I wondered who was the real victim...The hated one or the one who took it all with self-control and a cold heart.

That crack was heard by one. By the time he realized what was happening, he was screaming in vain...under the ice. Pounding with his fists against the frozen wall. Muted sounds of the depths below the only music to accompany his drift into the cold sleep of the frozen. The steady pulses of his numbing punches...the ice becomes a giant foggy window. The sunlight becomes a dim, dim, memory of childhood. And under the ice he's lost.

That is messed up. I didn't mean to frighten you. Look. I didn't mean to say I love you. It was just me being romantic. I take it back. I don't love you. Please don't go. I don't really love you. I didn't mean a word of it. I don't even like you. Stay. But don't talk to me about it. I never promised you any answers.

Although he tried to explain this memory to the other microwaves, they simply didn't understand. All they cared about was popping more popcorn, heating up more pizza slices, baking more potatoes. And so he eventually forgot about the memory of the figurine and the lead hammer and focused his efforts on reheating. But was it The End?

[continue]