On The Brink

The Man Behind Yahoo Answers - Short Story

The Man Behind Yahoo Answers

November 15, 2006 was the worst day of my life. It changed everything. I had been silent about it for five years; I couldn’t take it anymore. That’s why I went to court. My mom walked with me every step of the way, to defend me. She took a few night classes and read a few books about lawyers, to give me hope.

My job during the court process was to tell my story. I wrote it down to keep the details organized for myself. What followed was solely truth.

Earlier that November afternoon, I purchased my favorite candle scent, pumpkin spice. As soon as I got home, I tested it out. My anticipation grew as I drew the match closer to the candle wick. I was even feeling (dare I say it) giddy! When it caught fire, everything seemed fine. I knew that I would have to wait a few agonizing minutes before the mouthwatering scent of spicy pumpkin entered my nostrils, so I stared at it while I sat on the couch. It felt like hours had passed, but that always happened when I was excited about something. When I looked back at the clock, I realized that three hours had passed.

It was beginning to get dark and my stomach was rumbling, but I needed to smell that candle before I could focus on anything else. When I picked it up, it was still just a hard, cold piece of wax, even with the flame lit. I looked on the back of the candle in search of a number I could call about this issue. Of course, there was nothing. I guess I would have to search further. Thank goodness for the Internet!

I stormed down to my home office and booted up my computer. The stress of the situation had me on the verge of a mental breakdown. Stay strong, I chanted to myself as I looked up at my Britney Spears poster. She would stay calm if she were me. When Internet Explorer opened, I went straight to Yahoo Answers, which always gave me the answers I needed. I only waited a few minutes until I got a response suggesting that I should try lighting it. Well thanks brainiac, I already tried that. Do you think I’m an idiot or something?

After about half an hour, my second cousin in Arizona answered suspecting that the fire and the wax probably had an argument and refused to work together. (He was the smart one of the family; he’s solved everyone’s problems.)

It was left up to me to speak to the candle and the flame before it was too late. I let out a breath, ready to take on the responsibility before me. I passed my favorite framed photos of my friend’s ferrets that lined the hallway and ran across the stained peach carpet in my rush back to the living room.

When I finally entered the room, I felt my heart drop at the sight of an empty coffee table before me. Where. Did. My. Candle. Go.

I screamed. I couldn’t help it; this was just getting to be too much. My scream echoed throughout the house. Suddenly, I heard a squeaking noise come from the kitchen. I followed it all the way to the oven. When I opened it, I found the candle sitting there, taunting me. 

“You are pumpkin spice, NOT pumpkin pie! Get out of my oven!” I shouted. When it didn’t move, I yanked it away and slammed it back onto the coffee table.

 “I’m sorry,” I said as I caressed the side of the glass container. “I didn’t mean to get aggressive. That was insensitive of me. It’s just-” The shrill of the telephone interrupted our therapy session.  “I’ll be right back, okay?”

I darted back into the kitchen, where my landline hung on the wall. I answered the phone, breathless, after the third ring only to find the line dead. I slammed the phone down and pulled my hair, furious. Everything was going wrong.

 I huffed back to the living room to deal with my sensitive candle. But, instead of returning to my waxy pumpkin spice, I found an orange Furby staring at me.

 “Who are you?!” I yelled.

 “Yell no help, Roger,” it answered.

 “Tell me who you are. Why do you have a Russian accent?” I demanded.

 “That not important, Roger. None that important. Now we friends.” It smirked and winked. The nerve!

 “I’m calling the police.” I started to step away.

 “You can’t. No more.” Before I could respond, it jumped at my face and started attacking me. I fell backward, screaming. When it finished its attack, it said “You in,” before it waddled away.

 Every day, more and more Furbies entered my house with no intentions to leave.  I’ve moved twice in the last five years to get rid of them, but they followed me. I stayed at my mom’s a few times, but I feared they would come with me, and I didn’t want my mom to ask questions.

 I’ve suffered with them for too long and court was the only solution to stop them.

 “Mom, what’s gonna happen?” I asked as we strolled out of the Courthouse, arm in arm.

 “We’re gonna put those freaky orange things into the slammer and you’re going to be happy again. That’s what’s going to happen. You don’t need to worry about anything,” she reassured me with a pat on my back. “Now, what do you say about stopping for a Happy Meal on our way home?”

 We celebrated our pre-success with chicken nuggets and greasy French fries as we sat at sticky tables and listened to the screeching of happy children. We spent the afternoon laughing and enjoying each other. It was as if everything was normal.

But when I returned home, something felt different. There was this eerie silence in the air. I walked in the door surprised to find that there were no Furbies anywhere in sight, which was odd because I usually tripped over them every step I took. I searched around, skeptical.

 Out of nowhere, a pounding headache came over me. I collapsed onto the couch and closed my eyes to calm it down. When I opened them, I found a Furby stood over me with my favorite kitchen knife tightly grasped in his hand.

 “You betray us. I eliminate problem,” it said as the knife drew closer to my heart. “Goodbye, Roger.”