You barely had a moment to catch your breath before she lifted you again, her long fingers curling carefully around your body. She rose from the couch and began walking through her apartment—each of her steps sending tremors through your body like distant earthquakes.
Her bedroom was warm and softly lit, decorated with creams, mossy greens, and dusky pinks. A diffuser hissed gently on a shelf, filling the air with a calming scent—lavender and sandalwood. Houseplants curled along the window, soaking in the last of the afternoon light. Everything was perfectly arranged, tranquil. Safe.
Except for you.
She set you gently down onto a white vanity table near the bed, brushing a few stray earrings and bobby pins aside to make space. Her red hair fell over one shoulder as she bent down to get a closer look at you, her green eyes full of fascination.
“I think you’ll stay in here,” she said softly, her voice rolling through you like distant thunder. “It’s quiet. Warm. No one else comes in. You’ll be safe.”
You stood up, stumbling slightly on the polished surface.
“Please,” you began, your voice hoarse, desperate. “I’m not an animal. I don’t belong in here. I’m a person. A man. Something happened to me—some kind of freak accident—and I need help. I need—”
She smiled brightly, cutting you off without knowing it.
“You’re so animated. Look at you, waving your arms like that.” She chuckled, eyes crinkling with amusement. “You’re really expressive for something so tiny. It’s… adorable.”
You dropped to your knees. “No. No—please. You have to listen! I’m not a pet. I’m not a toy. I’m not yours. Just call someone. A lab. The news. Anyone!”
She tilted her head.
“You’re buzzing again,” she murmured. “I wish I knew what it meant. I wish I knew where you came from.”
She reached over to a small decorative glass container, once filled with hair ties, and dumped it out onto the table. Then, with gentle precision, she placed a folded microfiber cloth at the bottom, added a few cotton swabs, and set a small plastic bottle cap full of water to the side.
You stared at it, horrified.
“There,” she said, satisfied. “Temporary housing. I’ll make something nicer tomorrow. Maybe repurpose an old candle jar. Or—ooh! I have a terrarium I never used.”
You backed away from her, shaking your head.
“Don’t do this. Please. I have a life. A job. A family. You can’t just keep me.”
She lifted you again and gently deposited you into the container. The walls were just high enough to keep you in. Escape would be difficult—maybe impossible, depending on where she placed it. You threw yourself against the edge, pounding your fists on the glass-like wall.
Her enormous face loomed over you, chin resting on folded arms as she gazed in like a girl admiring a hamster in a pet shop.
“I really wish I could understand you,” she said. “But for now, you don’t seem scared. That’s good. I was worried you’d be aggressive or bitey or something.”
You looked up at her, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. “I am scared. You’re just not listening.”
She smiled again, mistaking your pain for charm. “You’re like a little cartoon. I should name you.”
Your stomach dropped. “No—don’t name me. I’m not your pet.”
She tapped a finger against her lips, thinking.
“How about... Pip?”
Your face twisted. “What?”
“Pip,” she repeated, clearly pleased with herself. “Like a tiny seed. Or a sound. It fits you.”
You screamed and hurled a broken toothpick lying beside the cotton swab. It bounced off the side of the jar. She giggled.
“Aww. You don’t like it? Well, I do.” She tapped the glass with her nail, gently. “That’s your name now. Pip.”
You collapsed to the cloth below you, burying your face in your hands. Your voice cracked.
“Please. Let me go. I’m begging you. I’m a human being.”
But she was already walking to her dresser.
“I’m going to make a little list of things you need,” she called over her shoulder. “A water dish, some snacks, maybe some soft fabric for bedding. And I’ll find you a toothbrush. I don’t know if your kind even needs to brush teeth, but it can’t hurt, right?”
You watched in silent horror as she jotted things into a little notepad, humming softly. The matter-of-factness of it all—how easily she’d slotted you into her routine—was worse than any cage.
When she returned, she leaned over the container and tapped the top edge.
“Okay, Pip,” she said, her tone suddenly more serious. “Let’s set some ground rules.”
You blinked up at her.
“First rule: no climbing. If you fall, I’m not sure I can put you back together.”
“Are you kidding me right now?” you asked, voice trembling.
“Second rule: no running off. This apartment is too dangerous for someone your size. One wrong step from me, and...” She glanced meaningfully down at her feet.
You swallowed hard.
“And third…” She leaned in closer, eyes narrowing slightly. “You behave. Don’t make messes. Don’t attack my jewelry. Don’t scream all night. Be... a good little thing. And I’ll make sure you’re comfortable.”
You sat frozen. Stunned. This was real. She meant it.
And the worst part? She wasn’t cruel.
She wasn’t malicious.
She genuinely thought she was helping.
She tapped the side of the container one more time, smiled, and stood up.
“Alright, Pip. Get some rest. You’ve had a long day. I’m going to bed soon, and you need to stay quiet, okay?”
Then she turned off the overhead light, leaving only the soft amber glow of a bedside lamp behind. She pulled back the covers, climbed into bed, and sighed with the kind of relaxed comfort that made you want to scream.
You sat there, in your makeshift home. A bottle cap of water. Cotton bedding. And a name that wasn’t yours.
Your voice was raw. Your tears silent.
And all the while, she watched you with calm, sleepy eyes—like you were the cutest little thing in the world.
Like you were hers.
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