I was carried down the stairs and into the furniture department, through a series of blood-streaked showrooms depicting well-put-together master bedrooms, dorm rooms, and children's bedrooms advertising an optimistic idea that more storage options might make kids less messy.
What surprised me was that every time we walked through a room, it suddenly became illuminated. After spending so much time in the dark, it was nearly blinding.
"Oh yeah," the twisty voice said, "the displays are motion activated, and the little display lights are battery powered."
"I guess the change in light triggers the eye and helps draw people to new things." Said the sad voice "It's actually pretty clever design if you think about it."
"And a great way to draw the attention of the psycho-bitch." The twisty voice said, "Basically a dinner bell."
My chair was eventually plopped into a dining room themed around either trains or hunting, the designers either couldn't decide, or figured that the two were similar enough in color scheme that people interested in hunting would ignore the level crossing sign, and people interested in trains would ignore the plexiglass elk head on the wall.
"Alright," said the sad voice, "Well, here you are, have fun."
"What, you're just going to leave me here?" I said.
"You think we're gonna stick around for the blood bath? No thanks." The twisty voice said.
"Oh, okay, I guess," I said.
And like that, the cult was walking away, leaving me behind in a series of bedrooms, kitchens, and living rooms roughly the size of a city block.
I sat in the light and glanced around. My legs were bound together, but not to the chair. I rocked back a bit, and then lurched forward onto my feet. I managed to keep my balance as I stood. The chair slid out from between my arms and back and fell to the floor with an ear piercing clang. I waited for the sound of cultists running back, or Denise roaring towards me, but there was nothing, the soft furnishings apparently worked to dampen the noise.
I waddled over to the dining room table and looked at the place mats. Each seat was set with four plates, five forks, two spoons, and three knives, or roughly the equivalent of the same number of dishes my first apartment had. I turned around and bent over, groping with my hands for one of the knives. I grabbed what felt like the largest of the knives and pulled it from the table. Carefully, I moved the blade to the tape, and started to work it back and forth. After a moment, I pulled on the tape to see if I'd made enough of a tear to pull it apart. Nothing. I went back to moving the knife against the tape, only for the knife to suddenly give way. I looked down at the cardboard blade fell to the floor, crushed by the tape.
"Cuss." I said, looking around the room for anything else that might free me from my bonds. I pushed the plate off the table to try and shatter it, a piece of sharp porcelain would be sufficient to cut through it. I worked the plate off the table, only for it to bounce off the bench and land, face down, intact, the cheap plastic still sufficient to avoid shattering.
I walked over to one of the doorways. The door between the dining room and the kid’s bedroom, beyond being a baffling liminal space, had a levered door handle. I turned around and worked the hand into the duct tape as far as I could. I took a deep breath and fell forward.
My hope was that the tape would stick to the door and be torn away, or at worst, break one of my wrists in such a way that the other could wiggle free.
So I was rather surprised when I landed, face first, with the door handle still in my grip. I looked back at where the door handle had effortlessly torn itself free of the honeycomb grid cardboard that made up the inside of what had looked like a wooden door.
I frowned and rolled onto my back. With a bit of effort, and a lot of grunting, I managed to work my arms back under my feet and bring my hands to my front. From here, I managed to stand up, now, at least, my hands would be in front of me so I could hold them in front of my face when I was being devoured by an abomination or being shot at by insane rednecks.
I looked around, from deep within the furniture department, I couldn't tell which direction was which. I resolved to just keep walking in whichever seemed the most "out" and just follow that.
I decided against going back the way I came; on the off chance the cult had decided to stick around. I stepped out of the now-ruined dining room and into a studio apartment.
The studio was decorated in a repeating wood grain pattern, from the king sized bedposts to the bookshelves on the wall, to the computer desk, and into the pantry, which wrapped over the black glass fronted oven, and onto the black-topped prep area.
Adding up the price tags in my head, the whole collection could be mine for the low, low cost of six months’ rent at my own studio apartment, and while the touch of wood would certainly liven up the place, I worried it would contrast with the exposed brickwork from the twenties and the massive water damage stain by the wall.
"Nice, isn't it?"
I nearly leapt, then tripped over the duct tape at the voice. I'd been so preoccupied with the furnishings, I hadn't noticed the man, laying against the wall, his leg outstretched.
"Sorry," The man said, "Didn't mean to startle you, just had to make sure you weren't going to try and shoot me or feed me to that thing out there."
I walked over and crouched as best I could by the man.
"Who are you?" I asked.
The man swallowed and blinked a few times before answering.
"My name is Herb, I think I broke my ankle when that... thing... attacked, I've been making my way slowly through here ever since."
"I'm Richard," I said, offering my duct taped hands to shake before laughing nervously."
"I think I can help with that," Herb said as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a multitool. He wore sensible black pants and a simple white T-shirt, stained with sweat, and a few specks of blood. He started opening the tool, but I could see his fingertips were raw and swollen.
"Let me help," I said. He offered the tool, and with a quick flick of my wrist, the knife was out, and I was cutting through my bindings.
"You're good with that." Herb said.
I chuckled.
"Got my first multitool when I was ten." I said as my wrists were freed from their restraints. I started on my ankles.
"I didn't have many toys growing up, so I played with my knife all day."
"Pretty useful skill." Herb said.
"It doesn't come up as often as you'd think." I said, closing the knife and handing it back.
"That's a shame." Herb said as he pockets the knife and planted his hands to try and stand up.
"Wait, before you do that." I said, looking around "Let me try something, can I see that knife again?"
He handed me the knife and I looked around the room, then back into the dining area.
"I'll be right back."
I ran back into the dining room and grabbed the surprisingly light aluminum chair I'd been taped against. I carried it into the studio apartment and set it into the middle of the room. I stepped up onto the chair and grabbed onto the hanging lights and pulled. Everything in the rooms was cheap and fake, but the lights were part of the store infrastructure. I pulled on the electrical cable to get a sense of its strength, then with an almighty tug, ripped the electrical cabling from the ceiling. The plastic clad cable fell from the ceiling with a small cloud of dust. Herb watched on, fascinated.
"Okay," I said, moving the chair over to Herb. "The chair is going to be your walker; you can rest your knee on it when you need." I picked up the cable and measured it against my arm before cutting it to length.
"Throw this over your shoulder, and rest the ankle in this as a sling, it'll help keep the pressure off. Sound like a plan?"
"Sounds like you've done this before." Herb said as I helped him up.
"Nah," I said, "But you think about this kind of thing when you grow up in the country."
"That's where you grew up?" Herb asked.
"Yeah." I said, looking around "I think that's why I can't really get into any of this stuff."
"Oh?" Herb said as he placed his leg on the chair and began slowly making progress toward the next door.
"I mean, I just think it's pointless, I can fit all of these needs for a quarter of the price at a second-hand store."
"Sure," Herb said, "but then your apartment looks like it was assembled from a second hand store, this makes your apartment look like an old-fashioned library."
"But I don't live in a library, I live in a run-down studio."
Herb shrugged as we passed into the next room.
"What about this?" He said as the light came on.
The room was a small dorm room with an emphasis on vertical storage. The bed was flush against the window at the far end with pillows flanking it and a flat sheet tacked to the ceiling in a blatant disregard for the fire code. A peg board sat above the computer desk, covered in multiple-day planners and post-it notes. The dresser was turned so the short end was against the wall and the long end jutted into the narrow room, breaking it into two parts.
"I feel like I'm going to die in a fire looking at this," I said.
"Oh come on," Herb joked "It's cozy, couldn't you imagine bringing a girl over to this?"
"Not really," I said.
"It's intimate." Herb said with a laugh.
"It's a tripping hazard." I said, "And look at the peg board, the designers had to make up things to stick to it, and the shelf is covered in eight different towels for one bedroom."
I looked down at Herb.
"They sell furniture covered in storage, so that when you get it home and put your stuff in it, it looks empty, and because it looks empty, you put stuff on it to the fill the space, when you run out of space, you buy more storage, and the cycle continues, and you just buy more and more stuff that you don't need."
Herb shrugged again and we continued. The room exited in two directions; Herb picked left.
"And that's all you seek when you shop?" Herb said, "Just need,"
"Just needs." I said, "I can't afford sentiment."
I stepped into the room, and the light flicked on. I stared, wide eyed. The bright light reflected off the wood paneling on the walls. The plush shag pile carpet from the seventies was bright under the lights of the display. The couch had a small duvet where a fluffy cat should be sitting underneath a quilt, pinned to the wall. I looked over to the side of the room, where a small opening in the wall showed where the kitchen ought to be, instead, a shelf held a collection of frames and photo albums filled with clip art, on the shelf, a cat shaped cookie jar that somehow had become a family heirloom.
I stared, glancing around the room taking it in. I nearly fell over, but caught myself on the electric fireplace, my fingers passing over the rounded edges on its faux steel frame.
"What is..." I said, staggered "What is this?"
"huh?" Herb said, having moved halfway across the room.
"How is this here?"
"Oh," Herb said, "This is the summer country collection."
"It's..." I stammered, a tear coming to my eye.
"It's exactly how you remember it, huh?"
I looked up at Herb.
"How is this happening?" I said "How is this here?"
Herb sighed "You think you're the only kid who came downstairs to a house full of wood panels their folks bought from a Sears catalog, to the shag pile carpet they bought from Montgomery Ward, and a woodstove from Marshal Field, even down to the sharp edges that mandated the recall." Herb said.
“But…” I stammered… “It’s exactly…”
“Yeah, fun fact, most families are trying to copy what the neighbor next door is doing. No one had a totally original experience in childhood, kid, it’s not that hard for a clever marketer to put together a pretty reasonable facsimile.”
My stomach sank as I looked around and saw the little price tags on each little component.
“So that’s it then, my childhood home can be all yours for 36 easy payments, plus interest?”
"Kid, There are two sorts of people in America today, those who had happy childhoods, and poor kids. If you had a happy childhood, it’s because your parents bought nice things from good stores, which means we can sell that childhood back to you."
He smiled.
"And if you had a bad childhood, we can sell you all the things you wish you had as a kid."
I looked around the room, a tear in my eye, my mom's voice in my ear.
"But it's not real." I said, touching the vinyl printed quilt on the wall above the couch, "None of this is real."
"Why?" Herb said "Because the one your grandma had was bought in pieces from JoAnn's Fabrics before it was put on the wall and we did the work for you?"
I turned and fell onto the couch.
"You miss it, don't you." Herb said.
"I can't buy what I miss most about this." I buried my head in my hands, it was too much, after everything else, I didn't need this.
"Why not? We sold it to your parents, we can sell it to you, too."
“But it’s not the stuff I miss!” I sobbed, “I miss my mom, I hate that I can’t see her anymore, that I can’t go back home.”
“Why go back home where there’s bad blood and hurt feelings? Just buy back what you can, and forget all the rest.”
I looked up at the doorframe beside where we'd come in. The one that would have led to my parents room back home. I imagined my mother, standing there, her warm smile, her comforting presence.
But she wasn't here. This wasn't home, no matter how much it looked like it, this wasn't home. That wasn't my parents room, though, it was a janitorial closet, with a broom, and a vacuum.
And a black button down shirt, hanging from the broom.
And a hole in the ceiling, from where a man sized object had fallen.
And an empty crossbow, tucked behind the shirt.
I looked up at Herb, who followed my gaze back to the closet.
"Well, shit, Patterson, it would have been really nice if you hadn't noticed that."
I stood up.
"Who are you?"
Herb smiled.
"I'm Herb." He said "But to retail flunkies like you, call me Doctor Wells."
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