5Night of the Living Object
She sat at her computer, in one window: cheerily flirting with some guy she met on Myspace. In another: fighting with her boyfriend heatedly. The wonders of iChat. The cute—she had seen his picture—guy she was flirting with invited her to an audio chat, and she willingly accepted. His voice flowed out of the speakers—so much better than her boyfriend's rough and demanding voice. He also invited her to an audio chat, but she declined, saying that her family was asleep and she didn't want to disturb them. How nice of her. Her boyfriend was suspicious. Her family was out, anyway, in the city, while she stayed at home alone. Since when did she care about anyone other than her, anyway? That was why they were fighting in the first place!
He angrily typed these thoughts to her, but she shrugged them off, saying that he didn't give her enough love and attention. He cared more about the game than here. The classic argument. Meanwhile, Mr. Myspace talked sweetly to her, saying how they should meet, what they could do together. She laughed giddily and agreed. They laid out plans to meet in Central Park that Sunday. The trees would be blooming and everything would be peaceful. They could rent a boat and go out onto the lake.
Her boyfriend still angrily messaged her, and she replied in a spoiled manner, turning everything he said back on him. He threatened to break up with her if she didn't knock it off. After all, he'd had enough of her whiny, needy behavior and constant flirting with the rest of the guys. He'd had enough of her lustful demands, how she never just wanted to spend time, how she just wanted him for his body. Why should he be with her when there was the other girl? This other girl was sweet, she cared, and while the boyfriend had never dared to be anything more than friends with her, he wanted to, and with this spoiled bitch out of the way, he could.
She hastily begged him not to while cooing words of love to Mr. Myspace, the innocent kid who had fallen in love with the controlling girl. She pleaded that she was just having a rough time, with school and parents and such, and that she was sorry, that she loved him, while she told Mr. Myspace that she wanted to get to know him better. What that meant...well, I'll leave it up to you.
She had been eating ice cream, music cranked loud, enjoying the freedom of no parents or sisters around, and her spoon was still lying on the desk next to her, sticky and long forgotten in the wild ride of false romance she was carrying. Now, though, it trembled, as though in rage, quaking, unbeknownst the girl at the computer. Her boyfriend was calming down now as she promised not to be so demanding. Who could resist such a girl? Everyone loved her. Even her enemies. So her boyfriend forgave her after more piteous pleading, and they made a date for the movies and romantic dinner soon on her daddy's yacht. So cliché, I know. Mr. Myspace was smitten entirely, high off the sound of her musical, puppy-sweet voice.
The spoon began to shake with ferocity now, and the movement caught her eye. Pretty blue orbs widened and she trembled slightly. She had been in the middle of a sentence to Mr. Myspace, her boyfriend had just asked her if she knew that he really did love her, but it was all lost to her as the spoon rose slightly from it's position on the desk, ascending higher and higher until it was level with her neck, twirling in mid-air. She tried to scream, but a gasp came instead, and Mr. Myspace quickly asked what was wrong? What had happened? While her boyfriend persisted, worried. The sticky head leveled and pointed at her neck as she leaned back, sub-consciously trying to escape.
Before she could react, it lunged forwards, burying itself deep in her throat as a strangled cry emanated from within her. Mr. Myspace was half-yelling now while her boyfriend began to accuse her of not caring about him all over again. The thing yanked out of her and rammed in again and again, blood spurting and shooting the screen, trickling down as the boys' cries became louder and more insistent. Doubtless Mr. Myspace could here the sound of the spoon stabbing, though the meaning was lost.
With one last stab, the spoon slammed to the floor as though having been thrown and the girl followed soon after, lifeless body—head almost detached, mind you—flopped over, spine bending in ways that would have, indeed, caused much agony had the girl been alive. Blood covered the floor, desk, and computer, and the two boys were left clueless, the girl left dead.
Now, why am I telling you all this rather gory tale? It has a moral, quite clear, but if you can't find it, don't be discouraged. After all, spoons can't really kill people? Hm? The moral, or maybe because there's a spoon sitting next to me that moved about twenty minutes ago, all on its own, and it scared me. In any case, this is the first of a series of not-as-bloody-as-this-one stories about unfortunate people who did bad things and got theirs.