I watched my right hand dig into my purse when I did it. I didn’t recognize it, even though it had been my hand from the moment I was born. It felt like a new hand. I saw it reach into my $80.00 purse (which is damned cheap as far as purses go, let me tell you) and come back up for air with a syringe in tow.
I was so happy.
I walked right up to him, without a single thought on what I’d say. I felt every pound of my body with each step I took; heard the rasp of my Converse as they both hit the pavement of that well-lit parking lot, and it occurred to me to look for cameras. I saw a couple of them, aimed at the general direction of my psychopathic intent. I didn’t give a fuck. I was going to shrink him.
He heard me come up to him, and turned around instead of climbing into his car, which might have saved him.
I smiled at him, and said his name.
There’s power in a name. It casts a spell. When you tell someone your name, you give them power over you, and he had told me his name years ago, never knowing I’d use it against him. I stretched my arms wide, the way people do when they are going to hug you, and I stretched my smile wider, the way people do when they know someone intimately. I ventured a high school name, and I knew it didn’t matter if it wasn’t the right one, because I knew his name.
He looked at me, and not at my syringe-carrying hand.
When my arms closed around him, he only saw a woman he might have known, but had forgotten, or a woman he had never known, who was confused. I watched his arms twitch in response to my hugging gesture, and if only he had stepped back and held up his hand in defensive clarification, he might have been safe.
But I was wearing very tight jeans. On purpose.
His arms flinched again, and when I plunged the needle into his neck and pushed the contents of my syringe deep into the flow of his bloodstream, it was too late for him to fight back. I smirked and winked at the cameras, because I knew that even if they worked, no one would be able to make sense of the footage they saw.
Woman comes in for a hug. Man responds appropriately. Man vanishes into thin air. Woman stands still for a second. Woman squats and searches pile of clothes that mysteriously materializes in place of man. Woman leaves scene. Man is never seen again.
Find me a crime that fits that mold. I knew I’d never be arrested.
That was Christmas Eve Eve. When I drove home with my treasure between the denim that barely contained my thighs, I smiled as I imagined the suffering I was bringing to his entire family. I don’t give a fuck. He’s mine. He’s my toy. He doesn’t belong to those that grieve for him. He belongs to those that hold him in a firm grip, and use him as intended.
And boy, do I intend.
They see him as a person. I don’t. I see him as what he truly is, nothing but a sex toy, a bundle of arms and legs created to serve my needs. That’s why I filled that syringe with ingredients of my own design, and that’s why I chose him. That’s why he’s now two inches in height, and that’s why I don’t give a fuck what you think about what I’ve done. Shove it. He’s mine now, and I don’t care how much they cry, I’m never giving him back.
I really don’t give a flying fuck.
That’s all I have to say to you. I won’t say anything else, because I have to go grab him now, all of him, in my hand, and put him to use. I don’t care if he’s crying, or screaming, or scared. Fear is a function that serves my needs.
They are giant.