VOODOO

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>>17184013
I hate the bus as it carries me home. I hate my job that pays so little I need to take the bus. I hate my boss who pushes me around and abuses me.
At least I have my treasure.
I step out of the rickety, smelly bus onto the ugly, trash-covered road. I hate the long walk in the dark it takes to get home. I hate the ugly shack that's all I can afford. I hate my shabby clothes, and fat gut, and puggy face.
At least I have my treasure.
I come inside and dump off my bag in my dirty, smelly room. I peel off my sweaty, grubby clothes and toss them in the corner. I'm hungry and lonely and sore.
At least I have my treasure.
I spent all day looking forward to this. The moment I come home. It's what gets me through the day. It's my only joy. I go downstairs, where I keep it safe. I find the heavy box I keep locked- it must be safe, nothing is more important. As I unlock it, I smile, wider and wider, until it hurts my face. I like how that hurts.
I hold my breath, my smile so wide and bright it lights up the room, and lift the lid. I've had my treasure a while- it's scratched, and scuffed, and missing some parts, and isn't as shiny as it used to be, but it's still perfect.
My treasure turns to me. It's leaking, a little. "P-please, mister," it squeaks, "I want to go home."
Oh, dear. It's broken. I'll have to fix it again. "You ARE home, silly goose!"