A/N So this is actually based off of the original video by WongFuProductions on Youtube called When Five Fell. I watched it and was completely captivated by the idea that our everyday household objects actually hold this great affectionate protectiveness over us, and thought it’d be interesting to write.
She’s spent so many hours curled up against me, it’s as if the soft curves of her body fit into mine perfectly. The feeling of her steady breathing as she drifts into sleep is captivating, the shaking of her frame as she laughs forever imprinted into me. But, this time, something is different. Even as she comes towards me, as she sits down, I can feel the familiar warmth of her, the one I have come to cherish, but there’s something else. Her frame is so stiff, I can feel… fear? And then, there’s someone else. I dislike the feeling of this woman. She is erect and proper, too heavy as she sits down in comparison to the body I have become so used to. Words pass between them, between the woman and her. Her close proximity, the feel of her hand as she strokes me absentmindedly, the bliss is suddenly disturbed as she is jarred with shock. What happened? What did the woman say? I feel the detestable figure rise, but she sits there. Sits upon me, unmoving, unresponsive. So slowly I feel her curl into me as she always does, her body sinking down into me comfortably. She simply lays there for a few moments, quiet, emotions unreadable. And I wish I could do so much more, more than just support her with my sturdy legs, more than be a resting point in her hard times. But as she snuggles deeper into me, I feel the tears. They fall endlessly from her face; they drop onto me in her silent grief. Why? Why? My sturdy legs support her, I provide a resting place for her as her frame shakes in a different way than the laughter I treasure. I feel the grief as her body shakes, shakes from unspeakable pain. Please, please, let me do more. Let me hold you and comfort you. But I can do nothing. I feel the helpless rage as more tears fall onto me, as she grabs at me in desperation, in an attempt to hold on to reality. This is me, her powerless, pitiful couch.
Before me, her life was blind. She went through the motions of her day with those bright, beautiful eyes squinted, unable to look forward. And then she met me. I taught her to see in ways she could never before. As long as I was there for her, she could learn new perspectives, every day the wonders of life would amaze her, the wonders that she could never see before. But lately, things have been blurring again. She spends less and less time with me. It began with the water that would drip onto me, that would blur her vision. But now there are no longer the tears. Those bright eyes that would always look at the world with such eager anticipation, where did they go? They are dead. Dulled and unable to look, unable to look forward. Even with me there, she’s lost everything. Any new perspectives she gained was washed away. She no longer wants to see the world, I’m beginning to think it may disgust her. She’s so utterly repelled by it that… she no longer wants me. Maybe if she takes me away, she can ignore the things she hates, pretend that what has happened has not. I watch silently as she closes herself in, deeper and deeper until she is isolated, untouchable in her world without sight. This is me, her abandoned glasses.
The precious sound of her laughter, the soft whispers of her voice. I loved her sweet melody, so dear, so valued in my world. Our sweet, sweet conversations I treasured so dearly are fading away. Why doesn’t she speak to me? All I hear now are the harsh, grating sounds of distant people, lecturing her with superficial tones. There are words of comfort spoken, so vague, so shallow. They mean nothing. I hear them as she hears them, meaningless cant that flows mindlessly into her numb brain. I can no longer hear her voice. Where has it gone? Her voice? I wish so badly to hear it, her soft tinkling as she spoke in hushed tones, told stories with vivacity and whispered secrets in our private secrecy. I do hear it, sometimes, her voice. But it’s not her anymore. So dull, so listless. There is no longer a tinkling in her tone, no longer the excited lilt that would always sneak in against her command. So dull. So listless. As if… as if she has died. Please, please don’t die on me. Bring back to me your sweet, dulcet tones. I don’t believe I ever properly cherished every single nuance of your voice as you sighed into my ear, I never cherished them with the intensity that I now long for the past. Can you bring it back to me, that sweet happy voice of yours? But it is not to be. That part of her is dead, gone. It is only a strict monotone, a miserable reflection of times now past. And I may never know why. But she will never be the same again, she will never laugh my laugh, my precious, beloved laugh. This is me, her longing phone.
I remember the feel of her lips. Absentmindedly, she would place her lips on mine, oh so gently, so deep in thought that she does not even realize she is doing it. I would revel in her kiss, her tender kiss. Lately though? While I could never forget the feel of her precious lips, the memory has grown dim. Instead, they are replaced with salty water even as she attempts so desperately to bite back tears that fall steadily. I sit with her as she pours her thoughts upon the page, attempts to rid of her grief though her writing. But it seems, the tears only fall heavier as she writes on. She used to take such good care of me. But as of late, I grow duller and duller, perhaps as a reflection of her soul. As her hand grips me, I feel the life that used to dance and prance in her every movement fade, dull. The sharp glint of her words are now so listless, so unfeeling. And then she grips me all the harder and writes, I don’t deserve to live. And then I break. There is nothing I can do as she throws me across the room, screaming in agony. She is shattered, shattered beyond repair. And this, this is me. Her broken, useless pencil.