Small, tiny, little, and a thousand other synonyms for ‘small’ I have been called. It seemed to be the only adjective, the only thought people had about me after looking at me. It’s not like I could help that I could never grow past the five-four mark or that my facial features and body seemed so miniature compared to others. I’m not forcing anyone to look at me (though most often overlook me), so there is no need for any comments about my small this or my small that.

   Trust me, I know I am small, and I have seen myself in a mirror. One could only tell my eyes are a dark forest green by standing directly in front of me. My nose seems to barely protrude from my face. My eyebrows are a light brown and arc above my eyes. My sandy brown hair covers my head in a close neat cut. Though my features only seem mini compared to others, but they fit my body, my thin body. If a great wind were to blow, I would be at the mercy of the wind. As I have never been able to accomplish a greater weight than 127.6 pounds. So there is really no need to tell me that I am small or you might face my not so small anger. Mini Matt or Mini Matteous is my appointed nickname but please don’t call me that.

    I suppose due to the constant teasing and my short fuse, I have come to have friends only in my thoughts. As they won’t ever call be short or make fun of me in anyway, and I know exactly how to respond to each of them as I control them, almost all of them. There’s these thoughts that seemingly come from nowhere, completely different from my usual thoughts, telling me to harm another or do something that I know is wrong to do. Intrusive thoughts are what they are called. When I was younger, before knowing what these thoughts were, I would act upon them.

    The thoughts seemed to know exactly when I was the most vulnerable mentally and most likely to act. I would get into such trouble for biting, scratching, punching, kicking, and pulling the hair of my other older siblings. Though they often deserved it, for they made comments about my stature. It was one of the few things our parents had told them not to do or there would be consequences. But they would never get in trouble, only I would. I would act instead of just ignore them is the reason I would get in trouble. After all, how could I with their infuriating comments how no-one could or would look up to me simply because I was shorter than everybody. The same comments, the same bullying would occur everyday with them, but I couldn't fight back without getting in trouble. Though some days it would be harder to restrain myself and my thoughts than others.

    My eldest brother, Ernest, and I were making sugar cookies to decorate them for Christmas Eve was in a few days. My ninth birthday was today, so we were left at home alone while my parents and sisters, Naomi and Arya, were setting up my not so secret party at Grandmother’s house. I, of course, pretended that I didn’t know that they were going to set it up as most children my age are completely oblivious to their surroundings, and the fact that they all been talking about it when they thought I wasn’t listening. But I wish they would’ve gone with a simple regular birthday party instead of torturing me with the antics of Ernest.

    “C’mon just reach a little higher Matt, it’s not that high up!” Ernest comments on my struggling to reach the sugar container from the top shelf despite the stool adding nine inches to my height. It’s not like I could just magically grow past four-one in just a few seconds. We haven’t even placed all the ingredients out before he commences his mockery of me.

    I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a snarky comment but simply focused on grasping the edges of the sugar container to bring it to the edge and finally set it out to be used. Ernest has already lined out all of the other ingredients and organized them in order which they were to be used. Ignoring the smirk that he wore that was a promise to more mockery, I placed the sugar down on the counter and pushed it back, so it wouldn't get knocked off easily. I then proceeded to turn to him as a silent way of saying I was ready to be told what to do. But Ernest had already started and was saying nothing to me except “pass me this” or “hand me that”. I simply decided to let it slide for now and foolishly hoped that this would be it. After all, he wasn’t continuously talking which I might’ve had to leave to the lack of oxygen in that room. He really couldn’t stop talking once he started and always had to say something, no matter how idiotic it sounded.

    The cookie making process was quite slow and dull but was completed eventually. The dough was softly placed into a bowl, covered with a cloth before finally being situated safely on the to shelf in the fridge. Ernest left while I began to put the used equipment in the sink and put any ingredient containers away to their original spot. Once he came back with all the necessary cleaning supplies to clean the countertop and the floor which were both a mess from Ernest’s inability to not make a mess doing anything. I was given a broom to sweep the floors and immediately set on doing so. It was rather calming as there were no other sounds besides the ones made from the broom or Ernest occasionally using the squirt bottle to spray the counter to make sure there was no sign that we were baking.

    As I was sweeping around the kitchen to get a thorough cleaning, I stopped once I saw my mother’s collection of kitchen knives. Always so pristine that I could see my slightly disordered self in them. I could also see Ernest in the behind me, so blissfully unaware of what goes on around him. If he were to suddenly be attacked, hypothetically, he would have little to no time to fight back if the attacker could attack properly. There are plenty of knives in the kitchen, so that if the attacker needed more weapons they would have easy access to more. After all, what could ensure death more than multiple fatal wounds that could at least cause enough bleeding for one to die. Though this is all hypothetical; it isn’t like I would try to actually do so. That would be too easy, too predictable.

    Ernest probably expects it anyways. After all, you can only expect someone to take so much mockery. He’s just taunting me. He wants me to set myself up in this trap. We’re the only ones home. No one can get in since all the windows are shut and sealed to keep the frigid winter air out. Each of the doors are locked as well, and we were instructed not to open them for anyone. I’ll be the first to be suspected no matter how much of a convincing act that it wasn’t me. I continue sweeping the rest of the kitchen and pretend as if I never had more of a second thought about the knives.

    I was beginning to predict when my intrusive thoughts would occur. Anytime I was alone with someone in a room, they would trickle in on how I could use an object to harm someone. They would get more daring when I was alone in the house with someone. They would tell me the same information from being alone in a room but more detailed. But they would also tell me where I could dispose of the body, how to clean up so no one would suspect until they realize they’ve been missing for quite some time, and how I should act to avoid suspicion. It almost seems that thoughts have thoughts themselves for all this planning must have taken some deep thought. It is really quite impressive.

    Though the thoughts seem to have no preservation for their host. I suppose everyone has them, so there is no need to have such preservation to survive. It is quite fascinating, disturbing but still fascinating. There would be times in which I could easily walk in front of a car, and the force that the car would be so great I would die. But each time I am able to catch my thoughts and berate them for being too obvious, that they must do better. It’s become a game of sorts. We would compete to see if I would give into the thoughts desires or if I would be strong enough to see through its little tricks and stop myself from doing whatever I was about to do. I would almost always figure out its puzzle and stop, but my family would be there to stop me from doing anything irrational anyways. There would always be at least one of them with me giving me such worried and pitiful looks. It was all rather unnecessary.

    Their worry only grew once I was allowed to drive. My family thought it was useless for me to learn how to drive considering I was the youngest and the shortest of my siblings. So once I had turned seventeen and my siblings were all off to college, my parents had taught me how to drive. It was so thrilling! My thoughts seemed to come to that conclusion as well. Our game had become much more challenging with this newfound power. I could cause so much destruction with one wrong move. Though it was likely I would only get one go to cause the maximum amount of damage, so I waited.

    After two years, the wait was finally over. I had finally got my chance, and it was going to be glorious. My family had this reunion that we were all required to go to that would last a few days. My siblings decided to stay at our parents’ house instead of spending money at a hotel. I was in charge of driving to and from the ranch that the reunion was taking place at, mostly because I was still too underage to drink, and my parents were getting along in age. For three days I had to drive them, and I was driving the best I could until the third night on the drive home.

    It was too tempting, too easy. Nothing or no-one could stop me, you cannot stop what you don’t know about after all. The sunset was breathtaking as it painted the sky soft oranges and pinks, and the lake did a marvelous job reflecting it. The surface was like glass and just like glass it broke once the car dove through it. They panicked, my family, while I had locked all the doors and the windows were sealed shut. Well, not quite. If I was able to, I left a small crack of the window open to let the water seep in. They continued to scream, yell and attempt to escape but all was futile.

    But they had other plans than what my thoughts and I have planned. I had felt a sharp pain on the right side of my head and another on my left when my head was knocked into the window. I had just been knocked into unconsciousness, and it was and still is up for debate who was more angry about it, my thoughts or I. As I had learned after regaining my senses, the rest of my family had tried to swim to the surface but made the fatal mistake of trying to save me as well. They would have all survived if they didn’t bother with me. I’ll never understand why they tried, someone had to die. They had all drowned while I was saved by some cruel twist of fate. Though technically speaking, it was the life jacket Mother had stored in the car if I was ever to go out into the water. We, my thoughts and I, had meant for the six of us to die. We all had such formal wear from the party that took place before. So they at least looked nice when they went to meet God. We all were supposed to. I wasn’t supposed to live.

    “I wasn’t supposed to live. I wasn’t supposed to live,” I continuously repeat to the white padded wall that is identical to the other walls as well as the floor and ceiling. A rather bland design choice if you ask us. Not to mention the overly snug jacket I am wearing that is also white. White. White. White. I am so sick of it. The men better get me out of this place, it’s driving me insane. I have lost track of how long we’ve been in here and my thoughts have as well. I can’t remember how long I have been assigned to be in here. I think I heard the word weeks but did freak out once they said “small”. Oh, how I hate to be called small and any synonym for it.