In an apocalyptic world, where everyone is trapped inside buildings, a little white van risks everything for the sake of a home...
Well, I am kind of carried away here in the name of storytelling, but hey...give the world some months and let's see then.
Anyways, today has been my first day of scavenging for second hand love in Reykjavik, uiiiiii. Having to feed an empty apartment requires focus, good financial management skills and a friend with a van. Facebook groups for second hand items work very well in Reykjavik, and after 5 days of hectic messaging from one group to another, I feel like in Wall street floor on the Free Cocaine Day.
It has been an interesting day that started with...
The killing bed
The killing bed was waiting for me in an apartment bearing that hopelessness that only half empty houses have after having being abused.
The space smelled like one thousand cigarettes, and two thousand wet dirty socks. There were two available beds in the flat, the guys living there pointed to a bedroom on the left, but I didn't even try taking a look: I knew the other bed was already dead.
So, I faced the killing bed. It was bigger and bulkier than the other bed. Maybe she did it, to get rid of competitors. The killing bed was lying there full of herself, and I could sense a hint of satisfaction drawn in the lines of the sheets, as if saying: "You take me, you go down with me"...
So, my friend and one of the guys removed the mattress and took it down to the street. That left only the two of us, the other guy and me, to deal with the killing bed. We maybe thought that by removing the mattress, the bed would have felt vulnerable, maybe prone to confess...but she didn't.
Instead, while he and me were carrying the frame, she took the opportunity and tried to sever my right ankle, Saw movie franchise style... She didn't count on my quick reflexes and I jumped on time, but not enough so as to avoid my ankle being sliced a little bit...bedstard...
We took her down anyway and I could feel her resistance, her stubbornness, her defeat. She tried one last trick and made my friend miscalculate the distance when throwing me the belt to secure the mattress, and so he hit my hand with the metallic buckle. One more scar...
We tied her to the van, tamed and hopeless, like the Hannibal Lecter of furniture she was. There was no way I would keep that killing bed...I could see the headlines: "Woman found dead, probably choked in her dreams" Nope, not happening, so we dismembered her and put the mattress out of its misery, to be recycled, maybe born again somewhere where someone will have deadly nightmares or killing instincts...
Comments