Terror Has a Name, It’s Spelled Brita…
…I-T-A, that’s BRITA!
It lurks in my kitchen, waiting…and waiting. It thirsts for the precious fluid of life. And it will stop at nothing to get it.
It is voracious.
It is unstoppable.
And it doesn’t care who gets in its way.
I can’t leave it alone.
The water level drops, it needs to be filled. It craves it. Seeking completion. It hungers to be satiated. Quickly. I am its slave. What would happen if the filter dried out? There’s dire consequences, too horrible to mention. But there they are, the warnings, buried deep within the paperwork.
But what if I ignore it…it…I can’t, it sits there, mocking. Waiting for me to forget its presence. It’s ghastly presence.
Someday it will make its move. I know it. I sense it.
Do I dare bring bottled water into my house? My first step towards independence.
No. I mustn’t upset it. I mustn’t.
What’s that? No really, I wasn’t thinking about getting rid of you, no, heh-heh, just kidding…really.
I spend my waking hours thinking about it, plotting, making sure to keep it content, brim full with water. I mustn’t upset it. I don’t sleep without making sure it’s full. I won’t leave without checking the water tank. Should I take it with me if I leave? If I leave it behind, I’ll come home to…to…to what? What awaits me if I do?
I’m a prisoner of a water filtration system…