The Color Of Your Soul (Collection of short stories)

What A Bitch

I buzz incessantly, spinning on her table – round and round, while my vocal cords tear in an attempt of singing whatever heavy metal alarm she has set for the morning. I swear, kids nowadays are anarchists.

My song echoes off and I huff, half tired and half annoyed. There is a break for five minutes. Automatic snooze, that is. Then I will have to holler again. Luckily, very very luckily, the next thing on my list is a soft music, and I play it from the depth of my diaphragm, weaving notes into harmony. Much to your surprise, and nothing to my surprise, she still doesn't wake up.

I realize that she hasn't moved for a while. Her mouth is skewed open, limbs limp and cold. Wait... Is she dead?

We have a party, you all! Our abuser is gone for the good!

Oh no, how royally wrong I was. 

She has literally started groaning and twisting like the two faced snake I know her to be. Wait, how did she wake up so suddenly? Did she hear what I said?! I swear, if she hurls me at the floor for revenge, I am going to blast myself along with her brain with a thousand messages from her SIM company!

Toppling out of her bed, she stumbles ahead, grinning peevishly at me – much like a sixty year old creep trying to grapple some ladies in a bar. I wince as her clammy hands curl around me. Her face dips closer to mine. From this distance, I can see all the drool matted on her chin and the waving nose hairs that have crawled out of her nostrils. Literally, I can see it from any distance – I was just being polite for a second.

Yes, health and hygiene tips on Pinterest, I am disappointed too. We practically travelled miles and miles to bring this one tip of how to brush your teeth correctly, and that arrogant snob just swiped on it! Without even sparing a second to at least glance at the gift we had brought her!

Patting his head as Pinterest weeps, I look forward to whatever delusional trauma my owner is going to whirl me through. Look forward not in the sense of hoping, but as in literally looking ahead because that's only where I have a screen. I can sometimes see behind too, but that's when the camera is on. The time of absolute horror. Because camera on equals taking a random picture of some random dude she is going to either drool over or forget later; and I must tell you, there is no plus-minus in that equation.

As she trots into the room with a cup of cereals and pint of milk, I scrunch my nose. "For God's sake, you nutso lunatic! I am lactose intolerant!" I try to yell, but I can't. In this house, I only speak when spoken to. Sad reacts only. 

She doesn't care though. With a spoon in one hand and me in the other, she scrolls through me, completely and utterly ignoring the number of fires that have erupted in the Amazon to watch some weird as hell rap music video. What are they saying? Is this even a language? That's not a sentence; hell, none of these are even words! Wait, are you sure this is a music video and not just some hormonal horny bitches being wack? 

Umm, okay.

Wait, no. What is her problem?! Why in the world is she kissing me?! I literally have just one photo of Timothee Chalamet showing on my screen! I am not him; he is not me; he he, me me!Oh God, why did she have to slap her bacterial saliva onto my face with such disgusting smooches?!

I am hating her. Vehemently.

Ewww! Eww, eww, eww! I don't remember asking to smell her stinking poop! Why has she brought me to her toilet?! 

Her fingers barely clutch around me as she holds me over the commode. Murder! Murder attempt!

Shut up, Karen! Don't you dare call me overdramatic! What would you do if you were practically tossed and turned on top of a damned cliff?!

'No,' I decide. 'I didn't come here to be abused like this. I have to do something. I will do something.'

In that moment, as much as I smell her rotting defecation, I smell a lawsuit.

Be honest, guys! How exposed do you feel?