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The sound of thunder echoed in the distance. Scrambling and screaming, lost in the blackness, the soft, smothering abyss on all sides, heavy and choking. Flailing and shrieking, wriggling up through the endless, shadowy darkness. A burst of light exploded as the cotton prison gave way, sunlight flooding the vast window within the towering plaster wall. Upon a skyscraper of mattress, in a city of bedside tables and desks, its edges steep drops to the fields of carpet far, far below.

The room stretched beyond reach, each object sneering and taunting as they loomed about. No longer was this place of comfort, but of danger, a chamber of a thousand insurmountable climbs, a thousand plummets to quick demise. And past the massive, towering door, millions of other rooms lay in wait, each with another thousand pitfalls, inhabited by beings and creatures of monstrous gait and impossible strength.

No way off the plateau of rumpled bedsheets. No respite from the booming, distant thunder beyond. No escape as the massive door far across the gargantuan room rattled and creaks, its shining knob squealing as it slowly cranked round, the titanic wooden slab lurching forth...

I woke to the sound of thunder, a heavy boom that rocked me out of a dreamless sleep and shoved me back into reality. "Fuck." The word left my lips like clockwork as another impact rattled the whole house, the walls visibly vibrating in the slivers of light from the blinds as the percussive blasts began their steady, unbreakable rhythm. With another grunt of irritation, I shoved the warm, soft comforter from myself, letting the cool air and the deep crashing shake away the dreary fog in my head. Once they started, sleep was a useless prospect. Besides, it was late enough, anyways.

With a fumbling hand I reached for the end table, using the quivering furniture to steady myself. I hadn't lost my footing from that quaking in years, but I wasn't about to start this morning. Another stiff step brought me to my window to begrudgingly concede to the pressing streams of sunlight, unable to keep from groaning as they blasted me square in the eyes. I don't think I'll ever appreciate mornings, and my roommate certainly wasn't helping sauntering around the kitchen, lumbering around like he was trying to bring the place down on top of me. Syrl had never been the quietest person, his massive stature aside.

I cast the nastiest glare I could muster when he glanced down at my window, wearing the same stupid smirk as always. Like he should get a fucking medal for learning to enjoy the sunrise or something. It's true what they say about dragons. They're smug bastards sometimes, the lot of them.

I threw on a pair of boxers at the end of my bed, the vanishing bleariness only then alerting me to my nudity. A pair of jeans and a T-shirt later, and I was down the stairs, growling and grumbling my woes to the sticking latch on the front door. The whole house needed a good once-over, and this time I vowed I'd do the work myself rather than let some modeler fuck with my things. Well, eventually, anyway.

With a firm shove, the stuck door gave way, leading out to my porch and the wide, flat plain of the counter, and the chasm beyond. Already, the air outside was filled with radiant heat from the stovetop a few feet down, the sizzling of meat in a pan rushing in my ears like a waterfall, the rich, heavy scent slapping me in the face as I reached up to rub my eyes.

"I was wondering when you were gonna drag your ass out of that dollhouse."

My groan of displeasure was drowned out by the deep, thunderous chuckling overhead. Even as I turned my head up towards the green, scaly monstrosity I called a roommate, my hands leaped up to my ears, covering them preemptively. Though the house was soundproofed well enough, it always took a few minutes of headache-inducing volume for me to adjust once I stepped outside.

"It's a model...and whenever I damn well feel like it. It's the weekend, isn't it?" I snorted back, coughing once as I raised my voice to a volume he could hear. Waving a hand in his direction, I added, "Not like I've anything to do today...besides, it's only what, eight?"

A deafening clang of pan on stovetop blasted my eardrums, sending my hands right back up to them as the shirtless, stout dragon tended to what I could see now was bacon, his horned head shaking high above, "It's ten-thirty, and it's the first weekend of the month. We should leave for the station in about an hour."

"Ugh..." The routine appointment sprang forth from my clouded memory. I should have been thankful that the government cared enough to check up on me, but after so many years the monthly reports had become mandatory counseling sessions, replacing any notions of security concerns with stupid, repetitive questions about my roommate, living arrangement and, most irritatingly, how I was feeling. A "Just fine, thanks" would have probably sufficed, at this point.

"Can't we just phone it in?" I kept going, bitching quietly enough that I thought he couldn't hear. The return of those huge slit pupils and the stiff, warm breeze of a sigh from above proved otherwise, and Syrl was quick to shoot me down.

"Yeah, right. It's the only errand you've got all month. I think you'll live...and watch it, will ya? That grease'll burn your skin off."

I glanced and took a step or two back from the flame-licked pan, blushing at both his comment and the occasional splash of scalding grease that spattered the countertop. After ten years, you'd think I would be more careful around...well, everything. Thunderous clanging and scraping filled the air, a spatula in the dragon's hand as he shifted the succulent-scented strips of meat onto a suitably-sized plate. Early riser aside, he was a phenomenal caretaker, cooking and all. The smell alone was soothing enough, and by the time I'd come up with a response the grumbling had faded from my tone.

"Yeah, I know...it'd be nice to have it actually _mean_something, that's all."

He merely smiled, and the counter shook once more while he carried his plate to the table, setting it beside a glass and a cap of orange juice, momentarily easing the strain on my neck, "Let's just get it over with. They'll have you outta there in an hour, tops."

Taking the cue, I stepped up to within a few steps of the counter's edge, waiting until the mountain of emerald shifted back towards me. Syrl raised a broad palm up to the counter's edge, curling thick, clawed fingers inwards only after I'd climbed aboard. Being held always seemed easy enough, but there's a real art to it. Every shift and quiver of your carrier can make for a pretty shaky ride, and that's before they even start moving. You get the hang of it after a bit, but I can still remember a few early rides that nearly sent me retching. At least the seat's always warm.

With my hands clasping his middle finger, the dragon turned about, his palm dipping and rattling as a pair of thundering steps turned him back towards the small table. The motion, careful as it always was, was still enough to bounce me about upon the padded surface. I didn't really mind, though. The usual rough awakening aside, the ride to the table was always something to look forward to, a brief burst of excitement that perked me up. I was always happier afterward.

The moment his palm neared the table's surface, I hopped the last few inches, grunting as my bare feet hit the cool wood below. Another deep chuckle boomed in my ears, and I was forced to keep my crouch as the entire table vibrated, the low grinding of the chair on tile flooring ending with a heavy, final quake as the drake lurched into his seat, looming over the plate with a small grin upon his lips.

I stood on my toes to pat his hand before it receded, returning the grin overhead in silent thanks. Stepping from the wood of the table onto the thin paper of a nearby napkin, I took my seat. I could've just had the table and chair plucked from my house, but they'd shake something awful whenever the big fella moves, and it was that much easier to just eat with my hands and wash up afterward.

With a loud crunching, he tore a piece from one of the massive strips, bringing it from his plate and dropping it into my outstretched arms. As careful as he had to be, there were definite perks to living with me. A decent check every month, a virtually nonexistent food bill, and I didn't need near as much supervision as I used to. Hell, I could even make short trips by myself.

I tore eagerly into the bacon, ignoring the grease on my hands and arms, groaning with pleasure and savoring the rich taste of my roommate's cooking. The sound of my own chewing was mirrored by a loud mashing overhead, and I glanced up to see Syrl tossing a whole strip into his open maw, snapping it up in a single mouthful and swallowing with a wet gulp. He turned his golden-eyed gaze back down to me, smirking with bemusement and raising a hand over my head. He lowered a single fingertip onto my head and tousled my hair, his practiced touch light as a breeze.

"Looks like someone's feeling better, huh?"

I giggled and swallowed the thick bite of meat, unable to keep hold of the dwindling dreariness, nuzzling back up against that thick, warm fingertip. Those bits of affection used to be so odd, and perhaps they still were, but I didn't care. It was kindness, pure and simple, and that was something just as valuable as food, safety, and a place to call home.

I should probably explain a few things before I go on, of course.

My name's Mark. Mark Silverman. Just a twenty-something human, average in just about every way. Despite whatever you might be thinking, I'm perfectly normal. It's my world that's changed, not me.

So what happened? How am I riding in palms, and living in a house on a kitchen counter with a roommate who towers over both? I wish I had a real answer. It wouldn't really fix anything, but somehow I'd feel better knowing what took my control and comfort in a single, silent night. When I fell asleep, I was a teenager, with the same kind of dreams and confidence as anyone else. And then I awoke to the sound of thunder, to a world that had outgrown me, three and a half inches of defenseless, fragile flesh and bone.

All nightmares, however, eventually pass. Ten years later, I'm still here, in a good home, with the best damn roomie I could ask for. In some ways, my life's become easier than I could have asked for; I'll be cared for and protected to some degree for the rest of my days.

The world's still just as dangerous, of course; I still have a nice near-death experience nearly every time I leave the place alone, and trusting anyone unfamiliar is still very much a life and death decision. Good luck getting a job at my size, too. Anyone small enough to do near-microscopic work is better off replaced with automation, and anything cerebral is probably better off being done by someone who can interact properly with the rest of the world. Control's something my life's lost, and it's something I'll most likely never regain.

So what do you do when you're puny, aimless, and utterly without command of your life? I'm still figuring that out. And in the meantime, all I can really do is keep going, and hope one day I'll find an answer. If I can't have control over what my life's turned into, maybe I can at least find a meaning to it.