“I’m not your pet,” I tell him. I was once, but not anymore. “Why?” he asks. Why? He’s asking why I won’t be his pet? Seriously? He rises and walks around the table, approaching me. “Because…” I say. “Because I need to be more. I need to be…useful.” “Why?” I want to laugh, not out of amusement but anger. I’m not a trophy. I’m not something to play with or program.
