The Inanimates

I can't believe it. I cannot bloody believe it. After thirty years, they just toss me aside like a used napkin. Through three moves, two kids, and four cats and through so much more. There was no ceremony. No rowdy applause. Nothing. I feel utterly betrayed and heartbroken, not that I have a heart to break.

I know I'm on my way to a place I won't like because I have been stuffed into the boot of the car along with an old table that had seen better days and the Downsons’ son’s baby toys. I was most likely going to the tip.

The tip was a mystical place for me and my kind, and by ‘my kind’, I am of course referring to other kitchen appliances like me, the toasters and blenders of the world. The tip had been mentioned many times in the Downsons household, often used as a threat to the other furniture items around the house. Sometimes, they would deliver on their threat when the object wouldn’t listen to them. I, however, always listened. Whenever they wanted to boil water for a friend or relative, they turned to me.

I went through a brief spell in the late 1990s when I believed the Downsons only had me around because they couldn’t be bothered to purchase a newer version of myself. But my fears were soon dashed when my toaster friend was taken and replaced with a more advanced model. From then on, I knew that didn’t just keep me around because they were lazy, it was because they chose to. Plus, the newer toaster had four slots, something Mr Downsons was most impressed by it.

I was first bought by the Downsons in 1988. I was part of a flash sale for a store that was closing and they were the first in and first to pick me up. None of that usual bollocks of picking me up, staring at my box and reading the information. No turning me on my top and seeing if there’s some sort of secret hidden there. Of course, there never was, but it didn’t stop anyone. The Downsons bought me straight away, not even bothering to look at my box to see how old I was or anything. True customers. They wanted something, so they bought it. Since that moment, I had nothing but respect for the couple.

I tried my hardest whenever they plugged me in. I boiled their water as fast as my heating element could go. Their water was boiled fast and good. I elevated myself to be the best kitchen appliance they had. They used other appliances more than me, however, like the dishwasher, but I never became jealous. They just needed to use it more, didn’t mean that it was better or more important than me.

There was a brief time in the early 2000s where I was lent to a friend of Mrs Downsons. I never knew the man’s name, I just remember him as the man who drank too much coffee. The man seemed to thrive off the stuff. From what I can recall, he would arise around midday and proceed to exit the house for many hours. I was never sure where he went and I wasn’t too fussed about it either. He would then return and turn immediately to me. Then, I would boil his water and he would make himself a cup of coffee. He repeated this action many, many times over the next few hours before turning to alcohol and passing out on the sofa. The sooner I was back in the Downsons home, the better.

When my final day at the man’s house came, I was practically joyful. If I had legs, I would use them to jump and dance and if I had a mouth, I would sing. Mrs Downsons walked through the door and instantly turned to me, patting my metallic side affectionately. I was so happy to see her after so long. Sadly though, she and her friend departed from the kitchen and I was unable to hear their conversation.

I suppose it was moments like that that made me think that I would always be with the Downsons. I was sorely mistaken.

I feel the car stop and the doors open and close. The Downsons are muttering things to one another. It may be muttering, or it's just my hearing being obscured by the car’s walls. The boot is opened and I see Mrs Downsons reach for me, clutching me tightly in both hands and pulling me out. Mr Downsons is beside her, and once I'm out, he reaches for the table, grunting as he yanks it from its spot. It is now that I see where I am.

My suspicions have been confirmed. We had arrived at the tip.

Around me, I see fridges and freezers that are rusted and old. I see washing machines and dishwashers scattered about the ground, all lined up like they’ve been put to death. Of course, they may have been. I would never know.

Tricky thing, not being able to talk. I can't voice my problems or feelings to anyone. I can't let anyone know I'm alive, that I see and feel everything that happens to me. I first acknowledged my existence when I was being packaged into my box. I suddenly became aware of the fact that someone had their hand around my lid and was pushing me down into this dark abyss. I tried to shout but nothing seemed to happen. I did continue to try after that, I'm not one for quitting, but I soon gave into the realisation that I cannot speak, that I am just a sentient kettle living through the world. After I came to that realisation, my life was pretty smooth. But I became lonely quite quickly.

The trouble with not speaking is that no one can listen to you. I can hear them. I can hear every word, every shout, every awkward moan. But they will never be able to hear me. I will never get to tell Mr Downsons where his missing car keys are. I will never get to tell Mrs Downsons how hideous that shade of lipstick is on her.

And I suppose, while I'm being walked towards the nearest dumping pit, that I also never heard any other appliance speak. While I can think, that not to say other appliances don’t. What if my toaster friend was indeed my friend, and that they were having a similar internal dialogue while they were taken to the tip? What if every appliance experiences the same thing, but no one knows?

But, perhaps it's not best to think of that while one is being walked towards their future residency.

As Mrs Downsons approaches the edge of the dumping pit, I feel her tap my side again and sigh. She stops as she taps me, turning me around in her hands. She was looking at me in a strange way. It was a look I had only seen a few times on her face. For some reason, throwing me away was a sad moment for her.

“Thanks for everything,” she whispered. “You really were a great kettle.”

I'm not too sure how to describe how I felt at this moment. Pride seemed to swarm me and I felt and great warmth consume every part of my being. If I had lips, I would be grinning.

With a final pat and half-smile, Mrs Downsons held me over the edge and released me.

Whatever reason she had for feeling sad, I was glad that she did. As I plummeted to the floor, amongst the other abandoned, forgotten home appliances, I took a moment to appreciate her words. On the journey here, I had been angry that I could be tossed aside so easily, that they didn’t parade me around. But now, I know that they didn’t need to do that. The Downsons had their own way, and I wasn’t one to ask for anything. Despite what I am and how trivial my job was and is, they still chose me over and over again. For that, I am grateful.

And now, I’m not afraid of the bottom. I may be subjected to lying on one side, parts of me broken and battered. Other appliances may crash upon me and leave me buried in a sea of scrap, but at least I know that I did my job well. Even if I am the only living kitchen appliance, at least I know that I did a good job and provided some sort of happiness to a family in the world.