justfuckingtryit (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
justfuckingtryit) wrote2019-05-26 08:31 pm
justfuckingtryit) wrote2019-05-26 08:31 pm
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Memory 4: In which a mattress delivery is highly ineffective
The stairwell's narrow and dark, covered in graffiti, and the mattress barely fucking fits through the door on the ground floor.
It catches on the lip of the door jamb — bows back, and won't go any further. It needs a shoulder planted firmly in the side before it'll budge, and then it just droops down over his head, like a wilting plant.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," says Thorn.
He crams the thing the rest of the way in and lets the door to the ground floor swing closed behind him. He pauses to glance down at himself — a narrow frame, shorter even than he is now, in a beat up t-shirt and a jacket with sleeves battered enough to look appropriate for a Bad End outfit.
Thorn shoves those sleeves up to the elbows.
"Okay, fucker," he mutters, under his breath. "You and me, let's do this."
It's easier said than done.
The mattress is floppy, and shapeless, and heavy as shit. He doesn't blame the delivery guys from the secondhand store who noped the fuck out when they saw the elevator was out. Except he absolutely blames them, because now he's on his own, and he's only on the fifth fucking floor, and his first shift starts at ten today. To top it all off, one of his asshole neighbors is leaning on the railing watching, drinking his godsdamned coffee.
"Hey, asshole," snaps Thorn. "It's not a free fucking show."
He gives the mattress a harder shove for good measure. It flops down over his head in response, blinding him — slides backward, the weight slowly prying the fabric from his grip.
The whole thing collapses down the stairs, in slow motion, all the way to the last landing, where it lays curled like a beaten dog.
Thorn curses and kicks the wall.
Up above, at the railing, his neighbor takes a thoughtful sip of coffee. Then he turns around and shuffles off back to his apartment, the door a quiet click as it opens and closes behind him.
It catches on the lip of the door jamb — bows back, and won't go any further. It needs a shoulder planted firmly in the side before it'll budge, and then it just droops down over his head, like a wilting plant.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," says Thorn.
He crams the thing the rest of the way in and lets the door to the ground floor swing closed behind him. He pauses to glance down at himself — a narrow frame, shorter even than he is now, in a beat up t-shirt and a jacket with sleeves battered enough to look appropriate for a Bad End outfit.
Thorn shoves those sleeves up to the elbows.
"Okay, fucker," he mutters, under his breath. "You and me, let's do this."
It's easier said than done.
The mattress is floppy, and shapeless, and heavy as shit. He doesn't blame the delivery guys from the secondhand store who noped the fuck out when they saw the elevator was out. Except he absolutely blames them, because now he's on his own, and he's only on the fifth fucking floor, and his first shift starts at ten today. To top it all off, one of his asshole neighbors is leaning on the railing watching, drinking his godsdamned coffee.
"Hey, asshole," snaps Thorn. "It's not a free fucking show."
He gives the mattress a harder shove for good measure. It flops down over his head in response, blinding him — slides backward, the weight slowly prying the fabric from his grip.
The whole thing collapses down the stairs, in slow motion, all the way to the last landing, where it lays curled like a beaten dog.
Thorn curses and kicks the wall.
Up above, at the railing, his neighbor takes a thoughtful sip of coffee. Then he turns around and shuffles off back to his apartment, the door a quiet click as it opens and closes behind him.