Invasion ~ Donna Carrick, May 2, 2010

Last week on Twitter's #storycraft chat, participants were given an assignment: to write a story from the perspective of an inanimate object. "Invasion" is my contribution to the group.

A number of talented writers have joined in the fun of #storycraft's first week. Fiction enthusiasts are welcome: simply follow @Story_Craft and watch for updates from the founders: @TamaraNKitties, @Danisidhe and @IamJaymes. (You can also follow me! @Donna_Carrick!) Chats are at 6pm EST on Sundays.

It's an invasion of privacy, that's what it is. He holds me in grubby hands, turning me about. He splays me like a fish, only to slam me shut when he doesn't like what he finds.

Words, beautiful words... the bond we shared, she and I. She used to tell me all of her thoughts and dreams. But that was in another lifetime, before the jealousy and rage. Before HE came.

Now it's barely a flake of her life I'm privy to. But what I see is more than enough...

His mood changes, although he doesn't say a word. It's in the way his hands press against me. This must be what she felt when he tried to kill her, hands wrapped around her neck, fingers pressing, stars exploding behind her eyes, welcoming her to the land of perpetual night.

He curses. What is it? His filthy thumb has left a mark on me. Knowing she will understand his villainy, he scrubs it, but I hold firm. I will not let it be erased.

At last -- proof!

A door opens in another room. It must be her.

He shuts me quietly, setting me on the nightstand. So clever. She will never suspect he's been violating me, using me as catalyst for his violence.

She moves slowly, in no hurry to greet him. Words are spoken. He leaves me and I hear the refrigerator door.

She joins me, sits on her bed, too weary for tears. There were tears last week, though, the day she told me she was pregnant. It should have been a happy occasion. Instead she wept, smearing ink with salty drops, finally shredding the page.

She reaches for me. Ah, dear friend, so well I feel your pain. Even in her grief, her touch is loving. She turns to that last page – sees his mark...

For a moment her eyes are wide at the extent of his invasion, then resignation reclaims its rightful place. Reaching for her pen, she writes a final whisper, laying the words out over his mark:

"There must be something more to life than this."