Once upon a time there wasn’t a day when I didn’t wake up sore. Sometimes he would keep me up all night, just hitting me until his coffee couldn’t keep him awake anymore.

That was many years ago.

His wife brought me here after he died. Now I am kept clean and admired. Sometimes, just to show I am still of any use, they would hit me a couple of times and leave everyone making the same comments; “Imagine the torture”

I wish those days came back again, when the old man had to make the deadline and he would just crumple paper after paper in frustration. The days when I was his voice and he would strike my keys as if I were a piano. The days when he just type his memoirs. I remember his hands hitting me and putting a fresh sheet of paper. I would kiss those hands if only I had any lips, if only I wasn’t left to linger forever in the antiquarian shop.