He sat upon the edge of the bed, legs dangling in the air, staring vacantly into space, rolling a large grain of rice between his hands. It was all he owned from that day. His clothes were gone. His job was gone. His life, well, was it really his life anymore? The urge to give in, to give up darkened his thoughts. But the core of his being remained defiant. He waited patiently for his outrage to return, to awaken, as he toyed with the rice.
- THUD -
That was what he needed. The black depression faded under the assault of his righteous anger. He ground his teeth. Each rhythmic shudder reminded him of who he was. As they mounted in intensity his capacity for refusal also rose. His fingers curled around the grain of rice, gripping it like a small football. Before she arrived he bent down and rolled it beneath the bed. Hiding it from sight.
She tapped twice. It was all the warning she ever gave him, before swinging open the front of the doll house. He remained where she left him, where she always found him, perched upon his little bed, shoulders hunched, facing away from her.
“I brought food,” she murmured softly. She worried that her voice hurt his tiny ears, and made every effort to spare him.
He didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge her presence. She sighed, placed the little tray next to him, where it would be easy to reach. Resting her elbows on the table, and her chin in her hands she gazed at him.
He was perfect.
It defined him. It was impossible to still the beating of her heart in his presence, just as it had been the day she acquired him, tossing the steamed rice from the little cardboard container, so she could scoop him up.
Oh, how he screamed, how he railed and shouted. His diminutive form radiating a fierce, angry vitality. He beat unceasingly against the cardboard as she hurried home with him.
Her eyes explored him, adoring every line of his diminutive body, and she talked to him. She told him about the sunrise that morning. She mused upon the clouds. She shared the scents of spring, the sound of birds, the antics of small animals in the park. There was no purpose to her stories, no intent. She merely wanted to be with him, to share her day. Hoping that he would reply.
He sat still as stone, making no move towards the food, ignoring her.
She ached to touch him, to take his little body into her hands, to hold and caress him, and keep him close. But she forebear, because she didn’t want to take him that way. To do so would ruin his perfection, reduce him to a mere toy. And so, when her stories were done, she sighed softly.
She ended every day with three soft words: “Are you well?” She waited, and when sure his silence would not end, carefully closed the front of the doll house. Crossing the room she turned out the light and laid upon her bed, resting her head on her pillow, staring at the little house in the moonlight.
He slowly unclenched his fists. The food smelled wonderful. It always did. She spared no effort taking care of his needs. No pet ever had a more attentive owner.
With a snarl of pain he flipped the tray into the air, spilling the meal, and crawled into the bed, ignoring the plaintive complaining of his stomach.
When morning came she viewed the uneaten food with dismay. But she cleaned it quietly, and without any fuss. She shared everything with him, her happiness, her sadness, her annoyances, and angers. But she never chastised him or demanded anything from him. And she always ended the day with those same three words.
But his defiance had discovered a new outlet. He waited for her to leave, and he tossed every tray. The gnawing his in gut drove him mad, but he endured it until he become a part of his being, a dull, unending ache.
She didn’t know what to do. At first it merely concerned her, but as days passed a growing terror seized her. He was in her care. He depended on her. She couldn’t imagine forcing him to eat, but neither could she imagine losing him.
It became harder and harder to tell her stories. She stared at him, but her heart no longer pounded in adulation, it quivered in impotent fear. She wanted to yell at him, to demand that he eat. But she couldn’t. So she continued as she always had. She took care of him. She brought him food. And she ended every day with the same three words.
That evening it was raining out. Droplets pattered against the windows, which creaked from the winds. Soft spring thunder rumbled in the distance.
Her reflection gazed back at her as she carefully applied makeup. She wasn’t normally into this sort of thing, but in her desire to win him over, she sought every available avenue. The dress she wore was simple, but a deep midnight blue that she adored. She lightly dabbed a tiny hint of perfume. Biting her lower lip she nodded to herself.
He liked pot roast and mashed potatoes. Before his hunger strike, whenever she served it, he cleaned the plate until it glistened. She brought it to him now, carefully opening the doll house, setting it next to him.
Getting comfortable, she leaned her cheek against the open wall of the house, eyes shining as she told him about birds playing in the puddles, and the way the rain tickled down the window panes.
He trembled with hunger. The smell of the food was exceptional. With it came a faint scent of honey and jasmine that he knew came from her. The steel of his will trembled. The need to eat was overpowering. Her words, soft and soothing, only added to his helpless, tormented feelings. He panted in an extremity of passion. Lightning flashed in the windows, and before the roll of thunder struck, he reached out and hurled the tray of food against the wall.
She stared at it dripped down onto the floor, and it suddenly hit her. She couldn’t win him over. She couldn’t change him without breaking him, and that was intolerable. She said three words and she fled, because she didn’t want him to witness her despair, and she cast herself upon her bed, hugging a pillow against her body.
He sat stunned.
The house remained open. It was unheard of, she never did that. But that wasn’t what ran around and around in his mind. It was the three words. They weren’t the three she normally used to end the day. They were three different words, and she said them with such mingled passion and hopelessness that it tore at the roots of his being.
Slipping off the bed he kicked something. It was the grain of rice. His fingers flexed. He kicked it away. He exited the house, and walked out onto the table for the first time, moving carefully in his weakened state. The room beyond was simple, but neat and tidy. Off in the distance she lay huge and helpless upon her bed, silently sobbing, her shoulders racked by storms of despair.
He stared. Escape was possible. He could leave. He could finally get away from her. He stared for a long time.
She hugged the pillow with all the fierce, unrequited love she had for him. But it didn’t help. Nothing helped. She cursed herself for her weakness, for admitting what she felt for him when he least wanted to hear it. Anger seized her, and immediately melted away. She didn’t know what to do. Part of her hoped when she looked, he’d be gone. Part of her wailed at the thought of losing him.
The riot of emotions drained her. Tears stained her face, they tickled her cheeks, making her itched, but she didn’t want to move. She didn’t want to do anything.
A touch, light as a feather, brushed against her face, wiping at a single tear.
She tensed like a small frightened animal. The touch came again, tentative and cautious, gentle and soothing.
She opened her eyes. It was hard to focus from so close. But she saw him. Her little idol of perfection, standing on her pillow with a complex look of concern and irritation on his tiny precious face, one miniature hand reaching out to lightly stroke her gigantic cheek.
“You really piss me off,” he said soothingly.
Her eyes widened. She started to laugh, but hiccupped instead, and bit her lower lip. Eyes shining she stared, unwilling to do anything that might make this moment stop being real.
“So? Now what?” he finally asked.
She gazed into his tiny eyes, thoughts racing. But the answer was simple and obvious, “Would you like some food?” she whispered.
“What do you think?” the sound of his voice make her squirm. “Here or in the kitchen?” she asked.
He considered that. Came to a decision. “Will you join me?”
“Yes,” she breathed, her heart leaping within her.
“Fine,” he growled. “But I get to serve it this time.”