The Size of It

My life isn’t all that horrible, I guess. I mean, of course it could be better; but anything could always be better.

The bottom line is that I enjoy a warm shelter, decent food every now and then, and an agreeable master. I could think of a million others who would love to steal my place. At least, that’s what Bok says.

At least, that’s what I tell myself while I play with the red ball. As pitiful as my self-deluding thoughts are, they work enough to distract me from his eyes.

Big stupid eyes. More annoying than the ball. Damn, I hate them.

They don’t always stare at me, the big black glass mirrors; but when they do, the effect is unnerving and only slightly less than bone-chilling. Bok says that I shouldn’t be afraid, they’re just concerned about my wellbeing. I don’t know about all that.

As they glue on me from above, I can only play with the ball and hope that my patience outlives his attention. Anything less and I’m only earning a pending reprimand.

Stupid, red ball.

I dribble the bouncy, buoyant sphere a couple more times before my eyes focus in on the orange rim ahead. Shaking off the effect from the penetrating glare of my observer, I squint, raise my hands, aim, jump, and fire. The red ball flies from my grasp, follows an arcing path to the basket, and cleanly falls in. The booming roar of approval from above makes me shiver, and I dare to glance up.

His face, which is God-awful ugly, makes me turn away involuntarily after I manage a half-hearted grin. His laughter dies down, causing my eyes to venture around the bland, gymnasium-like room and settle on the crimson ball, streaking across the hard surface floor toward me.

Just before the glossy red ball smacks me in the chest, I dive out of the way. It misses me, abruptly changes course, then races at me like a bullet with a purpose. Because my reflexes aren’t godlike, I get smacked in the face. The contact stings me, but I fight to react with nonchalance.

If I do anything to hint of my displeasure, he’ll notice.

Luckily, my hot face doesn’t betray me, I think. The ball, no longer under His influence, bounces away from me harmlessly. With some effort, I glance up at him and smile. He frowns for a second, but then the frown falters and becomes neutral. Even so, I endure his face, which is almost painful to my eyes.

His kind-the "big people"-as Bok and I refer to them-all look about the same. Like His kindred, my big person sports a smooth, round, absolute-white face with a skinny, squat pug-nose, and a timid mouth that seems to recede inward. The prominent feature of the big people are the glossy eyes that occupy the majority of their upper face-kind of like those of the cartoon characters we watch, but real.

I can never stare at them for more than two seconds. It’s creepy. What makes them even more creepy is the magnetic glare the big people seem to give you-as if they want you to meet their gaze forever.

Instead of his saucer shaped dark eyes, I tend to focus on his demure lips, if I have to. At the moment, they part, and a resounding noise issues from behind them.

I don’t know what the hell he’s saying. I never do. But I know he’s talking to me. Big people are limited to three variants of noise: a neutral tone, an excited tone, and a tone that reeks of displeasure.