3

I don’t believe it to be peculiar in the least that I admire her with a passion that ever burns within me. In fact it seems to me most natural - for hers are the hands that touch me daily, even caress me on occasion. Some may say she treats me ferociously, overusing me and neglecting me in turn. But it was that very attitude that drew me towards her in my first recollection, I believe that the abuser often possesses such allure for the abused.

A full union could never be made at any rate, for our two species are so unlike in nature that the very thought of a match would in fact be absurd. But I often let my imagination wander to the outcome of the union if such were possible, and create for myself violent fantasies that I play over and over in my head as soon as she leaves me again. Alas, I am doomed to a life of misery.

I do wonder if my ancestors ever had such an unnatural attraction to their masters or mistresses, whether their keys longed to be caressed over and over by grimy hands. Ah, her hands. And they are often grimy, and she is in the habit of eating while touching me and not cleaning me often enough so I become very sticky and forlorn. Sometimes when I am immensely lucky, or immensely wretched, I haven’t decided which, she will stay up all night with me, until the dawn breaks. I am allowed to remain with her on those days, although I do dread it awfully.

She will take me to the library and stick in me the most torturous of torturor's instuments - the flashdrive. Oh it is wretched! I often feel lightheaded and drained after such an undertaking, and I do wonder then if she is just using me for my body and my memory. I am a comely fellow, all white sheen and glowing screen and grey tipped keys. She is lucky to have me. If I died, I do believe she would be heartbroken. Oh what a sorry state she would be in then! She would wring her hands and cry and call her friends and her parents, and perhaps email her professors – for I do hold information that is most vital for her well being.

I must admit that I have faked my death on several occasions, and each time she has taken my battery out and blown all over my insides. I came right around after that so as not to worry her. But I will die someday. Perhaps I will slip out of her hands as she runs to class in the morning. Perhaps it will be in my sleep from old age. Perhaps I will be drowned in her everyday coffee. At any rate, I will die, and a part of me looks forward to it with a self-sacrificing, sadistic pleasure in her eventual ruin.