I am not half filled but half empty.

I know this, because it was only a few minutes ago that the big, thick-browed man lifted me, took me to the kitchen, turned on what he called the 'faucet', and filled me with sweet, cold water. I relished in it, delighted to be filled. Then he carried me steadily, to be sure I did not spill, to the room where he slept, and thought, and stared at the screen of the little box on his desk, occasionally hitting his fingers against what I knew to be 'keys' or pressing on the side of something that did not look like its name, a 'mouse'.

When he sat in front of his screen, he set me to the right, so that I could observe his actions. And observe I did! I watched him hitting those keys and pressing on that mouse and wiping sweat from his forehead. I remained stiff and wary; I'd heard stories from my friends back in the cupboard about this man's actions, stories that made him look less like a worried, overweight human and more like a ferocious ogre. But I knew that such a tender and caring person could not be as malevolent as I was told.

Then, it happened.

The man looked at me, reached out. His hand slipped around me and he pressed me to his lips, consuming the liquid he'd filled me with. I screamed in vain, tried to do something - anything! - to pry him from what had completed me just a few minutes ago. But he held me firmly, and I, paralyzed, could do nothing to stop him. He drank. He slurped. He spat some out, then drank it again. His yellowing teeth gnawed on my edges, and, in turn, gnawed into me. When he finally pried his lips from my flesh, half of me was gone. Forever. What kind of being could so cruelly fill me with perfection and snatch it away with the sucking of those pink bands on his face?

I wished I could cry. I wished I could cry, and scream, and rip him in half. But I stood there. Silent. Waiting. Because I knew the other half of my beautiful completion would be gone, too, into his throat. I could only have courage.