I once was normal.
Just like everyone else.
I hung around in the back with my friends until that fateful day during the War. We knew the danger, but we didn't care. We never thought that we would be picked up like all the others around us.
A girl came in one day. She pointed at me and said, "Sir, may I have that one?" and I was taken from my family, my friends, my previous life, and was shoved in the hands of the grimy girl who I later learned, was an orphan because of the War.
I had only spent a day with her, she had already filled my first pages with doodles and scribbles, and the feel of her pen tip touching my pages made me wince with pain, the feeling of it scratching my skin, staining it permanently, sometimes ripping it and making me scream with pain (although she never noticed, no one did).
I was almost thankful when that boy snuck into her room while she was out and took me with him.
If only I knew.
He kept me for many years, and used this odd stick on me to clear the pages and repair them from what was left from that girl's ownership. For many years he left me alone and forgot about me, left me in his trunk as he moved from the orphanage to the school and back again during the summer.
Actually, these were probably some of the best years of my life. I found myself attracted to his potions textbook (she was quite the sweetheart and so devious when it came to ruffling pages) and soon me and Charmy were BFF's.
Then, about five years later after I was turned to his care, he removed me from the bottom of his trunk, and smiled at me.
"You're perfect." He said, and then I knew no more.
I was possessed, and then I only came back to my senses in my last dying moments, when he was gone from my body and I was left stained and screaming as I was stabbed mercilessly by a glasses wearing boy.
I am pretty sure, in my last moments, I was finally heard.
For the object boot camp: remove 45.
Don't own 'em. Dern it.