A Screen Stole My Friend

The Silence and the Crisis

I sat beside Amaia at the dining table that same evening. We had roasted chicken with some sort of sweet-and-sour sauce which I absolutely loved. Potatoes were served along some salad. I enjoyed the food, but the silence was unbearable. The only sound was the clanging of my fork and knife as I sawed through the chicken and scraped the plate underneath.

Amaia barely touched her food. Her parents had gobbled up their plates pretty fast, but I soon realised why: they wanted to be on their phones. I saw them desperately slipping their hands into their pocket and pulling out their small rectangular device.

The same device that stole my friend from me.

Nobody uttered a word. I looked over at Amaia, waiting for her to look back at me; to return the attention, the love which we used to share for each other. But no, she had attention and love for only one thing: the glowing screen in her hands.

The next moment I remember as vividly as yesterday. Please don't ask me why I did it; usually, I would never have the courage to do something as reckless... But I guess the emotions were just too strong to resist.

I snatched the phone from her, and immediately, she started yelling at me, demanding me to give it back. But I ignored her pleas and hurled it against the wall.

Everyone turned toward the sound of the smack and the crack. I remember the horror on Amaia's face, and some part of me was happy to see it. I grabbed my fork, ran over to the phone, and I began stabbing the screen, over and over again, with brutal force.

The household was longer dormant, but a heated furnace of surprise, confusion, and rage. Nobody was on their phone now.

Amaia quickly came and seized me by the arm, screaming, calling me insane, mean, cruel, but the fury which burned inside me like a wildfire helped me keep my ground. I kept stabbing and stabbing and stabbing. I would not stop. The glass fractured, shattered, and bits and pieces scattered on the floor. Amaia cried and shrieked, digging her nails into my skin, scratching me, kicking me, pulling my hair. I ignored her.

At some point, I dropped the fork and I started stomping on the phone, crushing it under my heel. Every footfall felt like I was breaking her soul, and the more I stomped, the more she screamed. I could almost feel her internal agony, and it was satisfying.

I didn't care about her pain, though. She wasn't my friend anymore.

Her parents soon intervened and grabbed hold of my shoulders, shaking me. They yelled, too, but I was so immersed in the satisfaction of destruction that every word they said simply flew over my head. Then they hauled me to the door and literally tossed me out, locking me outside. My shoes and jacket were still in the house, but I dared not retrieve them.

I walked home in my socks, arms crossed over my chest to keep warm. A smile tugged on my lips. It was the end of our friendship.

*****

That was in grade four. Now I'm in grade ten. If you asked me whether or not I would do it again, I would say: "Yes. Without hesitation."