dale bridges writing

(copyright 2022 Dale Bridges)

On the day of the appointment, Rachel checked into the hospital for routine surgery, and when she woke up, she was told there was a small man living inside her. 

“Just underneath the liver,” the doctor said. “On top of the large intestine.”

He pointed at an x-ray of Rachel’s abdomen, which showed a tiny skeleton standing upright with one bony hand raised high. It appeared to be waving. The doctor opened a file and consulted the contents. The small man was eleven centimeters in height and approximately two hundred twenty-seven grams in weight. He was thirty-four years old and lactose intolerant. He had blonde hair and green eyes. He survived by absorbing liquid, nutrients, and oxygen from Rachel’s body. The doctor held up a picture. Rachel had expected the small man to be deformed in some way, but he was actually quite handsome. He had a strong, square jaw and one of those little movie-star dents on the end of his chin.

“Why didn’t you remove him?” Rachel asked.

“He did not wish to be relocated,” the doctor explained. “He has lived inside you his entire life. It’s the only home he knows.” 

Rachel found this oddly flattering. She had never been considered special in any way before. In school, she had received middling grades, and in sports, she mostly sat on the bench. She was an average-looking woman, and when she did go on dates, which was rare, they were with average looking men. She was five feet, four inches tall and one hundred seventy pounds, which was the exact average height and weight for an American female in the twenty-first century. There was nothing extraordinary about Rachel at all. Now here was this small man with a movie-star chin dent living under her liver, and he could have gone anywhere, done anything, but he chose to stay with her. No one else she knew had small men under their livers. Yes, Rachel felt very special indeed.

The small man had asked the doctors for only two things. 1) A tiny tailored suit made from fluid-resistant materials. 2) A tiny computer with internet access. The doctor gave Rachel a prescription for antibiotics and an app she could use to connect with the small man’s computer if she desired to speak with him. Rachel drove home carefully, trying not to jostle the small man. 

As soon as she got home, Rachel downloaded the app on her cell phone and contacted the small man, who was exceedingly polite. He thanked her for allowing him to stay under her liver and let Rachel know her body needed more potassium. She ate a banana and felt better. 

They got along splendidly right from the start. Since the small man had few life experiences of his own, he was fascinated by everything about Rachel. He wanted to know where she was born and what her childhood was like. He asked endless questions about her job, which was not very exciting, and her hobbies, which were also quite dull. He was thrilled by the most mundane details, and the unfamiliar attention made Rachel feel giddy, as though she’d drunk one too many glasses of wine. They talked late into the night, and when they could no longer keep their eyes open, they drifted off to sleep together. It was the most memorable day of Rachel’s life.

Because of the surgery, Rachel was allowed three weeks medical leave, and she spent every moment with the small man. She told him about social media and all the people he could meet online, but the small man was not interested in anyone but Rachel. They quickly fell into a routine. Rachel normally slept late on her days off, but the small man was an early riser and would contact her cell phone every morning at six o’clock on the dot cheerfully demanding breakfast. He always wanted the same thing: two eggs over easy, one piece of dry wheat toast, and a cup of earl grey tea, black. Rachel preferred her eggs scrambled and milk in her tea, but the small man was fussy and lactose intolerant. During breakfast, Rachel read the sports section aloud. She did not care for athletic competition herself, but somehow the small man had learned the rules of baseball and was quite the avid Astros fan. Rachel showed him several sports-related websites, but he insisted that he preferred listening to Rachel over professional commentators.

After breakfast, they went shopping. Toys, furniture, office supplies–it didn’t matter. The small man loved to browse the treasures of a world larger than his own. More than anything, he enjoyed shopping for clothes. Or to be more precise, he enjoyed shopping for clothes for Rachel. It was their favorite game. Rachel would put her phone on video chat and walk through the aisles of a clothing store until the small man told her to stop. “That one,” he would say. “No, not that one, silly. The one on the right. Yes, that one.” It was never lingerie or anything sexual. His tastes were conservative–paisley scarves, oatmeal blazers, long cardigan sweaters in muted autumn colors–but he had a good eye, and Rachel was often surprised by how certain articles of clothing he selected made her look taller or slimmer or more adult. It was like playing dress up with your invisible friend. She had never paid much attention to her own appearance (her mother used to say, “You can’t put a ribbon on a turd and call it a prize”), and it was nice to have someone look at her, really look at her, and express a preference. She liked being told what to wear. She liked looking in the mirror and seeing another woman, a better woman. Sometimes she disagreed with the small man’s suggestions, and when that happened, he would go into a long sulk, becoming petulant and touchy for days until Rachel went back to the store and exchanged the offending garment for the one he liked. He could be a very demanding small man, but he was tiny and harmless. 

In the evening, they ate plain unbuttered popcorn and watched movies. The small man had led a sheltered life and was easily shocked. He would not stand for graphic violence, sex, or foul language. He preferred classic films from the ’40s and ’50s in which young people fell in love at the state fair or tall men in cowboy hats saved small villages from bandits. He had a particular passion for musicals and would memorize the songs instantly. His voice was high-pitched but steady, and every night before bed, he serenaded Rachel with tunes from My Fair Lady and Oklahoma! This would often go on for hours, and although Rachel was flattered, sometimes she just wanted to be left alone. The small man hated alcohol, but Rachel discovered if she drank small sips of vodka very slowly, he would not notice. His singing would start to slur, and he would eventually fall asleep. In the morning, however, no matter how much alcohol she had consumed, he would wake her up at six, and they would do it all over again. 

After three weeks, Rachel was ready to return to work. Her time with the small man had been exciting at first, but she had grown weary of his constant demands. She didn’t blame him. After all, the small man had spent his entire life alone underneath a larger woman’s liver. He was bound to be a little needy and self-centered. But sharing one’s body with a tiny narcissist was exhausting, and Rachel was happy to have an excuse to ignore him. 

Or at least she tried to ignore him. Although Rachel repeatedly explained the nature and necessity of having a job to the small man, he could not grasp the concept, and on the first day of work, he called her a dozen times before noon asking to go shopping. Finally, she turned her cell phone off. The rest of the day was quite nice. Her coworkers asked about her surgery and complimented her repeatedly on her new clothes. Her supervisor said she was missed and gave her a lovely gift basket. At lunch, she found a nice bench outside in the sun and read a mystery novel while she ate her ham sandwich. 

When she got home, there were twenty-seven missed calls on her phone and twenty-seven messages. Before she could delete them, her phone buzzed. The small man was irate. How dare Rachel leave him alone all day? How dare she not return his calls? Didn’t she know that he had been worried about her? He had needs too. How could she be so selfish? Rachel was annoyed at first, but the small man sounded so concerned about her welfare, so despondent and lonely that she eventually apologized and agreed to watch The Sound of Music, a movie she had grown to loath. That night, she drank two vodka cranberries in quick succession, and they both passed out before the von Trapps could escape from the Nazis. 

To placate the small man, Rachel agreed to contact him every two hours while she was at work. This was difficult because he was not satisfied with a text or a quick hello. He insisted on a video chat so he could see her and went through a litany of questions about who she was talking to and what she was doing. In order to do this, Rachel had to lock herself in the bathroom for up to twenty minutes at a time, which strained her relationships with female coworkers and caused her supervisor to ask embarrassing questions about her digestive health. And in fact, this had been an issue of late. The small man had become even more finicky about his diet and had cut out carbohydrates and sugar, claiming they caused him to feel dizzy and bloated. Rachel had lost more than ten pounds since switching to mostly red meat as her primary source of protein, but her bowels had paid a price. She received many compliments, but her stomach was constantly in knots. 

The small man was surprisingly adept at technology. Somehow, he managed to get a credit card under her name and began ordering things online. It was fun at first, kind of like having Christmas every day. Rachel would come home from work and find a small pile of mystery presents waiting on her doorstep. The small man loved to watch her open the boxes, and he would squeal with delight every time she showed him what was inside, even though he was the one who purchased it. In the beginning, the items were cheap and useful–a package of ballpoint pens, a new toothbrush–but as the small man began exploring the world of online merchandise, his orders grew in size and price–flatscreen televisions, oil paintings of John Wayne, musical instruments she didn’t know how to play. She tried to send them back, but it was hard to keep up and some companies didn’t accept returns. She canceled his card, but he quickly obtained another. Soon she was thousands of dollars in debt. No matter how she tried to explain, the small man could not grasp the concept of money and continued to drive her into financial ruin. 

On the weekends, they resumed their routine, but the magic had passed for Rachel. She hated waking up at six and eating over-easy eggs. She despised anything related to baseball. Shopping had become a joyless act, and if she saw one more Danny Kaye musical number, she was going to scream. Every evening, she started drinking a little earlier and a little more, until finally she began bringing small bottles of vodka to work in her purse. The small man was much easier to deal with if they were both a little tipsy. As her anxiety increased so did her depression. She lost her appetite and would only eat when the small man demanded it. Sleep was impossible.

She tried removing the app and turning off her phone, but the small man had found her on social media, and when she didn’t talk to him directly, he posted on her Facebook and Twitter accounts relentlessly until she responded. He messaged her friends asking if she was in danger, and then they messaged her with embarrassing questions. Furthermore, his credit card purchases tripled when she was not talking to him. He had to be attended to constantly.

Rachel grew desperate. Her life hadn’t been perfect before the small man, but it had been hers. Now she was tired, sad, and somehow more lonely than ever. The small man had driven away all her friends and family. She cried at least ten times a day. She couldn’t remember the last time she sat down to enjoy a quiet moment to herself. 

And so, one day, without informing the small man, she returned to the hospital where she’d had the surgery and asked the doctor to remove him. 

“I cannot,” said the doctor.

“Why?” Rachel asked.

“Let me rephrase that. I will not without the gentleman’s consent.”

“I don’t understand. It’s my body, and I want him out of it.”

The doctor patted her on the head as though she was a child. “Now, let’s not get emotional about this. You have to remember it’s his body, too. He may be a small man but he is still a man, and he has rights.”

Rachel brushed away the doctor’s hand. “Will he die if you take him out?”

“No,” the doctor said. “We can arrange for him to be placed in an artificial environment where he could live quite comfortably. The issue is not scientific but legal and moral. Imagine if I came to your house and said you had to leave. How would you feel?”

Rachel started to argue that people were evicted from homes they didn’t own all the time, but the doctor stopped her. “I am sorry, ma’am, but I have already spoken to the hospital’s legal department about this issue and there is nothing I can do without a court order. I suggest you learn to live with the situation. Try to compromise, make him feel welcome.” 

“But he’s ruining my life,” Rachel insisted. “He wants to control everything I do. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I have credit card debt I can’t pay. You have to help me.”

“Has he hit you?”

“No.”

“Has he kicked you?”

“Of course not.”

“Choked you, bit you, slapped you? Has he physically hurt you in any way?”

Rachel looked away.

He gave her a prescription for sleeping pills and a pamphlet titled Coping with a Codependent Partner. “If you need further advice, I suggest you contact a lawyer.” 

But the lawyer was equally unhelpful. She was a small, terse woman in a mottled brown blazer that the small man would have liked. She regarded Rachel over a pair of rectangular glasses. Since there was no legal precedent for a small adult human living inside a large adult human, the cost of such a case would be astronomical and the outcome uncertain. The small man was a legal citizen with rights protected by the government. He had broken no laws. He was not threatening Rachel’s physical health. Why should a judge force him to be removed from the only place he’d ever lived? The case would likely drag on for years, and the legal fees would be astronomical. Rachel had no money. So what was the point? And then there was the publicity to think about. Rachel’s face would be on every newspaper and website in the world. People would have opinions about her, strong opinions, opinions that would haunt her for the rest of her life. No, forced removal would be a certain failure. Therefore, if she wanted to avoid lifelong debt and social suicide, her best option was to talk to the small man and convince him to request his own relocation.

So Rachel contacted the small man to plead her case. She told him all about the procedure and reassured him that it was completely safe. She described the small man’s new home in great detail. She didn’t actually know where he would be living, but surely it must be better than on her liver.

“We would still be friends,” she explained. “Good friends. Better friends. You would just have your own place that’s all. Wouldn’t that be nice? A big giant room all your own with a bed and a couch and…and a widescreen television that you can watch your musicals on.”

“But Rachel,” squeaked the small man. “Who would read the sports section to me and take me shopping?”

“We do that on the phone, buddy. You can still call me every day, and we’ll do those things together. Nothing will change.”

“But if nothing is going to change, why should I bother moving? I’m comfortable here, Rachel. I know where everything is. You do a great job of taking care of me. This is my home.”

Rachel closed her eyes and wiped away angry tears. She could feel him moving around inside her, touching her organs with his tiny hands, absorbing her fluids, laying claim to her blood and bone and tissue.

She took a breath and continued in a chipper tone. “Because it’s my body. You can understand that, right? Everyone should get to control their own body. I don’t like waking up at six in the morning and eating over-easy eggs. I don’t enjoy baseball. I hate musicals. I want to wear sweatpants and drink milkshakes. I want my life back, buddy.”

There was a pregnant pause, and then the small man made a joyful sound. “Oh, I get it! Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

Rachel sighed. “Well, I didn’t want to offend you.”

“No, no, no. I’m not offended, you silly goose. Of course, you have needs and desires of your own. I should have known. Compromise is important in relationships. I have read all about these types of issues. How about this? You can sleep in until eight on the weekends, and I will let you choose one movie a week. PG of course. But that’s a definite no on the milkshakes. I have to put my foot down there because that’s a health issue. You understand that.”

“I don’t want to compromise,” Rachel hissed. “It’s my body. Mine. Don’t you get that? I shouldn’t have to ask what I can have for breakfast or when I can wake up. I should be able to do any fucking thing I want.”

“Rachel! Language!” The small man tutted his tongue. “You are obviously too emotional to talk about this logically right now. I think you should get a good night’s sleep, and we will discuss it in the morning when you are more rational. I think you will see that I am being more than fair.”

The small man hung up, and Rachel threw the phone across the room. She grabbed a carton of milk out of the refrigerator and drank half of it in greedy gulps, the white liquid spilling down the front of her shirt. She jumped up and down and pounded her stomach with her fists. She put on a very loud death metal song she knew the small man would hate and pushed her belly against the speaker. Her phone buzzed, but she ignored it. “Get out!” she screamed. “Get out of my body!” 

She felt a sharp pain in her stomach and doubled over. She punched her stomach, and the pain increased. The little bastard was kicking her insides. She marched into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of vodka from the cupboard. She couldn’t go on like this. That much she knew. She took several long swigs. The pain in her stomach dulled a little. She opened the bottle of sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed and washed one down with vodka. She took another. And then another. There was no conscious plan in the act. She wanted the small man to sleep. She wanted him to leave her alone. She wanted some damn peace and quiet. She wanted him to die. The room blurred and began to spin. She drank some more. 

She had no idea how many pills she took before the vodka bottle was empty. The last thing she remembered before falling blissfully into the silent blackness was the sound of her cell phone buzzing and buzzing and buzzing.

She woke up in a hospital bed with a pounding hangover, and her first thought was one of hope. The small man was dead. If she had been hospitalized, there was no way he could have survived. It was a terrible thing, of course. It was always terrible when a life was lost. There would be consequences. The doctors would tell the police about the small man, and they would ask her questions. But they couldn’t prove she was trying to hurt him. She simply took too many sleeping pills. It was an accident. They might try to charge her with something, but it was worth it. She was finally free.

When the nurse entered the room, Rachel tried to sit up and realized for the first time that her arms and legs were strapped down. 

“Don’t strain yourself, honey,” said the nurse. “We got a three-hundred pound weight lifter strapped down like this in the next room. If he can’t get up, you ain’t going nowhere.”

The nurse informed her that she had been committed to the state mental hospital following her suicide attempt. She was so very lucky that the small man under her liver had sensed something was wrong and called 911 when she fainted. They pumped her stomach in the hospital before the sleeping pills could fully metabolize in her system. She was very fortunate to be alive. 

Rachel tried to tell her that it wasn’t a suicide attempt, but the nurse kept talking as though she hadn’t spoken. The doctors had determined she was suffering from stress, anxiety, and a form of schizophrenia she had never heard of. That was too bad. They would help her. Of course they would. Since she had no husband or next of kin, the hospital had given legal guardianship to the small man. They were able to communicate with him through his computer. 

“You’re lucky to have that little guy,” the nurse insisted. “He’s been fighting for you since you came in. Won’t leave the doctors alone. Insists you get special treatment.”

The nurse put a tray in front of her with a cup of black tea, a triangle of dry wheat toast, and two over-easy eggs. She turned on the television that was bolted to the wall, and Julie Andrews began singing “The Hills are Alive.”

Rachel stayed in the hospital for six months, and when she was finally released, her life was over. She had lost her job, her apartment, and her credit card debt had ballooned out of control. Several friends and coworkers sent her kind emails welcoming her home, but when she asked them for help, they made excuses and eventually stopped responding altogether. She checked into a halfway house and filed for bankruptcy. 

As her legal guardian, the small man had control over her bank accounts and could have her sent back to the mental hospital at any time. The doctors said it would be good for Rachel to establish routines. It was important that she wake up the same time every morning and eat a consistent breakfast and participate in healthy activities that she enjoyed. She needed a strong, stable figure in her life to lead her on the path to mental health. The small man said she was in good hands.

Eventually, Rachel was able to find a new job for much less pay and a subsidized apartment in a poverty-stricken neighborhood. The apartment was infested with cockroaches and there was no furniture, but these issues didn’t bother the small man. The first purchase he made was an earpiece to replace Rachel’s cell phone. He required her to wear it at all times, so he could be with her always. His voice filled her ear in the morning at breakfast. He spoke nonstop all day at work. And at night, he continued to sing songs from his favorite musicals. The small man’s words echoed through her head constantly, and over time Rachel lost track of her own inner voice. The narrative of her life had been hijacked, the story was no longer her own. Her passions and desires soon followed. She forgot that she didn’t like her eggs over easy and that she hated old musicals. It wasn’t necessarily that she started to like these things; it was more that she no longer had any personal likes or dislikes. Her life was a long, bland series of decisions made by someone else. She was no longer a person; she was a vessel. 

She woke up at six every morning and she ate eggs over easy and she read the sports page and she watched classic musicals. The small man had developed a taste for alcohol, so Rachel was allowed to drink as much as she liked. She drank and drank and drank. She walked up and down the streets talking to the small man in her head, and the children ran away from her, and their parents locked their doors, and the doctors told everyone she was fine, just fine. She was well known to the shop owners of the area, who would shake their heads when she came into their stores, wandering the aisles aimlessly, talking to herself and crying while she tried on clothes. 

The small man was very happy.