Parte 5 - Molly
Hello again my dear friends, Onda has just had a look at what I've been sending
and told me to forget the beginning a little bit and go tell you about Molly.
Well, well, well. Yes, believe it or not, there are a few people who know about
me and see me more or less regularly as they come home to pay Onda a visit and
so on. Onda told me to start with Molly, so with Molly will I start.
Molly is one of two of Onda's best friends. They met each other and became
friends after I was my new size, so I've never known her any differently than
she is now. She is 40 years old, a good deal shorter than Onda and of a petite
appearance. She is very skinny and not too endowed with flesh, so to speak. She
is also pretty plain, so there isn't really much to look at in her. For those
who like hands and feet, though, it could be quite a different story. She is
very proud of both pairs and so she should, for fate has given her lean, bony
and beautiful extremities. More often than not she wears sandals of all sorts,
sometimes even in winter, and I must say that her taste is impeccable. Her
hands are crowned with 10 long, strong and extremely well kept nails, which she
prefers to keep unpolished and doesn't miss an opportunity to show off or use
in a most delicate way. She is also extremely skilled with her hands. In actual
fact she is a seamstress, and the reason why Onda befriended her is because she
was looking for someone to make clothes my size.
It must have been only after a year that I got my first decent clothing as
opposed to rough pieces of material taken from anywhere. Molly, then, is in
charge of my "wardrobe", but she has also helped with other devices
around the apartment aiming at making the real world more accessible to me. So
she is at home quite a lot. And I hate her. First of all, she is the stupidest
woman on earth. Other than her specialized skills, she knows nothing about
anything. Once all three of us watched together a movie on TV. Her comments
after it would have certainly awarded her the "Oscar to the silliest
comments ever made on a movie", if such a thing existed. And the same is
applicable to any other field in which logic has to but remotely be used.
Second, and this is where the gist of the story lies, there is the mysterious
question of her husband, Little B. This has been going on since the day I met
her, and, to this very minute, I still don't know whether the guy exists or
not. If he does, he has to be the only other real shrunken person I ever heard
of. I wouldn't expect much truth from Molly, but my wife has always been
unfathomable about it and never gave me an answer that would give away the
veracity of what Molly tells us about him. If Little B. exists, he must be the
unluckiest fellow on earth... and Molly the cruelest.
Apparently she reduced him to a size similar to mine more than 15 years ago,
according to her, due to him cheating on her… once. Whereas Onda has a
"Program of Reeducation" for me, and, as long as I obey everything is
OK, Molly has never thought of such a thing for her little hubby, and her life
is devoted to torturing the little devil in every possible way. If the man
exists this is what life is like for him:
He is kept purposely underfed, in such a way that he has been on the brink of
starvation ever since she took care of him. When he eats he has to go down on
his knees, cross his hands behind his back, and lick off the floor whatever his
dear wife throws down to him; it could be anything from an old piece of tomato
to a chunk of food she's just spat on her plate. She drops a crumb of bread
very seldom while she eats, enough to keep him begging at her feet at every
meal, even though most of the time she won't give him a thing. He is not
allowed to look at her face or any other part of her body unless she tells him
to. The exception being her feet, which he is forced to look at whenever she is
around. In actual fact, whenever they cross their way at home he has to stop
doing whatever he is doing and follow her feet with his eyes wherever she goes
until she disappears from his sight. For over 15 years the poor guy has been
talking to, trying to reason with, and eventually begging for mercy to a pair
of feet, or a set of 10 toes. She hardly ever touches him, and if she does it's
only to punish him. He's also been tied to a long old piece of string round his
waist about the total length of the house, to allow him to walk all around it
but not an inch into the garden with the sun above.
Molly has only one way of physical punishment: her hands. Many times she has
told us the way she enjoys grabbing him for no reason and starts digging her
long nails all about his body. She's never hidden the fact that she has bruised
him, made him bleed badly, and broken many a bone of his tiny self. She enjoys
telling us about how she keeps him in a state of constant terror by asking
impossible request, lying, and confusing him. She'd ask him how many chairs
there are in the room, he'd count three and she'd go on to tell him he is
lying. The poor fellow would risk any other number knowing from the beginning
that he's started a lost battle. More nailing and rough, bloody scratching
would follow until she'd get tired or bored of her game. She loves citing the
punch line that if he weren't lying he'd look at her eyes.
The other day I had to endure another session with dear Molly visiting us at
home, bringing the newest entertainment from her house. I had just served them
coffee and requested permission from Onda to go back to the kitchen until
needed again, when Molly asked me to stay to hear something really funny. I
pleaded with my eyes to Onda, but we had had a bad day and she just said,
"Stay".
Molly had put her husband into a big glass flowerpot, covering it with some
kind of thick grill to prevent him from coming out. She also ordered him not to
pee or pooh for the next 3 days (yes, sir, 3 days!). The wretched man did his
best for a day or day and a half on the brink of explosion. Of course at some
point he couldn't hold it any longer and the flowerpot turned into a mess of
yellows and stinking browns.
"I made him eat and drink all his disobedience, and you know what?” she
said, "He came out from a flower pot that was cleaner than when he got in.
Ha, ha, ha".
The dreadful picture of that evil story haunted me for days. I hope to God
Little B. is a bad taste invention of Molly’s with the compliance of my wife.
If not, I don't really understand how he is still alive.
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