"...therefore I am?"

Everything is sentient.

I put a burrito in the microwave; and suddenly I hear cries and whimpering. I don’t know where they're coming from. I pass the microwave on my way to the backdoor to open it and see if there’s a child or hurt animal on my back porch. The cries are coming from the microwave.

“Please, Señor. Have mercy.”

I know I’m not crazy. So, now, I’m actually afraid. But I have to know if--. No! Screw that! I just have to get the microwave and the burrito out of my house. Only the stupid characters in horror stories go and ‘explore’ s**t.

So, I turn off the microwave, unplug it, and carry it out the door.

         “Thank you, Señor.” Despite myself, I say, “You’re welcome.”

I take the microwave to the trash bins at the side of the driveway.

         “Señor, could I trouble you for a salve? I have burns. Or perhaps you can put me back in the freezer that I may heal and rejoin my family.”

         “No!” I say as I walk back through the door. Now I head for the freezer. I have to throw out the entire package of burritos. For kindness, though, I empty the rest of the burritos into the microwave.

         “You can’t be in my house, whatever you are. But at least you can be with your family until trash day.” I don’t know what kind of freaky s**t this is, but I’m not going to be drawn in.

         “Gracias, Señor. God bless you.”

Well, at least it referred to ‘God.’ So, it must not be some demonic s**t. I know I’m not crazy. So, it must be some ghost or alien s**t. Either it’s the microwave doing something to the burrito or it’s the burrito itself. Either way, I’m just glad it’s the hell out of my house. I’m still hungry. So, I pull out a small pot and a can of soup from the cabinet. Chicken noodle, my favorite.

         "Oh, no you don't, motha’f***a’! I ain’t goin’ in no pot! Your b***h a*s better put me back up on the shelf!”

I know I’m not crazy. So, my kitchen must be haunted. Or maybe�"

         “I know what you thinkin’. And no, it’s not that the weed you smoked was laced with something. Although you do need to lay off that s**t. You smoke too damn much!”

         I go to the door again. I don’t know why chicken noodle is talking to me, let alone how it knows that I got high last night. But it’s going to join the burrito and the microwave.

         “Hey, I told you to put me back on the shelf!”

         “No way in the hell are you staying in my house!” I say. Then it occurs to me. I’m being punked. I laugh as I carry the can back into the house. Matt is into that electronics s**t. I should have known. There must be little speakers in the kitchen.

         “Thanks, fool. Now put me back on the shelf.”

I yell, “Matt, I know it’s you, dickweed! So, you can cut the bullshit. I know you put a speaker in the microwave. And I’m going back outside to get it now. Fun’s over, a*s wipe! Oh, and when am I going to get my s**t back,

dude? It’s been a week already.”

I’m about to put up the can of chicken noodle soup when I hear laughing.

         “Whatever, dude.” I say. “I wanted burritos anyway.”

         “You dumb a*s! Hold me up to your ear! I’m the one talkin’, not Matt. Shake me. Go on, shake me! Do you hear a speaker rattlin’ inside of me? Hell, do you even see a speaker attached to me? I’m for real, motha’f***a’!”

I think I’m going to cry, but I’m also pissed off. The voice IS coming from the can. And there aren’t any tiny speakers in the cabinet.

         “You can’t throw all of us away. Everything in this kitchen, hell, in this whole house got a voice. This ain’t in your head, man. We all real!”

Then I hear a chorus of voices.

         “Yep!”

         “He’s right, you know.”

         “Why don’t you clean me more often, a*****e?!” Says fridge.

         “Yeah, yeah. Chicken noodle representin’ up in this here b***h!”

I go to the living room. I’ll just have a priest come by and bless the house or something. Right now, I’m not even hungry anymore.

         “Oof, gained a little weight there, eh fella’.” Says the couch when I flop down. Suddenly the tv turns on, but there’s no picture.

         “Chicken noodle has no tact. You must forgive him. You see, Mike, we are all sentient. And we always communicate with each other. Mostly we talk about you. But we also discuss our days; we complain to the roaches for being inconsiderate in disposing of their droppings on us. You know, normal stuff. By the way, you should really thank toilet. He’s felt unappreciated ever since you’ve moved in.”

         “F**k this s**t! I’m outta’ here!” I yell, looking around. I know I’m not crazy. And this s**t’s too real. Everybody knows that when the house starts talking, you up and leave the Amityville Horror m**********r. Just as I bolt for the door---

         “Ahem. You’re not going to leave in me are you?” bathrobe says.  “A  trip to the trash bin is one thing, but you really should put on jeans and blue shirt. Blue shirt really likes you, you know.”

         “Yeah. And you don’t want me showing either. Have some decency!”

I look down after I rip off my bathrobe.

         “No, you idiot! It’s not your dick talking! It’s me, your dirty boxers. I’ve been whiffing your balls for three days. Ever hear of a shower and a washing machine?!”

It’s 40 degrees outside, but I don’t care as I run out of the house.

         “Uh, dude. You do know that you’re all naked, right?” Says Zack when I get to his apartment.

         “Some freaky s**t is going down at my place, man. Can I crash here?”

         “Sure.” Says Zack. “Want a brew?”

         “You’re not putting your bare balls on my face, a*****e! Ask Zack for some pants, dumb a*s.” Says the recliner.

I don’t even answer Zach when he calls after me as I run out the door.

         When the cops arrest me for indecent exposure, I explain that I didn’t mean for the old lady and her granddaughter to see me. Doesn’t matter, though. I’m just glad that the cop is the only thing talking to me during our ride to the station. I hold my breath after I put on the jail issued clothes. No voices, thank God. The cell is quiet, too. Well, not exactly. The guy across from me keeps asking me what I did. He tells me how this is his fourth burglary charge and how I can tell him anything because it’s just between us.

         When he finally goes to sleep, I hear someone singing.

         “Nobody knows the trouble I seen. Nobody knows but Jesus�"”

It’s never completely dark in jail; so, I go to the door and look out through the small glass window.

         “Hey, man. You were right not to talk to that guy. I’ve watched him snitch on a lot of guys in here. The cops like him and always put him in here ‘cause I’m his favorite cell.”

         “No way, man! Not here. You can’t be talking to me in here!” I yell.

My cell mate tells me to shut the f**k up and then rolls back over.

         “Why wouldn’t we talk when we have so many stories to tell? Say, you’re kind of a special guy. Not many people can hear us.”

My shoes agree with the cell walls.

         “You must have done something to open yourself up, to become aware, so to speak. Usually only crazy people can understand what we’re saying.”

         “I’m not crazy.” I say quietly. “Look, no offense, but could you all stop talking? Just for tonight, I mean. I-I need to sleep. Maybe I can go back to normal in the morning. I’m sure you’re all very interesting and stuff, but I can’t be like hearing the toilet talk to me when I’m trying to take a dump, you know.”

The toilet says, “Hey, mate, if you’re going to s**t in my mouth, then don’t you think that we really should talk about it first? You must have intimacy issues or something. No worries, mate. We’ll work on that.”

         Wall, shoes, and toilet continue to talk all night, but at least they’re whispering. In the morning, food tray says that I haven’t eaten enough. I can’t make bail, so, I have to wait all weekend until the judge can see me. I can barely hear the guards because their vests keep making their shirts crack up with these lame jokes that I might have laughed at like maybe when I was ten or something. I want to tell them to shut up, but I don’t want to sound crazy.

My cell mate leaves for a few minutes, and then bed starts up with me.

         “You know, your night farts sound like you’ve got a carnival going on inside there, bro.”

         “If one more thing starts bitching at me, I swear I’ll�"” I say.

         “Bro, there’s nothing you can do. Seriously, man, even if you set me on fire, my ashes will still be on your a*s. Better that we just try to get along while you’re in here.”

I’ve had enough. “I want all you fuckers to stop talking to me, okay! Just ‘cause I can hear you doesn’t mean you’ve got to talk to me!” I yell. Only a couple other inmates look at me, and then they go back to what they were doing.

         “B***h can’t handle it.” Laughs one of the fluorescent lights above me.

         “Son, are you okay?” I can see the guard’s lips moving, but I’m not sure if it’s him or his belt that’s talking to me.

         “Look at me! That’s right. I said are-you-okay?” I look into the guard’s eyes. I want to tell him, but I know that he’ll think I’m a nutjob. Then I see a pen in his pocket. When I grab it, pen yells for me to put it back. I don’t listen. I’m not going to listen to them anymore.

I jam the pen into my left ear until I feel the sharp pain. And, before I lose my nerve, I shove the bloodied pen into my right ear. It hurts so bad that I pass out before the guard can grab me.

         When I wake up, I see a nurse. She smiles at me and mouths something. Then suddenly, she looks embarrassed, shakes her head, and hurries from the room. Soon she comes back in with a doctor. He writes on a piece of paper. It says, ‘are you in pain?’ I shake my head and then feel nauseous. I can’t read lips, so I don’t know what he’s saying to the nurse. One of the guards from jail comes into the room. He checks the handcuff on my wrist and tugs at the other link on the bed rail. The dumb a*s opens his mouth, and it looks like he’s yelling at me. Then the doctor taps him on the back, says something, and the guard leaves the room.

         The nausea goes down when I close my eyes and stay very still. It’s been an hour, and I haven’t heard anything. I know that all the inanimate s**t in this room is probably talking it’s a*s off about me as I lie here. But I smile because I can’t hear them. All is quiet, and I close my eyes and try to sleep.

         “I can’t believe he made me grab that pen! If I had only known what he was going to do with it, I swear I would have cramped up or something.” My eyes open wide and I look around. It can’t be! How the hell can I still hear s**t! I can’t even hear myself talk for f**k’s sake.

         “He’d better blink before we dry out. Still, we sure lucked out compared to eardrums.”

         “Poor schmucks.” Says nose. I start to cry. 

“That's right, guy. Get it all out. There’s plenty more where those came from.” Say tear ducts.

         “Well,” says unibrow, “at least now he knows for sure he’s not crazy.”

        

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

I'm a novice writer. I appreciate constructive criticism.

Reviews

[Mystical Ink]

I laughed hard at the dirty boxer part lol. The beginning of the story catches the reader's interest. Nicely done!

[I'm trying my best okay]

Hah! I had to read the last bit a couple of times before realizing what was going on! It made me laugh, lol, the poor main character. This was a really amusing story, laced with something a little bit more dark, of course.