TWISTED

She flung herself against the bed, hitting the pillow with all the strength she could muster. I could see tear drops lining her face. Now, she was hugging her pillow rather too tightly. She held it close to her bosom, I almost thought it would suffocate her. This was not the first time she acted thus, even her puppy—Snow, was curled up in a ball, squirming under the bed. It had not gone in its usually manner of dancing on her toes and licking them in dutiful loyalty, in a fist of anger, she had thrown a glass or two at its direction a day before. Even I was scared, I was scared she could smash me on the floor or perhaps hurl a cup of tea at me. I did what I always did—to sit. I sat where she had placed me the other night ,on the bedside table. She had kept the lights low and they flickered in fear, everything in the room had a reaction to her emotions. We were frightened not knowing what object would be smashed next . I could still hear her sobbing into her pillow. I wished there was something I could do to help, but what was I…. .some stupid computer. 

I was glad when she picked me up,she pushed the button. I came alive. Previously, I had longed for times like this, times when we would spend hours together; moments when she told me countless stories of all that happened during the day. Sometimes, she wrote about school, other times about her friends and some nights about why the sky was blue. I loved each and every of her writings. I thought them beautiful, pure and inspiring. I always enjoyed her twisted sense of humor. She also had a keen eye, paying attention to details. She had an habit of writing about whatever crosses her mind and emotions. We had written a thousand and one articles together although, no one had ever seen them. It didn’t matter if she let anyone see them. I was sated with the fact that she wrote; for in this she’d tell me how she felt. Lately, she’s been acting all strange and weird and I wondered what was wrong. A couple of weeks ago, after she had finished writing about a one-legged chicken that always strayed into the compound pecking around for loose grains and insects. It was then she began writing about a boy, a boy she had met at school. I know his eyes were brown because she wrote about them, I know his hair was cut short with trimmed edges. I also know he was dark with ‘pinkish lips’ that was how she’d described him. She had written countless of poems on romance and boys and then I began to worry. I was worried that she was slowly losing the essence of our companionship, she was losing her shinning innocence. She was beginning to become obsessed with this strange boy. Then she wrote about roses and kisses —a whole lot about kisses. It was then I got scared for I know too well that Judas betrayed with just a single kiss. I miss those 2pm’s when she’ll awaken and create magical adventures. Now, all she wrote about was a boy and kisses. At first, I was beginning to adjust to this, if she was happy, we were all happy. And then the mood swings began, graduating to outburst of anger. Three days ago, she’d stormed into the room breaking her favourite mug. She had cried for hours afterwards. I had expected her to write perhaps about it, but she didn’t . I was left clueless, Yester night, she began deleting a list of our favourite apps, songs and movies and even some of our favourite stories. Now I watched helplessly as she destroyed all that we’d built together. Stories that had spurned from nights of thoughtful imagination all lost to a button. She stared at our favorite story. The one she’d written when she was twelve about an imaginary sailor. She read it whenever she was happy, and recited it whenever the waters threatened to drown her. A flicker of hope beamed within my electrodes. Perhaps, if she’d read it all over again she’ll feel a whole lot better. But then the tears had continued to stream endlessly like the Nile flowing into the ocean. I wanted to wipe them but I was limited by invention. They meandered seamlessly soaking my keys underneath. I wished she’d not delete the story, but then backspace won; it was beginning to become her favourite key. The last thing I heard was her choking down a tear while I was hurled mid-air crashing down the floor with her other smashed stuffs. Then my lights flickered, very slowly, for I know it was the last time they’d ever shine. She flung herself against the bed, hitting the pillow with all the strength she could muster. I could see tear drops lining her face. Now, she was hugging her pillow rather too tightly. She held it close to her bosom, I almost thought it would suffocate her. This was not the first time she acted thus, even her puppy—Snow, was curled up in a ball, squirming under the bed. It had not gone in its usually manner of dancing on her toes and licking them in dutiful loyalty, in a fist of anger, she had thrown a glass or two at its direction a day before. Even I was scared, I was scared she could smash me on the floor or perhaps hurl a cup of tea at me. I did what I always did—to sit. I sat where she had placed me the other night ,on the bedside table. She had kept the lights low and they flickered in fear, everything in the room had a reaction to her emotions. We were frightened not knowing what object would be smashed next . I could still hear her sobbing into her pillow. I wished there was something I could do to help, but what was I…. .some stupid computer. 

I was glad when she picked me up,she pushed the button. I came alive. Previously, I had longed for times like this, times when we would spend hours together; moments when she told me countless stories of all that happened during the day. Sometimes, she wrote about school, other times about her friends and some nights about why the sky was blue. I loved each and every of her writings. I thought them beautiful, pure and inspiring. I always enjoyed her twisted sense of humor. She also had a keen eye, paying attention to details. She had an habit of writing about whatever crosses her mind and emotions. We had written a thousand and one articles together although, no one had ever seen them. It didn’t matter if she let anyone see them. I was sated with the fact that she wrote; for in this she’d tell me how she felt. Lately, she’s been acting all strange and weird and I wondered what was wrong. A couple of weeks ago, after she had finished writing about a one-legged chicken that always strayed into the compound pecking around for loose grains and insects. It was then she began writing about a boy, a boy she had met at school. I know his eyes were brown because she wrote about them, I know his hair was cut short with trimmed edges. I also know he was dark with ‘pinkish lips’ that was how she’d described him. She had written countless of poems on romance and boys and then I began to worry. I was worried that she was slowly losing the essence of our companionship, she was losing her shinning innocence. She was beginning to become obsessed with this strange boy. Then she wrote about roses and kisses —a whole lot about kisses. It was then I got scared for I know too well that Judas betrayed with just a single kiss. I miss those 2pm’s when she’ll awaken and create magical adventures. Now, all she wrote about was a boy and kisses. At first, I was beginning to adjust to this, if she was happy, we were all happy. And then the mood swings began, graduating to outburst of anger. Three days ago, she’d stormed into the room breaking her favourite mug. She had cried for hours afterwards. I had expected her to write perhaps about it, but she didn’t . I was left clueless, Yester night, she began deleting a list of our favourite apps, songs and movies and even some of our favourite stories. Now I watched helplessly as she destroyed all that we’d built together. Stories that had spurned from nights of thoughtful imagination all lost to a button. She stared at our favorite story. The one she’d written when she was twelve about an imaginary sailor. She read it whenever she was happy, and recited it whenever the waters threatened to drown her. A flicker of hope beamed within my electrodes. Perhaps, if she’d read it all over again she’ll feel a whole lot better. But then the tears had continued to stream endlessly like the Nile flowing into the ocean. I wanted to wipe them but I was limited by invention. They meandered seamlessly soaking my keys underneath. I wished she’d not delete the story, but then backspace won; it was beginning to become her favourite key. The last thing I heard was her choking down a tear while I was hurled mid-air crashing down the floor with her other smashed stuffs. Then my lights flickered, very slowly, for I know it was the last time they’d ever shine.