This was written in response to a writing prompt given in an MFA class last year:
“Write from the perspective of a common home appliance.”
I found that if this is read without knowing who or what the “I” is, it’s quite unnerving. Serial killer, perhaps? I stumbled across this on my computer today and had forgotten I’d written it, or even what it was about. Creeped me out. It brought to mind for me “Psycho” and someone a bit like Norman Bates.
Darkness, total and complete. Bone-chilling cold. Stacks of frozen carcasses. Solid ice. The never-altering, eternally freezing, condition of my life. Waiting. Always waiting. Quietly humming tuneless songs. Wondering when a flash of light and heat will signal the entrance of The Family, disturbing my solitary, frozen existence.
My downstairs neighbor receives frequent visits from The Family throughout the day. Although my neighbor’s darkness is also complete, the blackness never lasts as long as the darkness I live in. His cold environment isn’t enough to form ice or frost. The fluids are chilled but still liquid. The carcasses are preserved for a time, but not eternally frozen. The Family worries when the small glass bulb which provides light burns out in my neighbor’s apartment. My living space has no light source of its own. Only when the door opens do I see the contents of my own interior.