Fearful Little Boy
Tiny Way to Die
chapter 14
by
Froakie
You take a deep breath, filling your tiny lungs with the thick, humid air, and pour all your fear and desperation into a single shout. "M-MOM, I'M SCARED!"
The sound that emerges from your lips is a pathetic squeak, a high-pitched chirp that is instantly swallowed by the vastness of the bathroom. It's less than a whisper, a tiny vibration of air that dissipates before it can travel more than a few millimeters. From your mother's perspective, it's utterly imperceptible. She hears nothing.
To her, you are just a silent, unmoving speck on her fingertip. Your lack of reaction, your inability to communicate, confirms her deepest fears. A choked sob escapes her lips, a seismic event that causes the ground beneath you to tremble violently. The ocean of a single tear wells up in the corner of her eye, gathers, and then breaks free.
It cascades down the continental shelf of her cheek, a shimmering, transparent waterfall of saline fluid. It crashes onto the plains of her jaw, and a spray of microscopic droplets flies upwards, misting over you. Each droplet is a fat, heavy raindrop, splattering against your naked skin with surprising force. The liquid is warm and smells vaguely of salt and sorrow.
"I can't hear you," she whimpers, her voice a heartbreaking tremor. "Oh, honey, I can't even hear you anymore!!"
The realization dawns on her, a horror so profound it eclipses the fear she's been feeling. It's not just that you're shrinking; it's that you're fading beyond her ability to protect, to even perceive. The responsibility, the awful, final choice, settles upon her shoulders with the weight of a collapsing star. Her hand, which had been steady, begins to tremble violently. The world you inhabit—the whorled landscape of her fingerprint—shakes as if in an earthquake.
"I... I have to..." she stammers, her voice a broken, strained whisper. "I can't let you just... vanish. Into nothing. Alone."
Her eyes, those vast, sorrowful oceans, dart around the small bathroom, as if searching for an answer in the tiled walls and chrome fixtures. But there is no external solution. The instrument of your end, she understands with chilling certainty, must be her own body. The thought is monstrous, an act of ultimate perversion born from a twisted, desperate love.
A flicker of conflict crosses her monumental face. Should it be quick? Painless? An act of mercy to spare you the terror of shrinking into a subatomic void? Her gaze drifts down to her own hand, to the finger you currently stand upon. She could simply... press. A swift, decisive application of force. It would be over in an instant.
The sound that emerges from your lips is a pathetic squeak, a high-pitched chirp that is instantly swallowed by the vastness of the bathroom. It's less than a whisper, a tiny vibration of air that dissipates before it can travel more than a few millimeters. From your mother's perspective, it's utterly imperceptible. She hears nothing.
To her, you are just a silent, unmoving speck on her fingertip. Your lack of reaction, your inability to communicate, confirms her deepest fears. A choked sob escapes her lips, a seismic event that causes the ground beneath you to tremble violently. The ocean of a single tear wells up in the corner of her eye, gathers, and then breaks free.
It cascades down the continental shelf of her cheek, a shimmering, transparent waterfall of saline fluid. It crashes onto the plains of her jaw, and a spray of microscopic droplets flies upwards, misting over you. Each droplet is a fat, heavy raindrop, splattering against your naked skin with surprising force. The liquid is warm and smells vaguely of salt and sorrow.
"I can't hear you," she whimpers, her voice a heartbreaking tremor. "Oh, honey, I can't even hear you anymore!!"
The realization dawns on her, a horror so profound it eclipses the fear she's been feeling. It's not just that you're shrinking; it's that you're fading beyond her ability to protect, to even perceive. The responsibility, the awful, final choice, settles upon her shoulders with the weight of a collapsing star. Her hand, which had been steady, begins to tremble violently. The world you inhabit—the whorled landscape of her fingerprint—shakes as if in an earthquake.
"I... I have to..." she stammers, her voice a broken, strained whisper. "I can't let you just... vanish. Into nothing. Alone."
Her eyes, those vast, sorrowful oceans, dart around the small bathroom, as if searching for an answer in the tiled walls and chrome fixtures. But there is no external solution. The instrument of your end, she understands with chilling certainty, must be her own body. The thought is monstrous, an act of ultimate perversion born from a twisted, desperate love.
A flicker of conflict crosses her monumental face. Should it be quick? Painless? An act of mercy to spare you the terror of shrinking into a subatomic void? Her gaze drifts down to her own hand, to the finger you currently stand upon. She could simply... press. A swift, decisive application of force. It would be over in an instant.
Froakie
(2)
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June 1
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