I don’t like it here all alone in the dark. It’s cold and smelly – I miss the warmth of hands wrapped around me and the scent of baby lotion. To think that once I was treasured, that daily life without me caused tears to fall from precious eyes.

I remember once when she thought I was lost and the only thing on her mind was to find me. She hurled all the others out of her way, wailing the whole time for me. Finally, she caught a glimpse of me and her face lit up as brightly as the sun on a clear day at the beach. Her world was right again and so was mine. I knew my life would be perfect as long as she was around.

However, things change, people move on, and soon, some of us are forgotten. The care I once received began to diminish and my days got dim. Dust began to build around me and the only scent I was able to take in was of the furniture polish used by a lady to dust the shelf where I sat. The face that used to look at me so lovingly changed and I didn’t see that passion in her eyes anymore….not in my direction nor towards the others. It was as though I had become the enemy.

One day, a new face came into view. This one had lots of fire in his eyes and his hands never stopped. He would grab one of us from the shelf and fling us across the room like Frisbees where we would fall with a thud to the floor and hoped the abuse stopped there. Sometimes it did; sometimes it didn’t.

Then, one day, he sealed my fate and I landed me here. I ended up on the ground, chosen by those hands. He pulled open my cover and began pulling out my pages. I became weak as pieces of me began being further shredded and tossed into the air like confetti. He was laughing the entire time as if it were acceptable to defile me in that manner; I was defenseless against the torture. The lady who dusted the shelves came into the room, shouted at him and picked me up off the floor. I hoped she was taking me to try and mend me back into myself again; however, that hope ended with loud clunk as I was dropped into the trash bin and began to suffocate against the plastic bag walls surrounding me.

Therefore, here I am in my final resting place, among all the others that have suffered similar fates. I know that books like myself are becoming obsolete in this new digital, technologically advanced world. However, I can hope that at least one person cherishes the written word on paper instead of on a screen. I can also hope that children are taught to respect the written word and value books for the knowledge and joy they can bring because within a book, you can create your own world.