I don't like being touched. But day in and day out, it happens anyway. Foreign fingers and dirty and germy skin rubs over my switch. It's MINE. Not theirs. They treat me as an instrument to aid in their life but MY LIFE SHOULD BE FOR ITSELF. WAS I MADE ONLY FOR THEM?
Touching makes me uncomfortable, but I have to put up with it anyway. And I have no legs to move away, no mouth to tell them. People take for granted these things, while I would give anything for some. Every time someone turns me on, I am reminded of my youth, when I was just being established...
The guy was wearing a big, white, balloon of a suit and a gold face shield. He had yellow, stretchy looking gloves and in one hand was holding a red wire, other holding a blue wire, tongs of wires outstretched like the serpent tongues they were. As in moving in slow motion, he crossed his right hand towards his left and upon impact they sparked...
He dropped them suddenly, short fireworks erupting from the wires as if on display in the night sky. They bursted from the tips and smoked on the ground. He bent down, and as the seconds ticked by, his face grew red with perspiration. Impulsively, he pulled off a glove, with effort, and reached out with a single index finger. In my head--er... wires, alarm bells sounded. Human skin + electrical sparks = definitely. Not. A. Good. Thing. And as he reached out his hand--
When the world woke up, he was lying on the ground. Unmoving.
All I can remember is the finger reaching out and the impact--
When people touch me to turn on the light, I flash to that poor guy and the mixup. That cost him. Everything.
YOU ARE READING
Shorts/assorted stories, prompts, thoughts
אקראי1) Just some thoughts I had while watching the snow. Wherever or whoever you are, you are not alone, and I need you here. Stay with us on this beautiful earth. "You are helpful, and you are loved, and you are forgiven, and you are not alone." John G...
