She walks into the kitchen and twists both my knobs, causing water to gush out of my faucet and fill my tub with lukewarm water. He’s already left for work, so she’s a lot more relaxed as she washes the dishes that haven’t been broken after last night. Most of them have been picked out of my tub, but I can still feel a few smaller ones floating around. I hope she’s careful not to hurt herself on them.

            Last night was, in my opinion, the angriest he’s ever been. From what I remember of the three months they’ve been here, he’s never broken anything before. It happened in the living room so no one in the kitchen saw it, but we did hear most of it.

            I don’t really know what set him off this time. Probably just looking for an excuse to beat her up again. It lasted a long time, at least an hour according to the kitchen clock. I remember the living room walls groaning in pain from when he slammed her into them. Of course, he couldn’t hear them. None of our past owners could hear us whenever we talked. I don’t really know why; the stove once said that it’s probably because they don’t speak the same as we do. Which doesn’t make any sense, since we can all understand them just fine.

            I could hear her whimpering, and his work boots thumping their way towards the kitchen.

            “Goddamn bleedin’ heart whore,” he slurred to no one in particular, drunkenly stumbling into the kitchen. After finishing off what looked to be the last of his beer bottle, he smashed it into my tub full of dirty dishes, breaking both the bottle and some of the dishes inside. I hissed in pain as he turned around, obviously unaware of how much that hurt, and lazily made his way down to the basement.

            “It’s been five minutes,” I remember the kitchen clock saying, sounding concerned. “I can’t hear anythi- oh, wait, I think I hear her getting up now.”

            Without a word, she had gotten herself up and staggered over to my tub, one arm wrapped around her middle while she sorted through and picked out broken pieces of china. She ended up having to empty out my whole tub and sort out the broken pieces, throwing them in the trash. When she finished, she silently hobbled out of the kitchen and up the stairs,

            Looking at her now, although the red stuff stopped coming out of her nose, most of her face was still covered in bruises, with one eye completely swollen shut.

            “I don’t understand why she stays with him,” The drying rack says as she places the now clean dishes on them. “He’s such an ass. I wish the police took him away last week. They would have if she didn’t cover for him.”

            “Well, maybe she likes it,” the stove replied. “Why else would she take it?”

            “That’s bullshit,” the fridge fired back. “Who’d want to get themselves hurt on purpose?”

            “I don’t know, honestly. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about humans, it’s that they’re hard to understand.” I sighed. “Remember what happened to our first owners? Some strange human broke in just to break them. They didn’t even take anything, and I’m almost certain they didn’t have a good reason.”

            “Maybe they did, and we just never learned the reason why,” the drying rack piped up.

            “Yeah. And maybe he’s got a good reason for beating the shit out of her every other night,” the fridge responded drily. The kitchen fell silent, the only sounds coming from her as she finished off the last of the dishes, singing as she worked.

            I remember hearing this song on the radio once, though I can’t remember when. In the short time she’s been here, I’ve come to enjoy her singing. She has a beautiful voice. I wish she’d sing more often, and she used to until he beat her for it.

            Just then, the sound of keys unlocking the door echoed down the front hall, along with the front door yelling “Oh shit, he came back! He isn’t supposed to be here this early, and he’s looking real pissed o-ack!”

            The front door cried out as it was slammed open, their doorknob getting smashed into the wall who in turn howled in pain as well. Leaving the front door still wide open, his feet began to quickly stomp down the hall, getting louder as he approached the kitchen. She immediately stopped singing, her face paling and she frantically looked around, probably trying to escape before he made it to her location. Of course, unfortunately, it was too late.

            In one swift motion, he wrapped one hand around her throat, choking her as he pulled her in close. He was breathing heavily, face red with either anger or drunkenness…or maybe both.

            “You fuckin’ bitch,” he whispered menacingly to her face. “Mind telling me just what the fuck were the cops doin’ at my job? Huh? Wanna tell me why they were lookin’ for me?”

            “I-I don’t…. know….” She gasped out in response, struggling to breathe. “…. please…. let me go….”

            He tightened his grip around her throat, his voice much louder this time “You fuckin’ called them, didn’t you? Better yet, you’ve gotten the neighbor to eh? You’ve been talkin’ to him an awful lot lately. Probably gone over to suck his dick while I was gone huh? I’m right, aren’t I? Well?! SAY SOMETHING YOU GOOD-FOR-NOTHING SLUT!!”

            “She can’t say anything because you’re choking her, dumbass!” the drying rack shot back.

            “Holy shit, I think he’s going to kill her!” the clock shrieked hysterically. “Look at her! She can’t even breathe!”

            Just then, her hand quickly shot up and grabbed at his hair, pulling his head down. Hard. He let out a string of curse words and let go of her. She took the opportunity and tried to make a run for it, but he quickly recovered and grabbed her by the hair, yanking her back in and knocking her off her feet just as she almost made it out of the kitchen. As she screamed and clawed at his hand, he swung her around the kitchen in my direction.

 

CRACK!

 

            The side of her head smashed against the edge of my tub. And although it really hurt, the sound her head made when it hit me scared most of the pain away. I don’t know what it is, but something feels off about that sound. Like it wasn’t supposed to happen. He let go of her hair, and she hit the floor with a soft thump.

            “Hey…um,” The fridge’s voice was shaking, “The floor’s looking awfully red now, and she’s not getting up.”

            “Wait, don’t tell me she’s…?” The stove trailed off, sounding scared. I couldn’t answer them. My mind went blank, and the kitchen felt cold all of a sudden.

            He took several steps back, his face completely drained of the colour from earlier. Running a hand through his hair, he muttered several things under his breath, but the one thing I was able to catch, over and over again, were the words “Shit, shit, shit, shit,”

            Sirens began to sound off very close to the house. His head jerked upwards, expression slowly filling with dread. Several pairs of feet abruptly thumped into the house, and two “Policemen” ran up to him and tackled him to the ground, screaming and cursing. While one of the “Policemen” fastened something made of metal around his wrists and pushed him out of the kitchen, the other took one look at her lying on the ground and stepped out into the hallway yelling to someone outside, possibly the other “Policemen”, to go call “The Paramedics”.

            I remember the last time “The Paramedics” came here. They packed up our first owners carrying them away with a white sheet on top, and they never came back. I know this because the strange human broke them here in the kitchen. As we all waited, I prayed that they wouldn’t put the white sheet on her too.

            They came in and knelt on the ground next to her, setting up all kinds of machines and tools that I’ve never seen before.

            “Wait, what are they doing?” The drying rack asked.

            “Isn’t it obvious? They’re trying to fix her.” The stove responded.

            “Hold on. Why’s that one shaking her head? What happened?”

            “Now they’re both leaving. Are they going to get more stuff to help fix her?”

            “No, wait, I hear one of them coming back,” The kitchen clock chimed in.

            One of “The Paramedics”, the one that shook her head, came back into the kitchen, and what I saw her carrying took what little hope I had left.

            “It’s a white sheet,” I felt numb. “He broke her.”

Amal Sheikhmusse

Amal Sheikhmusse is a second-year student in the Professional Writing Program. Although she is studying to become an editor, she decided one afternoon, whilst eating a cup of slightly-raw instant ramen, to write a story about talking house appliances. She politely refuses to comment on whether this story is based on personal experience.