Well, sometimes I surprise myself. I’ve often said I only think about foot crush within the context of real-life anger. Someone beeps furiously in traffic because it’s a school zone and I’m not going fast enough, and as the jerk finally zooms by he gives me (and consequently my son) the finger? Yeah. I’d shrink and crush him. But doing that to a tiny little man, no matter how annoying he is? Never. So, why did I write this, nearly twelve years ago?
+ + +
I feel terrible, and I can’t talk to him about it. All these days I have been partly miserable… going from feeling well, happy, even giggly, to wishing to step on him and leave him a smear on the floor. Actually, tonight was the only night I have felt like doing such a thing. I even wanted to reach for him and tell him, “Do you want to play? Oh, we will play! Let me tell you what I’ll do to you….”
And then I would have stood by the dollhouse, not so close to it that I’d be standing over it, but maybe a couple of feet… nah. I think I see myself about four feet away from it, a great distance for him, but nothing for me. Just enough to let him know I don’t want him anywhere near me at the moment.
Then I would have told him that I was looking down at him. Really looking down at him, knowing how small, how insignificant, how petty a little man he is. Even now, I don’t even need to close my eyes to see it in my head. I shower him with contempt from my eyes. A grotesque silent treatment, no matter how hard he squeaks.
He can see it in the expression on my face, maybe even watch it like a movie. He can see the thought I’m contemplating at the moment, of squishing him under my foot. Of telling him to come to me, just so that I can lift my foot, and bring it down on him with great force. I do it slowly, calculating the angle of descent that allows me to watch his realization of what I want to do, and his pathetic attempt at escape.
I feel his bug-sized body under my foot if I bring it down slowly, and I can feel him squirming, his head extending beyond my wiggling toes, the rest of his body pinned by the ball of my foot and the weight of my toes. He begs. He tries to pull his little arms from under my foot, to flail them over his head, to extend them toward me, maybe. To ask me to be merciful. But I have had enough.
I let go of my leg, and the length of it drops on him, flattening him with the sound of skeleton and muscle coming together in a red pulp that satisfies my anger. I don’t tell him any of this using words, but he sees it in my eyes. He does not move. In my mind he’s not a coward, even in the face of death. He stands his ground and does not fear what he sees. Oh, I wish he was so. I wish I didn’t feel less for him after tonight. I wish he did not make me so angry with the things he says.
I think part of what makes me sad, or maybe the fundamental reason for all this upset of these past few days, is that
+ + +
And that’s all I wrote. I don’t remember the rest of it, and it doesn’t matter, as any ending is meaningless in context, or without it. I was rummaging through my old files, and this is something I never shared, never finished, never even thought about again, until I unearthed it tonight. It shocked me a little when I read it.