Permission Could Save Your Life

Vivian wiped the dishsoap bubbles on a towel and smeared the remaining wetness across her jeans.  She walked into the living room and stopped.

He was holding her baby.  He'd sat on the couch and nestled it on his lap.

Vivian's eyes narrowed.  Her fists clenched.  Her stomach churned.

His fingers caressed it.  His face glowed.  He was riveted.

Vivian couldn't contain herself.  "That's mine.  Give it back."  He said nothing and she tried again, louder.  "That's mine.  Give it back."

He glanced up.  "Just a minute, I'm using it."

Vivian's jaw tightened.  "You don't understand.  I need it right now."  She made an effort at politeness.  "Please."

The word hung in the air for an eternity.

Vivian's nails began to feel like claws.  They pricked her palms.

Then he chuckled.  "This is just as much mine as yours.  I bought it."

Vivian's chest constricted and she hardly breathed.  Flames might come out if she did.  She controlled herself.  "No, you bought it for me.  It's mine.  Nobody uses it without my permission."

This time he looked up.  "What's the big deal, honey? I'm just checking the score on last night's game."  He stretched.  "You know how late it was.  Couldn't watch it or I'd be ineffective at work this morning.  I'm almost done."  He turned back to her baby.

Vivian's vision began to spin.  Her breath turned hot.  Careful now, she thought.  "Do it on your computer.  You have one of your own."

He didn't reply.

Scales erupted through her skin.  Spines poked through the back of her shirt.  Her pupils narrowed until all she could see was his profile.  Vivian drew in a long, deep breath of oxygen.  And exhaled.

He incinerated.

Her laptop bounced gently onto the couch.  "Come here, baby," she crooned.  She walked over and dusted it off lightly, cradling it.  "Nobody uses you without my permission."

Beneath the silver finish, scales gleamed.

Vivian smiled.  "Nobody."

___

Have you ever felt this way?  Yes, this has... almost... happened to me with my laptop.  What can I say?  As a writer, some things are very, very precious to your existence.  What is your most prized possession, and what do you turn into when it's hijacked?

Thanks, Suzanne Warr, for the Envy prompt!