Baked Scribe Flashback : Imminent

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That paper shredder is winking at me again.

It’s as if it knows that a good meal is about to be served. You left me here on purpose, didn’t you? Front row seats to the carnage of paper, that you seem to have no qualms against feeding into that thing’s gullet. Seriously, does it ever get full? Or is it always just hungry for someone else?

It’s not my fault.

All I wanted was to grow up into a strong, beautiful tree. Or, failing that, live out my life as a part of someone’s poster, or an important clause of a groundbreaking law or one of the pages of a great book. It isn’t my fault I ended up having a collection letter printed on my skin. It’s not my fault that your personal information is printed on here. I don’t think I deserve to be shredded just for that.

Why can’t you just tuck me away somewhere? Maybe put me in the bottom of a tub of clothes that you think you’re going to magically fit into someday. We’d never see each other again, and I’d never be able to help someone get a credit card in your name. I wouldn’t cause any problems.

I don’t want to go through that thing. Who knows what really happens after? Where will I end up? Why can’t you just

No.

No, no, no, no just leave me the hell alone, put me down. Oh please God, don’t put me through the…

Oh, I’m sorry, was that a paper cut you just got there? No more than you deserved. Serves you right. Go upstairs to get a bandage to put on that. At least I didn’t end up as one of those. I’m betting that when you get back down here, you’ll never be able to figure out that I wafted through the air and right into the air return duct when you dropped me.

Now this is the life.

 

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