no grieving, she’s just in the dumpster alongside some chewing gum, some used tampon, and a fresh banana peel. This bitch is fucking crazy.

“Viens ici, mon petit amoureux, allons te laver maintenant ((Come here, my little sweetheart, let’s get you cleaned up)).” The hand I am getting so familiar with reaches for me. I can’t find my will to fight right now. I’m broken inside.