The winds whistled through every crack and crevice in my wooden weight. It got cold in the winter. Too cold. And they never got any easier–or warmer–as my wood was worn down from careless feet. But oh the things I’ve seen, or rather felt, as the trees blessed me with everything but those precious eyes the humans always spoke of. _If walls could talk_, bleh, well what about the floors, we talk back. 

That cursed, heavy foot smashed down on me, and I creaked, loudly. It was as if to say: _Ouch!_ But the bulldozing human carried on, speaking on the phone about their meager taxes or whatever they spoke of with such importance. As the human stamped over me several more times, ignoring my pleas and cries to stop, I moved, slightly, with just enough space to come loose. 

The human fell, and cracked their head on my friend at the bottom. My friend squeaked, then fell silent.