Annie XCV: Feather

(Chronological index: Shortly after The Day.)

She yawned. At first it was fake, but as often happens, her body took over, stretching out the gaping gap of her yap.

Fingers laced together, she moved her hands behind her head. It indicated relaxation and taunted him with her ribs, armpits.

The boy moved the feather around. "You're not ticklish at all?"

"You tell me, kid," she said. Actually, she sometimes couldn't wear silk because it tickled her as she moved. She kept her hair rigidly controlled to stay off the back of her neck.

Or she had.

Now, the kid who had captured her ran a feather around her belly, her pits, her knees. It did nothing. Well, it irritated. It scratched more than anything else.

It was more like being assaulted with a cardboard rake than a feather.

"My mom," the kid said, "she giggles if dad just poses his fingers like this." He made an eagle's claw over her, fingers curved into talons and aimed.

It was the sort of hand her pop made... Had made. And, yeah, she'd flinch from the sight of it. Now it was just huge, huge pink sausages, like leather pillows or something.

She thought of pool toys, actually. Nothing ticklish about pool toys. Hanging out in the back yard with Mi-

"What?" he asked.

"What do you mean, what?"

"You flinched." He put the feather back, scratching up and down her side. "Right when I was... Here."

"Nothing," she reported.

"Huh." He flicked the feather off into the distance. She heard it whip through the air like a slow helicopter.

"Now what?" she asked.

The kid was grounded for...something. She'd heard yelling and stomping but no clear words.

Then he'd pulled her shoebox out from under his bed and let her out for air and exercise. Now he was acting like he had nothing to look forward to for the rest of his life.

So she'd assumed he was grounded. He just grunted in response. Now he was looking her over like one of his action figures, if only he could figure out how to play with her.

Dear God, she thought, holding her legs tightly together, let him be a late bloomer.

"Walk," he said.

"Again?" she whined. He scooped her up in his hand. She rattled across his fingertips, trying to keep her face from bouncing off of a knuckle.

Then she spun and he was setting her down on her feet on the bed. She leaned on his fingers for a second to steady herself. Then she stepped away. He dropped his hand and knelt by the bed. "Walk," he repeated.

"Aren't there video stores you can go to?" she asked. But she walked.



The kid knew there was supposed to be something interesting in the way women walked. He made her pace back and forth in front of him, staring at her. Watching her. Trying to figure it out.

It would come, she knew, all too soon. But she wouldn't speed it along. She marched, imagining a drill sergeant yelling at her.

"Keep that pelvis flat, Miss Trace! Your ass is not a playground, so there's no swing in it! Keep steady! Metronome! Leg up, leg down, hips on an even keel at all times!"

Why her inner drill sergeant had a Boston accent she'd never understand. But it seemed to work.

Every time she turned around, her tormentor watched something different. Hips, knees, shoulders. The only thing swinging was her arms.

Big swings, elbow bent, shoulder-high. Big attention grabbing swings. She was a voice-activated toy soldier. Oh, that would be nice. A gun. Or maybe just a bayonet. Something to stab at that hand when it pawed at her.

Or to cut her way out of the shoebox. The dictionary he kept on top of it wouldn't move for her, not even to tip over or slide off. But she could cut a door and...

And run to the top of the stairs and wait to be caught again. She'd had a couple glimpses out of the room. She knew they were on the second floor. Maybe third.

There were two adults in the house. They may be better than being the kid's pet, but maybe not. She remembered asking her father about the crazy couple in Go Ask Alice.

Wicked people. Poppa wouldn't go into details, just threats about how strangers tormented young women and stuck knives in them.

Years later, she figured out there were other things than knives to worry about.

And if she did call their attention, there was no going back. She'd be as much at their mercy as she was at the kid's.

The juvenile delinquent kid's mercy. What a winner. What sort of parents produced a miscreant like Raymond? No, she'd bide her time, until she could get completely away.

Or maybe get to a phone, call Momma, and Poppa. They'd come get her and take her home and, if they couldn't fix this, at least buy her some clothes.

She lost track of where she was marching. She was imagining Mom shopping for her in the Thumbelina aisle at the Disney store. She imagined that Disney was positioned to just sweep the little people clothing market.

The kid had mentioned that other people shrank, people besides her and.. She flinched from completing that thought. Threw herself to the side, actually.

Too bad she was by the edge of the bed. She tipped over and looked far, far down at the floor. She screamed.

Raymond lunged towards her. His hands were out wide. One missed her high, wide and handsome, smashing knuckle-first into the side of his nightstand table thing.

The other didn't quite catch her, but he did save her. She was hit by the leather bulldozer, knocked back from the edge and pushed, stiff-armed, into the pillow. She felt it bunch around her, bits of feather stems poking through the worn fabric to scratch at her.

Then everything stopped moving in a slam. The pillow had crushed against the headboard as far as it was planning to go. She wheezed, trying to breathe. The hand retreated and snow fell.

"What the heck?" she whispered at the top of her lungs.

The overly abused pillow had burst in there somewhere. Down was everywhere. Big clumps of scratchy fibers fell and piled.

Raymond started sneezing. Violently. She moved slowly to stand, and couldn't. She ended up crawling out of the down cavern. That's when she realized her shoulder hurt.

The kid had really smashed into her.

Just as the light changed, she looked up to see him convulse. And though he'd saved her life, she really enjoyed watching him. His eyes watered and his hands were covered in snot and he looked incredibly miserable. She smiled.

He rocked back on his knees and folded over again. Something clinked overhead.

That's when she learned that he'd brought a Coke up to the room. It had tipped over when he slammed the table. They later figured it had leaned against his Six Million Dollar Man lunchbox. Now it fell all the way over,

Brown liquid flowed out and splashed her. Warm, sticky and flat, there was nothing but misery pouring down on her.

She wailed. Raymond sneezed. When it ran out, she stood, shaking the Coke off.

But it had feathered her. The down was stuck all over her. In her hair, all over her skin, up her butt. Dammit! She burst into tears.



Was this never going to- to- to FUCKING end? "FUCK!" she cried in anger, frustration and fear. I mean, really!? Coke and a pillow! Leaving her looking like the punchline of a Laugh-In joke?

"FUCKING FUCK THIS FUCKING SHIT!" she shouted.

Raymond was so stunned he stopped sneezing.

"Annie?"

She saw a clear spot on the bed. Not brown puddle, no feathers. She stormed over and threw herself down on it and cried.

"I hate my life! I wish the cat-" She hiccupped. "-me instead!"

"What cat?" the kid asked.

"Fuck the cat!" she snapped.

"Okay," he said, fear in his voice. Well, she'd never sworn. Not much. Certainly not in anger. It was always a calculated explosion, to titillate and act cool.

Now she was...pissed. "I'm tiny! I'm tortured! I'm f- f- FUCKING treated like a TOY! And now THIS!" The tears at least started to clear the soda away from her eyes. She could blink the sticky away.

"Tortured?" Raymond asked. The light changed again, he was hovering over her. But nothing prodded at her. He didn’t' snatch her up like a toy.

"The tickling," she said. "Laying naked on the desk while you try to get me to twist and cough and pee myself."

"That wasn’t torture," he protested. "I just... I wanted you to laugh."

"What?"

"You, uh, you don't like it here. I know. And I can understand that. But... I dunno. I thought, maybe, if you laughed. You'd..."

"Not living in a shoebox would be better than being tickled, kid." She tried not to growl at him. Maybe he was finally in a mood to listen?

"Okay. Okay. I can... I can put you in the hamster cage. How would that be?"

She sniffed, considering it. The giant twisted away from her and sneezed out over the room. Well, that was considerate, she thought.

"I guess that light, fresh air...that would be better. Would the hamster...bite me?"

"Thrud's a hamster," Raymond said. "You'd have to corner him and attack to get him to bite you."

"No problem," she said. The bed moved and she lifted her head. A giant hand was pressing into the sheets next to her. Palm up. Inviting, not grabbing. "What?"

"I, uh... you wanna go get cleaned up?"

"Yeah," she said. She sniffed once more and stood. "You're, uh, you're gonna want to change the sheets."

"After you're fixed up," he said. "Come on." She sat carefully down on his palm. He put one finger over her thighs like a seat belt, then carried her to the door.

They were halfway to the bathroom when a woman's voice shouted. "GROUNDED!" she reminded him.

"Just to the bathroom! I spilled my Coke!" he shouted back. "Gotta clean up.

"What are you doing with a Coke?" a man's voice called from farther away.

"It was yesterday's," he replied. There were no more protests so he slipped into the bathroom.

He ran the warm water for her. He rubbed a finger over the bar of soap a few times to get a lather, then started washing her.

"I can do this," she protested.

"I wanna help you," he replied.

"Then let me down!" she snarled.

He dropped her, tipping his hand and letting her slip free. Her feet hit the cold, wet porcelain and shot out from under her. She yelped, knowing she was going to go ass over teakettle.

And landed in his palm.

"Thanks," she said after a moment. He just poked his soapy finger in the air by her shoulder. She scooped up suds and started to lather up.

After a few minutes, he held her up to the mirror. He looked at her back, then at her reflected front. "Missed a spot," he said.

The soapy digit pushed at her belly. It slid across her skin smooth, as smooth as anything she'd felt since shrinking.

And as the little ridges of his fingerprints rubbed over her belly button, she felt each bump and whorl and fork...

She giggled.

"What was that?" he asked. She bit her cheek.

"Nuffin,' Rayfun," she said.

"Did you...laugh?" He rubbed her again. She kicked and flinched. He rubbed faster and she burst out laughing.

"You ARE ticklish," he whispered.

"Hmm-mmm," she protested.

He didn't believe her.

THend.

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