And of course he has every right to do so, since you are in his head and not leaving. Doesn't he get it?

Please?

You changed me. You can't change me back. You would have to be God for that.
Let's go.

The long shadowy fingers gesture, and the table folds itself in half and is gone, and the thicket bulges and spits an open doorway out, and you see through that doorway your own folded-over body.

"No," you say unconvincingly, and through the doorway your mouth opens and closes. "No, I— no! You'll have to make me! And it'll be ugly, and I'll defeat you, and maybe I'll kill you early. Or maybe you'll kill me, huh? Maybe you'll take my other eye out? We'll have to find out! Because I— because I have overcome your paltry defenses, and— yes! Like that!"

Richard has scooped you up by the collar of your shirt and is dangling you a foot and a half off the floor. "Ha-ha! You fool! You have played into my trap! Now I shall—" You swing forward, trying to grab him by the neck, but the yellow eyes narrow, the world clamps down, and you are wrenched at once into new shape. You are smaller, your legs shorter, your voice— "Hey!"— higher-pitched, and Richard is carrying you toward the door. Perversely gladdened, you redouble your efforts, squirming and kicking and bracing yourself against the doorframe: when a stymied Richard adjusts his grip, you bite his bony hand. He hisses and shakes you, the world bears down again, and you telescope again: you are white, soft, small enough to cradle. If he'd tossed you through the door, he might've won right there. But he hesitates, and you discover the knives at the end of your paws, and—

Fuck! You stubborn little shit!

—use them in the direction of Richard's face. He teaches you a variety of snaky curse words as he drops you, and you sprint off for the (suddenly looming) thicket. It's over! He can't catch you now! It serves him right for being a snake, for being too little of a snake, for ruining your entire life and not putting it back. For not being able to put it back. For changing. You hate him, you hate him, you hate him, and you'll haunt his brain like he haunted yours until he—

He is in front of you (how?) with a net (how tacky), and you are going too fast to not careen into it; you are bundled up, and, as you attempt to gnaw through the net, shaken, and abruptly you are small indeed. The shape is strangely familiar, and it takes you a moment to realize: oh! You're a lizard! But a little one, not a monstrous one: Richard's eyes loom down at you like the eyes of the Wyrm, and his mouth is full of daggers. "Charlotte Fawkins," says the wind from the dark damp dagger-cave. "This is no longer even remotely amusing. If you are trying to make a point, consider it made. I am defeated. Etcetera. I propose that you get a night of uninterrupted sleep, and then we will refrain from discussing this debacle ever ag—ghk!"

You shimmied out from the net and went spelunking.

(2/whatever)