Max’s grin faded into a lazy smirk as he dropped me onto the carpet, my tiny body sinking into the grayish-blue fibers next to a jagged Lego piece. The air still reeked of his feet, a sour, cheesy stench that clung to me like a curse. He stood, his massive frame looming over me, casting a shadow that swallowed the dim light from the desk lamp. “Yo, Ben, I’m starving,” he said, rubbing his stomach with a hand still tacky with peanut butter. “Gonna head downstairs for breakfast. Don’t go anywhere, little dude.” His voice dripped with mockery, and his sneakers thudded against the floor as he shuffled out, leaving the door ajar. The room fell quiet, save for the faint hum of the lamp and the distant clatter of dishes from downstairs.
I lay there, surrounded by the wasteland of Max’s bedroom—crumpled socks, a spilled bag of chips, comic books splayed open like fallen soldiers. I remembered what I’d seen earlier when I’d been downstairs: Dad at the stove, flipping pancakes, the sweet, buttery aroma mixing with sizzling bacon. Max would be back, his belly full, his energy recharged for whatever twisted games he had planned. The smart move was to stay put. Angering him wasn’t worth the risk—his moods could shift from playful to cruel in a heartbeat. Time dragged, each second stretching into what felt like an hour in my shrunken state. The carpet fibers scratched against me, and the stale sock smell lingered, a constant reminder of my helplessness.
The door creaked open, and Max’s heavy footsteps returned, shaking the floor. He slammed the door shut, the lock clicking with a finality that made my stomach twist—or would have, if I could feel it. He turned, his eyes glinting with renewed mischief, his cheeks flushed from eating. “I’m all full now,” he said, rubbing his stomach, the fabric of his shirt stretching over his bloated gut. “Man, those pancakes were dope. Bacon, too.” His voice was thick with satisfaction, but his gaze locked onto me, predatory and eager. “Can’t wait to explore with you, Ben.” He scooped me up, his fingers warm and slightly greasy, smelling faintly of syrup. The air shifted as he lifted me, the room’s chaos blurring past—posters, stains, clutter. His breath hit me again, now laced with maple and bacon grease, and I braced myself for whatever new torment his “full” energy would unleash.
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