On 19 May, Greg posted a GWE challenge The Voice of the Voiceless. This is my response.
This is my first entry, the first of many, I hope. I feel the need to get down in words the pain I feel, every day being mistreated, abused and ignored.
I used to be an elegant chair… no, not just a chair but an armchair! I had pride of place in the lounge, the preferred rest of Mr Smith and the most important of family and guests. Oh, how long ago that was, and how soon they forget! Now I am in the rumpus, I am torn and soiled, lumpen and damp, orphaned of my friends the sofa and the ottoman, and relegated to the corner to cover the stain on the floor.
Now I am the plaything of Timmy and Sue and Rufus; jumped on, eaten on and spilled on. Sue sneaks sweets from the kitchen and eats them from behind the cover of my arms, wiping sticky hands on my back. Timmy jumps on me like a trampoline, and drapes bedsheets from me to play at forts, setting Rufus to guard the door, and when Rufus isn’t a guard he sleeps on me, leaving drool and dog hair everywhere. And when Uncle Toby fell asleep on me after Sunday lunch last, he caused such a smell it was as though the bowels of Beelzebub himself had opened!
I have not felt the touch of the vacuum cleaner in months, and my cushions itch with stickiness. The sun has bleached my shoulder dry, and my feet and legs are damp with mould and god-knows-what hidden and forgotten by the children underneath my valance.
Is this what I get for years of faithful service? Are people that callous and cruel? What have I done to deserve such treatment? Oh! The tribulations of a chair with a soul!
Fear not, dear diary. I shall be back! My masters must be made aware of the crimes they and theirs perpetrate upon me! Farewell for now.
Diary note to self: find out how the hell that melodramatic, malodorous miseryguts of a chair managed to pick up a bloody pen and write in me.