Part Five
•Watermelon•
Why am I so fat? I mean yeah, all watermelon's are big, but I'm so much fatter than all the other watermelon's at the supermarket were. It's not fair.
I want to have self-confidence, and be proud of my appearance when I find the watermelon for me, but no. Life won't give me that little happiness.
It's not like fatness runs in the family or anything. All my family back at the farm didn't snap their vines. No. The farmers got them off their vines just before they were ripe, so that they could be taken to a supermarket and sold at the perfect time.
Why me? I see the looks people give me. Wide-eyed at my monstrous size. I felt the shelf groan, when the supermarket people put me on it. I know that I'm fat.
No one will buy me. That's bull. I should taste the best, should I not? I should taste much better than those slim watermelons who sit around me all day, taunting me with their size who get picked out, sold and replaced faster than you can say 'fat'.
"It's really unfair," I grumble aloud.
"Man, just shut up you old windbag," groans a watermelon from somewhere around me.
"Wow, I hear so much sympathy. I feel loved. Thank you," I retort sarcastically.
"Anytime," comes the equally sarcastic response.
I scoff, but at a more 'me only' volume, mutter, "Melons these days."
"I heard that!" the melon snaps at me.
"I heard that," I mock, at an even more quiet volume. Receiving only silence from the melons as a response, I let out a sigh of relief at the lacking in what had seemed to be the melon's unnaturally good hearing abilities.
Interrupting me from my thoughts, I hear a quiet, high-pitched scream. "Oh my gosh, Rick, that is like, so, totally perfect!" a surprisingly pretty, black-haired teenager squeals from nearby, tottering on her bright pink stilletoes while clinging onto what seems to be her boyfriend's arm with such ferocity that I can see her long, French manicured nails digging into his arm.
"Hmm?" he grunts questioningly, clearly a man of few words. How him and that bimbo get along, is a mystery to me.
"That watermelon over there, silly," she giggles, pointing towards me.
"Oh God no, please, not me, anyone but that thing," I beg quietly, disgusted. Apparently it wasn't quiet enough and snickers come from around me. "Shut up."
The couple come towards me, the girl swaying precariously in her heels and the guy doing a slouchy sauntering walk. "Typical," I mutter. They reach my shelf and Rick easily grabs me off it.
He looks at the girl as if to ask 'Really? This thing?' She stretches her pearly pink lips into a smile, and squeals in what I think is her usual voice, "Yeah! Isn't that, like, totally perfect? It's not like anyone's gonna eat it, so that underweight thing."
"Gee thanks, but I think it's a little too late to try and make me feel better," I mutter sarcastically.
Shrugging, Rick nods his head slightly in agreement. "Oh, I knew you'd agree with me!" Bimbo Chick squeals happily, dropping me into the shopping trolley at their hands.
༻༜༺
"Darkness," I observe, as I'm put down on a picnic table in a large area where the only light is coming from the moon and lamps.
"No duh, no duh, no duh," retorts the fruit salad sitting beside me.
"Yeah, thanks for the confirmation," I snap.
"Anytime, anytime, anytime," it choruses back, sarcasm dripping off each word, not unlike me. Fruit these days. They're so rude - they should really take a page out of my book.
"Watermelon time!" a motherly figure announces to the party from across the space. A chorus of excited screams erupt from the children and deep cheers sound from dads.
"Line up!" the woman instructs the kids, ego all do as she says. After a few hushed words to Bimbo Chick who appears to be her daughter, the woman comes over and carries me to the floor area at the head of the kids' queue.
In turn, splitting the job; Bimbo Chick and her mum each kid the baseball bat and let them have three swings each, painfully trying to smash me.
As the last kid finally stands back, I huff, "Just because I'm fat, doesn't give you little idiots the right to try and smash me. I bruise, and I have feelings, you know."
As usual, no one pays any attention to me and the bat is handed to Rick. He raises it up over his shoulder and his forearms bulk up with muscle which I hadn't seen before.
"Dammit. I'm screwed," I curse my final words, as the last things I see are Bimbo Chick staring adoringly at Rick as he swings the bat down and whacks me, smashing me to pieces.
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A/N: Okay. So. Sorry for taking so long! And I know this isn’t the best one, but shoot me. I’ve decided that I’m only going to update this once a month, and hopefully I can keep to that (: And I know this is an excuse, but since this story doesn't have a proper plot, it's even harder to write and particularly, to find motivation to write, but then I think about how many new fans and stuff I got from the last few parts and I get on with writing :P I write slow. :P
Anyways!
Question time! (: --The mental issues that I tried to give our little watermelon? --Favourite character? --Favourite part? Answer whichever, I just really want comments. I. Love. Comments.
<3 And votes :P So. I hope you liked it, and comment & vote! (:
GAH. I just remembered to dedicate this part to Yours-Forever, for making me an awesome new cover (: Which is currently being used (: So yeah. Thanks! :D
And! Comment, vote, tweet, like and all that good stuff (:
YOU ARE READING
Kitchen Cruelty
HumorHave you ever thought about how pieces of fruit feel when they are about to be eaten? Now you do. A collection of (hopefully) hilarious short stories written in the point of view of pieces of fruit, most of which have major attitude issues (:
