Expendable Eraser

The moment you bought me, I was your slave. You took me out of my seal and placed me on your desk, leaving me be until you needed me. You used me to erase your mistakes on your homework, on your artwork.

At first, I hated the way you held me. You grasped onto one end of me tightly and pressed the other side down onto the paper, moving me back and forth. White, hot panic rushed through me as pieces of me peeled off. I was disappearing. It hurt. It burned. I screamed for you to stop, but you either didn’t hear me or ignored me completely. You just continued to use me without a care.

Somewhere along the way, I realized: this was my purpose. This was what I was made to do. This was why I was called an eraser.

I grew to hate being alone. I began to long for your touch, your squeeze. It was what I lived for. The thrill that came with the pain. It was the only thing I ever felt. Without it, I felt empty.

Over time, I grew smaller and smaller until I was just a small stub. As I grew smaller, you grew bigger. Now, you pinched me in between your huge pointer finger and thumb. I knew it was going to be the last time you used me. I was too small to last. This was the end. I was going to disappear. For good. I didn’t know how to feel. I was overcome by a rush of emotion. I was thrilled. I was horrified. I was happy. I was heartbroken.

I loved the pain, the burn. I didn’t want to disappear. I was able to be useful to you. But I was expendable, wasn’t I? You were going to go back to that stupid drug store to get another eraser, weren’t you?

Well, joke’s on you. After you rubbed me out of existance, I went to eraser heaven where I met a nice eraser that I could rub against, all day, every day. So, suck on that, you bastard!