Kudryavka

“I wanted to do something nice for her: She had so little time left to live.” – Dr. Vladimir Yazdovsky

Kudryavka, they called me. Little Curly. I was gifted a small but tidy contraption to spend the night in, dinner with the chef’s complements. Flattered as I was, I found the platter queer, unused to the semi-solid delicacies I was being treated to. The next nineteen days saw me being transferred to alternate accomodation by the day, each contraption smaller than the last. It had been days since I defecated. The colorful world had lost its sheen. I didn’t like the food anymore. I missed Father.

It wasn’t long before I was finally taken out and transferred to a peculiar contraption. It wasn’t unlike my earlier homes, in size. But the metallic finish, the lights and switches adorning the walls, gave no aura of warmth. I whined, to get away, and also in fear that I wouldn’t fit the crevice that seemed to be my placeholder. It was only after they fastened me in that I realised just how much slighter I’d become. I could feel my heart against my ribs; it seemed to be beating faster since the past few days. I spent the next two days adjusting to my metallic shelter. I could sense something in the air. Something was going to happen. Soon.

This is part two of three; take a look at part one and part three

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