Short Fiction: TALL STORY (Part 2)
The Protagonist's Decision & More Illustrations from Mikala Monsoon
To celebrate the forthcoming release of my debut novel Another Life, it feels fitting for me to share some fiction here on Substack for the very first time (gulp!).
If you haven’t already read the first half of Tall Story (published yesterday), make sure you do before you continue.
Otherwise, I hope you enjoy Part 2.
At home, a meal for one waits for me and there’s that familiar pop, pop, pop as I pierce the cellophane layered across the top of my microwave dinner.
This is what being single sounds like, I think.
Of course, I’ve had boyfriends in the past but none of them stuck around for long. None of them gave me a concrete reason for the premature death of our relationship either. Instead, they blamed it on “timing” or issued empty platitudes like “It’s not you, it’s me.” They probably thought they were being kind but the problem with such vague feedback is that it could only lead to one thing: A thorough internal investigation in order to ascertain the real reason and, with that, the systematic dismantling of my entire being. Instead of disliking one thing about myself, the one thing that actually led to them leaving, I learned to question everything. Perhaps I had an ugly nose or gappy teeth. Maybe my voice grated, too shrill for delicate ears. Or was it my personality?
Somehow, the idea that my ugly lay on the inside was worse than anything else. I didn’t choose my nose or teeth or ears but I had worked hard for decades to cultivate my personhood. Suffered immense hardship and managed to grow from it all. The idea of being rejected despite all that incredibly difficult and hugely time-consuming self-work has always felt too grim to ever seriously consider.
Blaming my height for my heartbreak feels, in some ways, easier. Less painful, if not more frustrating. I may never know who it was that decided for all society that height should be a gendered thing but we are where we are and I sure as hell can’t see it changing in my lifetime.
Of course, I’ve seen those male celebrities, the handful in Hollywood that unabashedly walk the red carpet with their stunning, talented, clever wives towering above them. Nothing asserts Big Dick Energy in quite the same way. But there aren’t enough of them yet. It could be decades before the rest of the world catches up and I may never find a man secure enough in his masculinity to date a girl taller than him.
Barefoot, I’d been taller than several of my exes. In heels, taller than all of them. The fact that all these men had ended up with little women in the end provided all the evidence I needed to support my theory.
And I knew they treated these wives differently than all those that came before them.
“There are girls you fuck and girls you marry,” I overheard a guy saying to his friend once and I wondered how it was that men decided which category each of us women fell into.
Men can conduct themselves however they want, of course, but there are different rules for us. We are Madonnas or whores. Too much or not enough. Our wombs, ever a politically charged battleground. Our right to not be violated dependent on what we wear. The knowledge that, if we, one day, give birth to a daughter ourselves, she will almost certainly suffer at the hands of a man at some point in her life. All the while being paid less to work the same job.
It isn’t fair. But it is the truth. And if I can’t beat the system, I need to make it work for me.
My phone pings. It is yet another video from my brother, sent with the aim of putting me off the treatment. “Last one, I promise,” he writes, but I highly doubt that is true.
This time it’s a news report detailing the results of a recent poll that asked patients how much happier they were after having their height increased or decreased. I scroll down to the comments section.
“People do all kinds of things to feel confident,” one user has written. “Nose jobs, botox, fillers, spanx, veneers, self-tanning cream, wearing tons of make-up, straightening their hair... the list is endless. If this is your thing, you should do what’s right for you. It’s YOUR body.”
The final three words of Darcy2815’s message become a mantra I repeat over and over for the rest of the evening. Resigned, my brother had said the same words to me not so long ago but, even though I can’t hear Darcy2815, I know her tone is very different.
In a world where bodily autonomy is such a contentious issue, it almost feels revolutionary to take ownership of the fleshy box my soul rattles around in.
Control what you can control.
At night, I dream of Dr. Riley. Her body long and turquoise, her eyes wider than usual. She smokes a hookah and offers me a bite of the giant mushroom she is lying across. I tear off a piece and anxiously nibble away at it, until I shrink into nothingness.
The next day, I pull into the clinic parking lot and, moments later, I’m checked in at reception, ready to begin my first treatment.
In the waiting room, a girl in her twenties sits alone reading a battered copy of a James Baldwin novel. It’s hard to tell while she’s sitting down but, gun to head, I’d guess she’s no more than 5ft 3. I wonder if she’s already been through the process. If, perhaps, she’s here for the final stage: the spinal realignment.
“If Beale Street Could Talk,” I say, attempting to entice her into conversation. “One of my favorites.”
“Gut-wrenching, right?” she says.
“You here for treatment too?” I ask, hoping she won’t find this question too personal.
“Ah, no,” she replies. “I’m here for moral support.”
I smile.
“That’s so lovely. Like… it’s amazing that we have the opportunity to do this, obviously. But it’s still pretty nerve-wracking.”
“You’re not getting support from your loved ones?” she asks, lowering her book.
I shrug. “It’s kind of a mixed bag.”
“I’m so sorry. That really sucks,” she says, slipping the novel into her backpack. I notice it has the name “Nella” embroidered on it in curling pink cursive.
“It’s okay. I know that height adjustment is pretty controversial,” I tell her. “I’m sure your friend has had to deal with their fair share of bullshit too, right?”
There’s a sharp intake of breath from Nella and then, suddenly, I feel a coldness between us.
“Brother, actually,” she says. “And he’s not here for height adjustment. Though I’m sure if he could afford it as well as top surgery, he’d love to be a bit taller.”
There’s a heavy weight behind the words “if he could afford it”. An emphasis that makes it clear she believes my decision is coming from a massive place of privilege.
“I’m…uh… getting a height reduction. It’s…um… I’ve really thought it through.”
She looks away and, for a moment, I’m convinced I can hear her thoughts: You’re spending all this money just to be shorter? Are you kidding me?
I clear my throat, nervously.
“Well, it’s great that he’s getting his top surgery,” I say. “I support anyone who wants to make sure how they feel on the inside is reflected on the outside.”
She blinks.. Hard. “Look, I don’t know you but I really don’t think what you’re doing and what he’s doing are at all the same. He’s trying to live his life authentically. It’s not just about aesthetics.”
I say nothing. She sighs, loudly.
“Okay, let me level with you. I’m 5ft 1 and that can feel scary sometimes. I’ve lost count of the number of guys that look twice my size who have physically picked me up without my consent when I’ve been minding my own damn business on a night out. And I worry that, one day, a guy who isn’t just doing it for shits and giggles after too many drinks might just... carry me away somewhere and I... I won’t stand a chance of fighting back. Then there’s the pervy pick-up artists who do the whole “your hands are so tiny, let me measure them against mine” thing. Yep. That literally happens on a weekly basis. And it’s boring. And tiresome. So trust me when I say the grass on the other side isn’t as green as you think it is.”
It’s hard not to consider her experience and take it seriously. I’ve already had my fair share of sexual harassment over the years. Might it be worse if I go through with this? A darker, more dangerous edge lacing every creepy comment, every uncomfortable stare?
When the nurse comes out and tells Nella she can see her brother, the reality of his situation feels inescapable. As she grabs her backpack and disappears down the hall, a rich, sticky syrup of embarrassment trickles through me.
It isn’t enough to change my mind though. I’m here now. I’ve paid my first instalment and I’ve been told it’s non-refundable. There’s no going back.
I receive a message from my brother, a last ditch attempt to, in his words “save me from myself.” And the funny thing is, it comes so quickly after Nella’s rant, it almost works. I almost pick up my stuff and walk out of the clinic towards a life in which I give myself permission to be me. To value myself beyond how I look as I slither out from under the heavy weight of societal expectation. But then, I spot a discarded magazine on the coffee table in front of me and soon I am lost in it. Sixty-eight pages of delicious self-comparison and a two-page spread focusing on fashion for “petite princesses”.
I flip through the whole publication at rocket speed and it turns out to be a gateway drug for social media. I pick up my phone and scroll mindlessly for a few minutes. Pink skies, a purple manicure, a perfect plate of pasta. There’s a cat someone has taught to do somersaults, a colleague’s wedding photos, an old friend’s snaps from her recent trip to Aruba. And then, I find it, the exquisite torture I’ve been secretly seeking – a recently uploaded photo of an ex (the one that got away) with his new, tiny wife. They’ve been photographed at some fancy, work-related awards ceremony where she is his plus one, her head barely grazing the bottom of his chin, despite her sky high stilettos. With her all dolled up next to him, adorned with silver and gold, it looks like a trophy is already within his grasp.
We are Madonnas or whores. Too much or not enough. Our wombs, ever a politically charged battleground. Our right to not be violated dependent on what we wear. The knowledge that, if we, one day, give birth to a daughter ourselves, she will almost certainly suffer at the hands of a man at some point in her life. All the while being paid less to work the same job.
Almost exactly twenty minutes after I picked up the magazine, I’m in Dr. Riley’s chair, now without a single doubt left in my head.
“You ready?” she asks.
I nod in slow motion and prepare myself for the sharp pinch of a needle being pushed firmly into my skin.
The pain balloons through my body and I instantly think of men on death row. A last meal, an audience, a few final words and the promise of a “humane” death by lethal injection. But the agony of my own injection is so fiery, so blindly excruciating, I lose all hope that capital punishment could be any less ruthless, despite how it’s dressed up.
Then, the needle slides back out of me and Dr. Riley presses a cotton pad to its entry point.
“Is it meant to be this painful?” I ask, breathlessly. “I thought you said it wouldn’t be that bad.”
“Well, we don’t like to dramatize things here,” she says. “People react to the drug in different ways. Have different pain thresholds. And some women barely feel anything at all. So there’s no point in scaring people.”
As the agony dissipates, it is quickly replaced by something new: A red-hot flush of shame. Why was I such a wimp? Why did I not fall into that prized category of “some women”?
“Is there any reason why it might be more painful for certain people?” I ask, almost afraid of the answer.
Dr. Riley shrugs. “There’s too many variables for us to say. And honestly, there’s really not enough research into that side of things just yet. Women’s health, eh? You know how it is. The focus is on outcomes right now and I’m sure yours will be positive.”
I fail to see how the trauma of feeling as if my insides are ablaze could be considered part of a “positive” outcome.
My brother drives me home and every pot hole we bump over is like torture.
In the early hours of the next morning, I lie awake in bed and wonder if I can really do this again. My phone glows a pale moon-like blue under the bedsheets as I check my bank balance. I open the calculator app and add up my pay from my day job and a corporate gig my agent invoiced for weeks ago. If I don’t get another contract before the course of treatments is over, I’ll be well into my overdraft.
“It’ll pay off,” I whisper to myself in the dark. “It’ll all be worth it.”
Besides, I’ve come too far now. If I don’t follow this through until it is complete, the pain I’ve endured will be meaningless and the money I’ve spent may as well have been hurled into a black hole.
At 9am, I call Dr. Riley’s receptionist to book in my next appointment.
She asks how I found the first treatment.
“Are you one of those who found it really painful?” she wants to know.
Perhaps it’s merely paranoia but I sense something I don’t like in the tone of her voice. Something that sounds like a cruel joke. And, as I lie through my teeth and tell her that it was absolutely fine, I realise that the treatment is working already: I have never felt smaller.
Thank you for reading Part 2 of Tall Story. It means so much that you have been a part of this little experiment in which, for the very first time, I’ve put a short piece of fiction out into the world. I’d love to read your thoughts on it in the comments.
Were you also aware that the quick and simple act of clicking the heart button on this post can lead to far more people seeing my work? It’s free to do, takes a split second and means so very much.
&, If you really love this post, or even just The Ampersand as a whole, why not go the extra mile and share it?
If you’re interested in reading more of my writing about female pain and women’s health, you might like to check out this piece, in which I explore the dangers of the Strong Black Woman stereotype:
You can pre-order my debut novel Another Life here. It’s officially out this Thursday.
With love,
xK
Great story, Karla! I wasn’t sure whether she’d go through with it because the decision felt so layered. Love the ending.
Oh my gosh! Need a part 3!!!! Is she happy in the end? I’m going to be thinking about her for a while - incredibly well done!! 🙌🫶👏