At first, it wasn’t so bad being flat. Don’t get me wrong — it stung like hell when it happened. And I’m pretty sure I fainted when I saw myself dimensionless, thousands of gallons of air and water and grass and horseshoe crabs simply gone. But when I came to and realized I could breath and that this was just how it was going to be, I sort of accepted it. I mean, while it didn’t feel right, it did seem plausible. Like a dog using a smart phone, or an investment banker drinking ovaltine, or something.
But whatever novelty there once was quickly wore off. I grew to hate how He’d go showing me off to his friends: And here we are sea kayaking in northern Alaska. And then we went mountaineering in the Brooks Range. Enunciating “mountaineering” like it was some sort of science, and not just something rich people did on vacation. And being flat, there was really no way to challenge him when he’d go around exhibitioning me to girls in bars, like a snake-oil peddler with a love potion. Was it dangerous? She’d ask, adoringly. I wanted to cringe, and maybe hit him with a shovel, but I hardly had the space for it.
And I hated feeling like a wraith — shifty and diffuse. I missed the smell of algae and brine and the way colonies of crabs would expedition across my rocks. I missed the endless darkness of winter, and the glassy sunlight of summer. I didn’t hate him, though I hated what he’d done.
He’d mummified me, the idiot, not realizing that as soon as I lost my dimensionality I’d begin to rot. I’d survive forever, but there would be nothing I could really do for him.