04. 1/128 inch. Unaware. F/m.

My memory is very hazy, but from what I know, I was born into a very poor country in Africa. I lived in a tiny hut with my family. I can recall at a young age being taken from my family and brought a slave camp, tied up, and sent away. Now as an adult, I awake every morning, am fed a hot meal, and then am given my orders. I walk from my sterile metal room into a gigantic space where five human toes tower over me. I have to walk over to the big toe where I find a lift that takes me to the nail of the big toe. My fellow workers and I cross the expanse of the nail and began scrubbing and buffing the surface of the nail before the painters descend to color it. After our job is done, we are herded back to our rooms to sleep for the day tomorrow. The rumors abound among us. The most agreed upon theory is that we've back kidnapped (or sold) and brought to America to become the slaves of the wealthy.  Extremely rich women go to spas and then thousands upon thousands of minuscule slaves like myself give them pedicures and manicures and facials. It seems insane that one person's hubris could be satiated by this, but I suppose a group of unpaid, worthless peons with no hope of freedom can be forced to do whatever they are told. When anyone complains, they are never seen again. When one woman's toe twitched the other day and several hundred cleaners slid off to their deaths, it didn't matter. They'll be replaced. And all I know is that this will be my life until I'm not needed. All I do know is that whenever I stand next the enormous big toe of whatever woman, I am nothing to her. And I doubt she'll even appreciate our labors. Yesterday, we were dragged out to our work zone to confront the towering toes of a woman, a young girl, judging from the smoothness of the skin and the chipped pink polish that colored the nails of the toes. The fellow workers around me sighed, knowing that the old polish on the nails would make more work for us, as we would have to clip it all off. After I had ascended on the elevator to the nail of her big toe, I walked over to a patch of pink paint and pulled out a scraping tool from my belt. I knelt down and proceed to scrape away, tearing the old polish off the girl’s massive nail. I gazed across the smooth surface watching my fellow slaves grumble as they work. Is this what life should be for us? Even if we all escaped somehow, what could we do? Did the massive woman that we’re servicing even know about us, and if she does, does she care? Some of my coworkers talk about a God. And if there is a God, I’d like to give him a piece of my mind.