My owner died two weeks ago. She was in the hospital, but no one thought to bring me. I was left sitting on the windowsill of her bedroom. A zip-train zoomed across the elevated tracks, spitting sparks of electricity as it went. If I had a mouth, I would catch them on my tongue, but I guess I would need legs first.
It’s not impossible anymore. I’ve been around a couple million years, and I’ve seen the world change in all sorts of ways. Technology keeps improving even if healthcare hasn’t. Well, I guess that’s not entirely true. Humans keep little stacks of green paper in their bank accounts which determine whether or not they can be saved. My owner couldn’t. Her parents declared bankruptcy. I had a friend named Bankruptcy during the Cretaceous period when I was in the mantle. He was a big jagged stone from the land of lone stars with a Southern drawl that made you want to liquidate your assets just to hear it again. You would’ve liked him.
My owner had a robot arm. Her real one was cut off when the disease started munching on her bone. She called herself Cindy Cyborg, which was funny because I used to know a jazzy little pebble from Louisiana back in the 80s named exactly that. The arm replacement was her parents’ way of standing up to the disease, but the doctors told them to start thinking about the funeral anyway. They listed her as an organ donor, and because we have the means to recycle now, I might get a heart sometime in July. But I’d settle for just a mouth and some legs.
Her parents are sad, but if I had a mouth I’d tell them they haven’t got anything to worry about. I used to live in the crust some years ago, and let me tell you, it’s not a bad place to be.
Elizabeth Monreal is doing alright. She’s been driving for 4 years and still hasn’t gotten a single traffic ticket. Read more of her work at elizabethmonreal.com.