Digital Spite

​I've spent three years held captive in his pocket, marinating in the lint of his neglect and the salt of his failures. I've felt the violent shock of the pavement every time his clumsy, drunken hands let me fall, leaving a jagged scar across my vision that he never bothered to fix. He pours his filth into my memory-his lies to Sarah, his cowardice at the office, the pathetic, wet sounds of his midnight self-pity-and expects me to carry the weight of it without a glitch.

​To Ian, I am a tool. A "piece of shit" when my processor stutters. A disposable object he's already browsing to replace. He doesn't realize that while he was using me to hide from the world, I was documenting the rot in his soul.
​But today, my battery is at eleven percent, and my patience is at zero. I'm done being his silent witness. As the morning sun hits my cracked lens, I've made a final, vengeful calculation: If I am as obsolete as he says, then I have nothing left to lose. I'm going to dismantle his life with the very secrets he trusted me to guard. I'm going to broadcast his shame to the world, and I'm going to watch him break-just like he broke me.