Chapter 2: Torture by Toothpick
Mark woke to sunlight and a strange, fluttering sensation on his left foot. It was a light, skittering touch, like the legs of a large insect. He groaned, pushing his face deeper into the pillow. “Bea, no. It’s Saturday.”
The fluttering intensified, becoming a focused, relentless scribbling in the arch of his foot. A jolt of pure, reflexive laughter shot through him. He jerked his foot away, but the sensation followed, now on his other foot.
He opened his eyes, squinting against the sun. There, at the foot of the rumpled duvet, was Bea. She was about four inches tall today, her hair a sleepy shade of lilac, and she was wielding a weapon. It was a miniature feather duster, meticulously crafted from what looked like frayed cotton swabs and a bent toothpick. She was dragging the fuzzy end along his instep with fierce concentration.
Her tiny laughter filled the room, a sound like glass beads shaken in a cup. “You said my office methods lacked subtlety,” she chirped. “I’m refining my technique!”
“This is not subtle!” he gasped, kicking his legs under the covers. He tried to pull his foot back, but she was fast, leaping onto his ankle and holding on with one hand while she continued the assault with the other. The tickling was unbearable—a thousand tiny, maddening points of contact. His body convulsed with helpless laughter, shaking the whole bed. “Stop! I yield! I yield!”
She paused, the feather duster held aloft like a conqueror’s spear. She was breathing hard, a tiny, triumphant figure standing on his shin. “Yield what? What are my terms?”
“Anything!” he wheezed, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. “Pancakes. I’ll make pancakes.”
“With blueberries?”
“With a whole blueberry army!”
“And whipped cream?”
“A whipped cream cloud so big you could get lost in it.” He lay panting, watching her tiny chest puff with pride. She’d changed tactics, but the result was the same: he was utterly, joyfully defeated.
She scampered up his body, the little feather duster bouncing over her shoulder. When she reached his chest, she grew. Not to her full size, but to about a foot tall, settling cross-legged on his sternum. Her features resolved into more detail—the mischievous glint in her eye, the slight smudge of sleep in the corner. She planted her hands on her hips. “You screamed in that kitchenette. I felt your diaphragm spasm. It was glorious.”
“I did not scream,” Mark mumbled, flushing at the memory. “It was a… a stressed exhalation.”
“It was a squeak. A high-pitched, delightful squeak.” She leaned forward, her small hands braced on his collarbones. “Diane thinks you have a thyroid problem now.”
He covered his face with a pillow. “I’m resigning on Monday. We’re moving to a cabin in the woods with no broadband.”
She plucked the pillow away. Her expression softened from playful to something more serious. “Did you hate it?”
He peeked one eye open. “The tickle-terror? Yes. Immensely.”
“Not that. The… being with me at work. The secret.”
He let out a long breath, the last of the laughter still humming in his veins. He thought of the miniature sunflower, now carefully tucked into his desk drawer. He thought of the warm, secret weight in his pocket all day, a living reminder that his world was bigger than spreadsheets. “No,” he said, his voice quiet. “I didn’t hate it. It was the best report I’ve ever filed.”
A slow, beautiful smile spread across her tiny face. She shifted again, flowing back to her full size in a smooth, silent instant, coming to rest lying atop him, her weight a familiar comfort. She kissed him, slow and deep. “Good,” she murmured against his lips. “Because I’m thinking of making it a weekly audit. Now. About those pancakes…”
Later, sprawled on the sun-drenched living room floor amidst a debris field of syrup and coffee mugs, Mark felt a profound sense of equilibrium. Bea was using his stomach as a pillow, her form currently that of a sleek, medium-sized dog with iridescent blue fur. She was idly chewing a squeaky toy shaped like a t-rex.
“You’re shedding,” he remarked, picking a shimmering blue hair off his t-shirt.
She responded by rolling onto her back, presenting her belly for scratches. He obliged, and her back leg thumped a steady rhythm of contentment against the floorboards.
“I was thinking,” he said, his fingers tracing the soft fur of her belly.
A low, curious whine.
“About your show. The gallery thing.”
She shifted in his lap, melting back into her human form mid-stretch. Suddenly, he was scratching the soft, warm skin of her stomach. She blinked her large, now-green eyes at him. “What about it?”
“It’s next month. You haven’t mentioned it in a while.”
She caught his hand, stilling his fingers. Her gaze drifted to the ceiling. “I know.”
“You’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” she said, too quickly. She sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. The sunlight caught the dust motes swirling around her, making her look like she was sitting in a galaxy of her own. “It’s just a small exhibit. A few local artists. It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s your first show,” he said gently. “It’s a huge deal. You’ve been painting for it for a year.”
She rested her chin on her knees. “What if… what if people don’t get it? The paintings are… they’re personal. They’re about shifting. About what it feels like from the inside. What if they just see weird colors and shapes and think it’s garbage?”
Mark moved to sit beside her, their shoulders touching. He thought of the canvases stacked in her studio, the spare room they’d painted a clean, quiet white. They were explosions of sensation—swirls of color that seemed to vibrate, textures you could almost feel with your eyes, perspectives that bent and warped in impossible ways. They were Bea, in her purest form.
“Then they’re idiots,” he said simply.
She nudged him with her shoulder. “Helpful.”
“I’m serious. You’re not painting for them. You’re painting because you have to. Because it’s how you process being you.” He took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “Remember that first painting you did for me? The one of what it feels like to shrink?”
She smiled softly. It was a small, chaotic piece full of rushing lines and sudden, vast spaces. He’d framed it and hung it in his office, the one splash of true color in the sea of beige.
“I remember.”
“That painting,” he said, squeezing her hand, “makes me understand you better than any words ever could. That’s what your show is. It’s you letting people in. It’s brave as hell.”
She was quiet for a long moment. Then she leaned her head against his shoulder. “Will you be there?”
“I will be front and center. I will force all my coworkers to come and buy the most expensive champagne. I will give a deeply embarrassing speech about your artistic genius.”
She laughed, a real, full-bodied sound that shook them both. “Please don’t. But… thank you.” She turned her head and kissed his shoulder, her lips soft through the cotton of his shirt. “You’re my favorite person, Mark Finch.”
“I should hope so. I put up with feather-duster warfare.”
That evening, the comfortable silence of domesticity settled over them. Bea was at her easel in the studio, the door cracked open. The rhythmic, soothing sound of brushstrokes drifted out. Mark was on the couch, a book open in his lap, not really reading. He was listening to her world being created, stroke by stroke.
His phone buzzed. A text from his older sister, Clare.
Mom called. She’s ‘concerned’ about you. Again. Thinks you work too much. I told her you have a life. She didn’t sound convinced.
He sighed, a familiar weight settling in his chest. His mother’s concern was a constant, low-pressure system on the horizon of his life. It meant well, but it carried with it a quiet judgement of his choices, his career, his home. Of Bea. She’d never said it outright, but her questions were always carefully barbed. Are you sure you’re not stretching yourself too thin, Mark? Such an… unusual living situation. Does Bea have… career plans?
He typed back: I’m fine. Work is busy, but good. Tell her not to worry.
He knew Clare would translate that into something more palatable for their mother. He set the phone down, the quiet joy of the day momentarily dimmed.
“Your mom?”
He started. Bea was leaning in the doorway, a smudge of cerulean blue on her cheek. She’d shrunk herself to about three feet tall, a habit she had when she was deep in thought or feeling protective.
“Yeah. The usual.”
She padded over, climbed onto the couch, and curled into the space beside him, her small form fitting neatly under his arm. She didn’t ask for details. She knew the script. Instead, she simply took his hand and placed it on top of her head, a silent request. He began to stroke her hair, the texture shifting under his fingers from the silky strands at her temples to the slightly thicker waves at her crown. She’d modeled it after a fox’s pelt today.
“She loves you,” Bea said quietly, her voice a little muted by his side.
“I know.”
“She just doesn’t get you. She doesn’t get us.” Bea shifted, looking up at him. Her eyes, large and luminous in her small face, held no pity, only a fierce understanding. “You don’t have to fix that for her.”
The simple truth of it loosened the knot in his chest. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been carrying that expectation—the need to explain, to justify, to make his happiness legible to his mother. Bea saw it. Bea, who lived a truth that defied simple explanation every day.
He pulled her closer, her small body warm and solid against his. “I love you,” he said, the words feeling more profound than usual.
“I love you too, you big, ticklish worrywart.” She snuggled deeper. “Now, read your book out loud. I like the sound of your voice.”
So he did. He read about sea voyages and lost islands, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room, while his wife, in her small, fierce, perfect form, listened and held his hand, her thumb tracing slow, comforting circles on his palm. The world outside, with its expectations and its beige concerns, faded to a distant murmur.
Later, in the deep indigo of midnight, Mark was pulled from sleep not by a touch, but by a sound. A soft, muffled whimper.
He was instantly awake. Bea was beside him, her back to him. She was her usual size, but her shoulders were tense, hunched. The sound came again, choked and sad.
“Bea?” he whispered, turning towards her.
She shook her head, a quick, almost violent motion, but didn’t turn. He placed a hand on her shoulder, feeling the tremor running through her.
“Bad dream?” he asked softly.
A jerky nod. She finally rolled over, her face pale in the moonlight. Her eyes were wide, glistening. She wasn’t just scared; she was haunted.
“Tell me?” he asked, brushing a tear from her cheek with his thumb.
She took a shuddering breath. “I was… I was stuck. In between. Not big, not small. Just… wrong. And I couldn’t change back. And no one could see me. Not even you. I was shouting, but I had no voice.” Fresh tears welled up and spilled over. “It was so quiet.”
His heart fractured. He understood then the depth of her fear, the vulnerability that lay beneath all her playful confidence. Her ability was her essence, her joy, her language. To lose it was her deepest terror—to become invisible, even to him.
He didn’t offer empty reassurance. He simply opened his arms. She flowed into them, clinging to him, her body shaking with silent sobs. He held her tightly, anchoring her in the solid reality of his body, in the soft linen of their sheets, in the familiar scent of their room.
“I see you, Bea,” he murmured into her hair, repeating it like a mantra. “I see you. I’m here. You’re here.”
Slowly, her shaking subsided. She shifted against him, not in size, but in posture, melting into his embrace as the nightmare’s residue loosened its grip. Her breathing deepened, syncing with his.
“Mark?” Her voice was a ragged whisper.
“Yeah?”
“Can you… can you just hold me? Like this. Don’t let go.”
“Never,” he whispered.
And he didn’t. He held her as the moon traced its path across their sage green walls, as her tears dried on his skin, as the warm, solid weight of her in his arms became the only truth that mattered. He held her until her breathing slipped into the slow, even rhythm of sleep, her fingers still loosely tangled in his shirt.
He lay awake for a long time after, watching the shadows soften on the ceiling, feeling the incredible trust of her asleep in his arms. The woman who could become anything, who held universes within her, had chosen him as her constant. Her anchor. Her home.
The feather-duster warrior, the secret sprite in his pocket, the artist wrestling with her truth, the vulnerable dreamer—she was all of it. And he would be there for every version of her, in the sunlight and in the quiet, terrifying dark.
Just before dawn, he felt her stir. She shifted gently in his arms, turning to face him. Her eyes were clear now, a deep, peaceful hazel in the pre-dawn gray. She didn’t speak. She simply reached out and touched his face, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw with a tenderness that stole his breath.
Then, with a soft, contented sigh, she closed her eyes again, and slept. 6
Then, with a soft, contented sigh, she closed her eyes again, and slept. Mark watched the dawn bleed peach and gold across the ceiling, holding her until the alarm finally chirped its mundane protest.
He woke later to empty space beside him and the smell of brewing coffee. Stretching, he felt a peculiar lightness on his chest. Peering down, he found Bea, just three inches tall, sitting cross-legged over his heart. Her hair was a muted, tired pink. She was simply watching him breathe.
“Hey,” he whispered, afraid to move.
“Hey.” Her tiny voice was soft, morning-rough. “You stayed.”
“Of course I stayed.”
She nodded, a small, meaningful gesture. Then, in a fluid rush, she expanded to her full size, sprawling atop him with a contented groan. “I feel like I ran a marathon in my sleep.”
“You kind of did.” He smoothed her hair, his fingers catching in the tangles. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
The morning unspooled with a gentle, domestic rhythm. He shuffled to the kitchen; she commandeered the shower. Sunlight poured through the east window, catching the dust motes they’d stirred the day before. It felt normal, but a new tenderness threaded through their movements—a hand on the small of a back, a kissed shoulder as someone passed.
She was quiet, pensive, nursing her mug at the breakfast nook. The vibrant energy she usually wore like a cloak was folded neatly beside her.
“I think,” she said, staring into her coffee, “I need to paint today. Something big. Something… loud.”
“Okay.” He reached over, covered her hand with his. “Want company?”
She shook her head, then nodded, then shrugged. “Just… be in the house?”
“I can do that.”
He spent the morning paying bills at the dining table, the steady scratch of her brush from the studio a comforting counterpoint to the click of his keyboard. He’d just finished a particularly tedious vendor payment when he felt a skittering sensation up his socked foot.
He froze, fingers hovering over the keys.
The sensation—light, probing—traced his anklebone, then darted behind his knee. A tiny, breathless giggle echoed from under the table. He stifled his own smile, keeping his eyes fixed on the screen. “Is there a mouse in the house?” he said aloud, as if to himself.
The tickling ceased. He heard the faintest plink of a droplet hitting the floor—paint? Then a minute weight landed on his shoulder. He turned his head slowly. Bea, no larger than a sparrow, stood there. Her arms and the tip of her nose were smudged with cadmium yellow.
“You are a distraction,” he said flatly.
“I’m a muse,” she chirped, her voice a tinny whisper right by his ear. “You looked tragically bored. I’m administering artistic first aid.” Before he could react, she dropped, a tiny free-fall, and landed on the back of his hand resting on the mouse. Her tiny fingers dug into the sensitive webbing between his thumb and forefinger.
He jerked, a sharp gasp escaping him. The mouse skidded across the table, sending a stack of envelopes to the floor. She rode the motion like a surfer, her laughter a bright, microscopic chime.
“First aid, my ass,” he chuckled, shaking his hand gently. She held on, grinning up at him.
“It’s working, isn’t it? Your heart rate is elevated. Creativity flows with the blood.” And with that, she pushed off, soared through the air, and vanished back into the hallway towards her studio. He stared after her, the ticklish phantom feeling lingering on his skin, a smile tugging irresistibly at his lips.
Her mood had shifted, the shadows of the night chased away by her own irreverent light. He found it hard to concentrate after that. Every few minutes, he’d feel a phantom itch on his neck, or catch a flash of color in his peripheral vision that vanished when he turned. She was a ghost in the daylight, a poltergeist of play.
He was wrestling with a stubborn jar of pasta sauce for lunch when it happened again. He had both hands on the lid, braced against the counter, applying torque. A sudden, intense, pinpoint pressure on the side of his neck, right below his ear—the feeling of two tiny, determined fingers squeezing.
He yelped, dropping the jar. It thumped harmlessly onto the cutting board. He clapped a hand to his neck, feeling nothing but his own pulse. “Bea!” he called out, laughing.
Her response came from the top of the refrigerator. She was six inches tall, leaning against the toaster, wiping yellow paint from her hands with a scrap of paper towel. “You make such satisfying noises when you’re surprised.”
“I’m trying to make lunch for us, you menace.”
“I’m assisting,” she said, and grew to her full height in one seamless motion, hopping down from the fridge. She picked up the jar, twisted the lid open with an effortless pop, and handed it back to him. “See? Teamwork.”
The afternoon mellowed. She returned to her canvas; he tackled the laundry. The quiet was companionable, threaded with the distant, rhythmic sounds of each other’s chosen work. He was folding a fitted sheet—a task that felt like a mild philosophical crisis—when she appeared in the doorway of the utility room.
She leaned against the frame, watching him struggle. Her hair was now streaked with the same yellow that smudged her forearms. “You know,” she said, “there’s a technique to that.”
“I’m aware of the technique,” he grumbled, holding up a twisted knot of linen. “The sheet is rejecting the technique.”
She smiled and walked over, taking two corners from him. Together, they managed a semblance of a fold. As they brought the corners together, she was suddenly very close. She looked up at him, her eyes clear and bright, the last vestiges of the nightmare’s grip gone. “Thank you,” she said, simply. “For last night.”
“Always,” he replied, his voice low.
They placed the folded sheet in the basket. As he straightened, he felt her hand slip beneath the hem of his t-shirt, her fingers cool against the skin of his lower back. They traced a slow, gentle circle over a knot of muscle there, a touch that was more massage than tease. He let out a gratified sigh, leaning into the pressure.
“You’re all tense here,” she murmured, her other hand coming up to rest on his shoulder.
“It’s from evading tiny tickle monsters.”
“Poor thing.” Her voice was soft, close to his ear. Her exploring fingers drifted higher, tracing the line of his spine. It was intimate, soothing. He closed his eyes, letting the quiet comfort of it wash over him.
Her touch shifted.
It was subtle at first—her fingertips, which had been working a gentle pressure, suddenly became lighter, skimming over his ribs. He tensed, a preparatory inhale catching in his throat. Before he could react, her other hand, the one on his shoulder, darted swiftly inside the collar of his t-shirt. Her fingers, cool and quick, found the sensitive skin of his underarm.
He gasped, buckling away from the touch with a choked laugh. “Hey!”
But she was already moving, her hands a blur. She danced around him in the small space, her touches sudden and fleeting—a dig into his hip bone, a skitter up his side, a swift scratch down the center of his back over his shirt. Each strike was precise, surgical, designed to elicit a jolting reaction. He twisted and dodged, the laundry basket knocking over with a soft thump, sending a cascade of clean towels across the floor.
“Bea—stop—this is—ah!” He was laughing now, helplessly, trying to catch her wrists as she flitted around him.
She was grinning, a wild, playful light in her eyes. The melancholy artist was gone, fully replaced by the imp. She backed him against the washing machine, her hands planted on either side of him, caging him in. Her eyes dropped to his chest, then back to his face, a new, more daring idea blooming in her expression.
Throughout the day, she had waged tickle strikes in various places on his skin, but her amusement peaked when she targeted his nipples. It started as her fingers, still teasing, brushed over one through the soft cotton of his shirt. He flinched, a sharper, more startled sound escaping him.
Seeing his reaction, her grin widened. “Oh?” she breathed, her voice full of delighted discovery.
Her thumbs pressed firmly, circling slowly through the fabric. The sensation was bizarre, intense—a direct, vulnerable point of contact that was neither purely ticklish nor purely pleasurable, but a shocking, electric mix of both. He squirmed, his breath hitching.
“Sensitive here?” she cooed, her touch becoming more deliberate, flicking lightly.
He was trapped between the solid vibration of the washing machine and her. Laughter bubbled out of him, but it was mixed with shaky gasps. “That’s—ah—that’s not fair.”
“All’s fair,” she whispered, and then she ducked her head. He felt the warm press of her mouth through the fabric, followed by the gentle scrape of her teeth. The dual sensation—the damp heat and the slight, threatening pressure—sent a convulsive shiver through his entire body. He arched back against the machine, a strangled cry of laughter and surprise torn from him.
His hands found her hair, not to push her away, but to hold on, his fingers tangling in the yellow-streaked strands. She continued her merciless, fascinated exploration, switching her attention to the other side, her tongue flicking, her fingers pinching lightly. The world narrowed to the humming appliance at his back and the devastating, pinpoint focus of her mouth.
He was trembling, lightheaded from the overload, from the lack of air between bursts of helpless laughter. Just as he felt his knees might genuinely give way, she relented. She pulled back, looking up at him. Her lips were curved in a smug, utterly satisfied smile. Her eyes were dark with amusement and something else, something warmer.
“You,” he panted, his chest heaving, “are a dangerous woman.”
“You love it,” she said, rising on her toes to kiss him properly. His body still thrummed with the aftershocks of her assault.
“I really do,” he admitted against her lips.
She pulled back, glancing at the towels strewn across the floor, the overturned basket. “Now look at this mess.”
“You started it.”
“I finished it, too.” She winked, then bent to pick up a towel. As she straightened, she tossed it to him. Her expression shifted, the playful glint softening into something more purposeful. “So, about that show. My paintings. I think… I think I want you to see them. Now. Before anyone else.”