Max loomed larger, a giant in a faded T-shirt and baggy shorts, his bare feet shifting on the carpet, toes flexing as he grinned down at me, his tiny, indestructible plaything.
“Let’s keep playing, Ben!” he said, his voice a mix of excitement and menace. He scooped me up, his fingers warm and sticky, and swung me toward a pile of action figures on his desk. The plastic soldiers and superheroes lay in a jumbled heap, some missing limbs, their painted faces chipped. He jammed me into a toy tank, my body wedged into the driver’s seat, the plastic cold and scratched. “You’re leading the charge!” he bellowed, rolling the tank across the desk, crashing it into a stack of comic books. The pages fluttered, sending a puff of dust into the air, and I bounced helplessly inside, the world a blur of motion. I felt no pain, no jolt—just the disorienting chaos of being his toy.
He tired of the tank and yanked me out, dropping me onto a pile of laundry in the corner. The clothes were damp, reeking of sweat and cheap detergent, the fabric a tangle of T-shirts and gym shorts. Max grabbed a rubber band from his desk, stretched it taut, and flicked me into the air like a projectile. I sailed across the room, the walls blurring past, and landed on a bookshelf cluttered with half-built model kits and sticky soda cans. The wood was dusty, the air heavy with the scent of spilled cola. Max laughed, bounding over, his bare feet thumping on the carpet, shaking the ground beneath me. “Nice shot!” he said, plucking me up again.
Next, he stuffed me into a toy helicopter, the blades spinning as he made “whirring” noises, swinging me in wild loops above his bed. The mattress below was a mess of rumpled sheets and a stained comforter, the air above it warm with the lingering heat of his body. The helicopter “crashed” onto a pillow, and I tumbled out, landing in the soft, slightly damp fabric. The smell of Max’s sweat and unwashed hair clung to the pillowcase, a faint musty odor that seemed to seep into everything. He grabbed me again, his fingers leaving a sticky residue, and tossed me onto a pile of trading cards on his nightstand. The cards slid under my weight, their glossy surfaces smudged with fingerprints, the air sharp with the chemical tang of ink.
Max’s energy was relentless. He built a makeshift “fort” from a shoebox, trapping me inside with a plastic dinosaur as my “guard.” The box smelled of old leather and foot odor, the cardboard walls scratched and dented. He shook the box, laughing as I tumbled against the sides, the dinosaur’s plastic teeth scraping my arm. Still, I felt nothing—no pain, no fear, just the growing dread of being at his mercy. The room spun around me, a kaleidoscope of clutter and chaos, until finally, Max flopped onto his bed, the mattress creaking under his weight.
“Man, this is fun,” he muttered, yawning. He propped his head on the pillow, the same one I’d landed on earlier, its musty scent now mingling with his breath. His eyes fluttered, his grin softening as exhaustion took over. His head hit the pillow hard, and within seconds, his breathing deepened, a soft snore rumbling through the room. His hand, still loosely holding me, fell open, and I slipped free, landing on the comforter beside him.
The room was quiet now, save for Max’s snores and the faint hum of the desk lamp. The carpet stretched out below, a littered expanse of crumbs and Legos, the air heavy with the stale, sweaty scent of his world. I lay there, surrounded by the mess, my mind racing. I was free—for now. But Max’s games would resume when he woke, and I had no idea how long this break would last.
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