Young Writers Society

Sitting in the cold and dark refrigerator, I feel the most comfortable. My little drawer is like a cave where I sit nestled in between the bologna and tortilla wraps with a sense of security.

But when the door opens and that horrid light flickers to life, I almost begin to perspire. The hand reaches in; I feel its threatening presence, and hopefully it grabs someone else, maybe the ketchup or the week old tuna salad (I hope.)

To my dismay, it’s my drawer that slides open. While I’m shaking in my little plastic bag, the warm, moist fingers clasp around me and pull me from my little hovel. I’m weeping now as the revoltingly, inconsiderate person nearly slams me down on the counter and reaches for a . . . no . . . a grater. I gulp and prepare myself for the excruciating pain. The evil contraption edges toward me and ever so slowly, my back is grated away onto the salad below me. I guess this all comes from being what I am, but there’s still no reason to force me to tears every couple of days. I’d like to hear a, “Sorry I mercilessly scraped the very skin from your back for my own eating pleasure,” but no, there’s never any of that.

When they’ve finished, I get put back in my little bag and into my drawer, knowing that I’ll be sore for the next few hours. But I will get over it after all is said and done. At least I’m back among the lunchmeat.

So I sit here in my drawer and contemplate how truly dreadful my life really is. Once I do get over it, it’ll happen again and again and so on and so forth. They all take and take from me for themselves and don’t say a word or even realize they’re doing it. Ironic isn’t it? I give; essentially, myself to all of them without a fight and they give absolutely nothing to me accept pain and my tragic fate.

My doom sums up to the fact that everyday I get smaller and smaller. Eventually I’ll be nothing. They’ll kill me off or forget about me and throw my moldy carcass in the trash bin.