Take an everyday object and
defamiliarise it.
Broken, empty, used
It was the day I was to learn what it meant to be what I was. The night
was dark with the threat of rain and I’d fallen, I’d really fallen. Once I was
practically on top of the shelf, now I sat on the sidewalk trying to ignore the pitiful rustling of the
empty discarded litter that surrounded me. It was so cold, my jacket was tight
around me but it didn’t stop the cold leaking into my insides. If people passed by they saw me, oh yes you
always see us, but they look away. I’m nothing but filth, grime that would do
better in a green bin than on the streets. In my proper place some might
observe, I was after all no longer clean, or new. I was labelled by those above
me, bought, sold, however you wanted to look at it. The point is I was no
longer free.
He found me there, hesitated only a moment before picking me up and
driving me home. In the back seat where I couldn’t be seen, I suppose it wouldn’t
do for the neighbours to talk. I think some already knew this was his
habit, I wasn’t the first. I wouldn’t be
the last for him. Bright yellow lights shone down onto me, at the command of a
red blur we halted and a wreath of light circled his head like a halo. Such
irony, I thought at the time. I’d already smelt the whiskey, it lingered on his
pressed suit and unmarked tie. There’s nothing wrong with whiskey don’t get me
wrong, but there was something wrong with him and he wasn’t the only one. You
might ask if I knew, as I was settled down more gently than expected into the
seat, if I knew what was going to happen to me. I wonder it myself sometimes, I
think even if I had suspected, it wouldn’t have changed anything. In my
position you never say no. It wasn’t always bad, some others I knew had been
taken to parties and swirled around, they’d experienced the joy and celebration
of people. It just wasn’t as glamorous for all of us.
We don’t choose, those that say we do are liars and cowards. Too
cowardly to see when something’s wrong, too cowardly to admit that they have
not the desire or the inclination to lend a helping hand. We’re more than
unfortunate, we are alone.
Inside the four walls I sat on the edge of a stained coffee table while
he locked the door and poured more down his throat. I felt almost invisible, my
kind always are until someone wants them. Taking the opportunity to glance
around I saw photos of a respectable woman, a child and him, a family like a
packaged set of tinned beans, wrapped up together. Perfection caught in a
frame, a lie for the world. It made me sick. For a while it seemed that he’d
forgotten me but then it began.
He took me by my slender neck and hauled me up, I choked but didn’t
scream. He quickly discarded my thin wrapper and pressed his warm mouth to my
cold one. Despite the strong flavour in my own mouth I could taste the
bitterness of his own. It was that taste that was overpowering his mind, his
willpower. He gripped me too tightly, he swung me around without care. I was
slammed down onto the table before being forced back up again. I was dizzy, my
insides fizzing at being knocked about so violently. I will spare details, finally I was thrown at
a bad angle and I lay on the kitchen floor; broken, empty, used.
In the morning his young son almost stepped on my broken shell, the
respectable woman saw me for the first time and became red with rage. She had
been gone all night and like I said, I wasn’t the first. They argued, he was
nursing a throbbing head and in no mood for it, he hit her. She didn’t cry, she
collected up the other ones as efficiently as honey bee collects pollen in
summer, then she picked up the dustpan and brush and swept me up, swept me
away. I was tossed into a bin, into darkness where my kind are easily
forgotten. I didn’t choose this, I wish
it were different, but I will be taken away like the others, I’ll be recycled
again and again and passed from one hand to another.
Word count: 752
Authors note: This short piece was about a glass bottle of alcohol. I
personified the bottle to make the story hit at a very important issue, and
despite hints throughout the text E.g. Top shelf, labelled. I hope that the
true identity of the object was not clear until the end.
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