“I need a cigarette,” your mother said, unceremoniously plucking you up off the couch, and placing you on the cork colored filter of a fresh Newport. She slid you and the cigarette between her lips, pinning you between her upper lip and the filter. Her lip pressed down on you as she sucked in and you heard the click of the lighter. The pressure released a little and smoke poured out of her nose and covered you. You coughed, but your mother didn’t seem to care.
“Rub mommy’s lip,” she said, the dangling cigarette lighting bouncing. “Massage it.” You did as you were asked, and she moaned lightly as she took another drag.
Your name is Mike Little, and your name was rather fitting. You’re a small part of the population who was born a tiny. A virus swept the world around 25 years ago, and ever since a small percentage of people - around 6% of men and two percent of women - have been born tiny, standing somewhere between one and five inches tall. You were of the smallest variety, barely and inch in height.
You’d only met your mother yesterday. You’d lived with your father all of your life, your mother left when you were young, apparently terrified of the thought of raising a tiny. When you were only 8 your father passed away, and you stayed with your stepmother, Janice.
Life had been good with Janice. You had a small dollhouse, and you had a group of tiny friends who could hang out with. But her mother had fallen ill, and she had to leave to take care of her. Around that time your birth mother, Denise, had made an effort to want to get to know you. So now, at 20, your life had been upended.
Denise seems nice. She’s 50, chubby, but rather pretty.
Denise took a final drag off of her cigarette, and removed it from her lips a few inches, pursing them and blowing s torrent of smoke on you. You again began to cough.
“You’ll get used to my smoking,” she chuckled, taking you off of the cigarette butt before crushing it out in an ashtray.