I still remember the fateful day...yesterday. The day it was ruined, broken, murdered. My brother, James, tried to grab it from my hands. 'You can't GRAB it from me!' I had told my little brother. These types of things have to be handled with care and delicacy. But he gave me no heed, he pulled and stretched and grabbed and bit. And now, its broken. My slinkey is broken.
          It used to be so perfect, so shiney. It used to be there for me. My consant companion, stress releif, toy. Its smooth edge and perfectly round shape was so soothing to my weary soul. Not a flaw anywhere. Not a care. With my slinkey, I was invincable. Unstoppable. Magnificent. But now it is flawed. Broken. Bent. It's useless. My poor slinkey, it deserved better than this.
          I tried to fix it, it's impossable. Nothing can fix a bent slinkey. The little slit in the side is consant. It's a consant reminder of the act of treasen commited by my brother. I tried to ignore the small flaw at first. But it was like trying to ignore uneven capris or uneven hoody strings. It eats away at you, nawing and your very well being. You know its there, lurking on the other side of the slinkey. You know it wants to hurt you, and it does, the moment you see it. I couldn't handle the pressure. I couldn't take it anymore. One does not simply ignore a bent slinkey.
          It couldnt be fixed. Nothing could be done. So I stopped trying.
          I hold it in my hands, it matches the round bruise perfectly. I cuddle its now shapless form. I caress its now rough and bent body. I lay on my bed, and remember the days we used to have together: just me and my slinkey. Froliking in the yard...or rather, the living room. Playing, and growing...together...forever. I remember rolling down the stairs with it. I remember the familiar thump, thump, thump as it wacked the wood on each step. And the satisfying tinkling sound it made as it moved. I remember the better days. Just me and my slinkey. The funnest torture device ever created