Jennifer OConner was in an abusive relationship when the plague hit. Not much has changed since then. The only real difference is that shes now too small to fight back. The asshole she was dating was named Padric Welch. They lived together in the slums of Boston. Used to be their biggest fear was paying the rent, now it was surviving. Well
now Jennifers biggest fear was surviving. Padric no longer had any fears. The debt collectors were dead, he no longer had to keep a job, no chance of his girl running out on him
things were looking up for ol Paddy. Hed never felt better.
Jen, on the other hand, was a total psychological mess. She had become little more than a toy--not even worthy of slave status. The worst kind of torture, is psychological. Bullet wounds hurt when you get them, but you forget the pain. You never forget the spot, or that it happened (scar tissue assures us of that), but you dont remember the exact pain. Getting the shit knocked out of you hurts when it happens, but theres no guarantee youll have anything permanent from that beating. Youll forget the pain, and may very well forget it ever happened. But emotional abuse never goes away--you are able to recall in every exactness the feeling of psychological abuse. You can remember how it felt to be ostracized by gradeschool students, you can remember how it feels to know that people you love and respect are disappointed in you. But you can never recall the exact feeling of your father smacking the bejezus out of you with a belt, or of falling off the second story and into a frozen pool. You know it hurt, sometimes permanent marks are left behind, but the pain goes away. Psychological damage, emotional trauma
that never goes away. Ask any war veteran. Hell tell you that his battle scars dont hurt too much, but he can still remember the chipping away of his psyche that occurred every time he dropped an enemy to the floor. Hell remember how their bodies looked as the bullet pierced them, hell remember the horrible, squishy whump they made as they fell to the ground, and theyll remember the lifeless look in the enemys eyes
but he wont remember on what date he got shot, or how much it hurt. Just the remembrance of murder becoming commonplace. Mental blows will always, and always have, hurt more than any kind of physical blow. That was what was so horrible about slavery. There was very little physical abuse during slave times. There was the occasional rape, and the brutal beating for would be escape-artists, but very little else. The true horror, the true atrocity of slavery was psychological. Few people can say they know what its like to be stripped of a name and individuality--to become nothing more than property. That feeling snaps a mind in two
and thats just what it was doing to Jen.
Something was ready to give. Jen was ready to explode. Her normally quiet and reserved nature was slowly disappearing
and tonight, the buildup to the explosion would set her off like C4 coated in nitro glycerin and chucked off the 4th story of a building.
Paddy got home. He went out for food. Came back with some cans of refried beans, some potatoes, and a few bags of pasta. All water had to be boiled now anyway, so pasta was a logical choice of food.
Jen, Im home. You want food, you better get where I can see you! Jen knew immediately what was on his mind. She scuttled underneath the couch, curling into the feeble position. Jen, get your ass out here! Dont make me hunt for you, damn it.
Her breathing became shallow. Slower and more steady. She wanted to eliminate any possible way of being found. Suddenly, the couch flew away and there stood Paddy. He didnt look happy.
I told you to come out, he growled.
Fuck you. It was a quiet response. Quiet, breathy and afraid.
What was that?
Fuck
you. Still quiet, but no longer afraid.
I dont think I heard you correctly.
Fuck you! This time it was angry. There was malice and intent behind the words. I dont need you, Paddy! Id do just as well out on the god damn streets! Fuck you!
Oh, so you think you can leave? You think youre gonna leave? Go ahead, try and leave.
Jen made a brake for it, but Paddy pounced and caught her in his grasp. I aint gonna bother trying to rig it so you cant escape. Youve insulted me--made me feel unappreciated, babe, he said, holding her up to his face. As he held her, his thumb felt up her tiny body. Nobody insults me. Nobody, you hear?
Fuck you!
Say that one more time! Say that one more fuckin time and Ill stop playin nice!
Fuck you! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!!
Paddy had had enough. He went to the kitchen, opened the microwave and tossed her in. It took about a minute on low power and 30 seconds on high before she exploded--blood, flesh and entrails splattered all over the microwave. It was the most painful death one can imagine. Baking in intense heat and then being ripped apart from every possible direction while still feeling everything.
(In all truth, science has shown us that a head severed from its body continues blinking and trying to breathe for up to two minutes. One can only assume that some form of the mind is still functioning throughout some of the exploding process. -- FB.)
But the world is a funny place, rife with bitter and cruel irony. While cleaning Jens remains out of the microwave, Paddy was exposed to a concentrated form of the virus in her blood--not the wimpy aired down version youd encounter on the streets. He was exposed to the virus direct. It took a few days, but he got the flu. He now enjoys his new home in the intestines of several rats.
Giantess World
Author's Chapter Notes:
Story 32: Jaded