I remember the first day I set eyes on you and brought you home. The day was desperately overcast and gloomy, but I had no reason to feel this storm in my heart. Standing alongside you with a tenable hint of pride coursing through my brain, I knew that you would be perfect… that you would make my house a home, would encourage me in the mornings to wake up and embrace the day. You promised me all of this and at that moment, I loved you. I loved deeper than I had ever felt love before. I never wanted us to be apart. But as the days went on… oh, my love, the weather should have been an indicator of our future.
Things went well for the first few days and you settled in so well- seeing you in the mornings would bring a huge smile to my face. You were perfectly formed and delightful: I had never seen one as beautiful as you. I knew that this would be the first day of the rest of my life, and I looked forward to waking up each morning to the sounds of your boisterous but melodic singing. But then it began… you started making these noises when I wasn’t expecting it. You’d start squawking in my general direction at the wrong time, and I would strike you to the floor with fury. You made me hit you. Uncontrollably shaking, part with horror at what I had done, and part with an overwhelming sense of strength and enjoyment, I would yell at you: ‘This is lunchtime, y’know?! Shut up when I’m eating my dinner!’
From that day the unconscious attacks began. There must have been some deep-rooted inner hatred inside me, for me to be constantly trying to destroy you. You always bravely withstood my actions- knocking you down daily, unconsciously whacking you during my sleep nightly. Sometimes I’d even go as far as to throw water or Fanta over you, and then go on to complain that you’d ingested some of my Fanta. You bitch! Yet you’d still tick along. It was admirable, really. It wasn’t that I meant to hurt you, it was just that you always seemed to be wailing at me in the most inappropriate moments. And I just couldn’t stop myself.
I’d push you over at night and you’d stay on the floor all evening until I woke up and stood on you in the mornings. I’d gaze down at your glassy and tired face saying only, ‘Why?’. Then you stopped talking altogether. Sometimes you’d throw yourself into things. Sometimes I’d try to stop you, and sometimes I wouldn’t. Our relationship had been lasting, but treacherous. Both of us knew our time was coming to an end. Then one fateful day came the final fall. I ran to find you bleeding out over the carpet, your inner parts spread around the bedroom. A broken dream of days gone by, your tiny head smashed into the flooring. Despite myself I couldn’t help but shed a tear. We had spent many years together. Today, you had made your own end. And who the Hell was going to clean this up?
And now as I commit you to the earth in a sort of makeshift grave because I couldn’t be bothered to arrange anything proper, I recall all these fond memories. Though we had our differences I realise now that you were just hopeless, something like me: weathered and broken, waiting to be buried in the garden. It seemed that I had whacked you once too often and you could not take it anymore. I had mistreated you, but it pulls on my heart to know that I won’t see your little face when I wake up in the mornings anymore. I have to say goodbye now and it hurts… it is as though I have lost a friend. One who was very dear to me, and I wish that I had shown you this affection when you were still here to feel it.
But I suppose it’s not all that bad… I can get another replacement alarm clock from the shop after work tomorrow.