The Living Room

Sandy stood infront of the door of the living room of her apartment feeling weak and confused.
Every object in her room was speaking to her.
It had only just started happening an hour before.
She had been having a bath and she had just come out of it and sat down in her armchair, in her white bathrobe, when it had cried out,
"Please. Can't you hear me. Stop sitting on me".
Sandy had looked around.
"Who said that?", she'd asked.
She'd wondered maybe wether it had come from her TV or Radio or her computer but when she'd got up and gone to check them they were all switched off.
"I don't know", she'd said eventually, shrugging but still feeling worried, "I must be hearing things".
But then she'd sat down in her chair again.
"It was me. It was me who was speaking to you", the voice had said again, "The chair".
"The chair?", Sandy had asked, startled.
"Yes", the chair had said, "And I really wish you would stop sitting on me. How would you like it if people sat on you?".
Sandy had practically leapt up out of the chair and, looking around her, had started to get frightened.
"Alright", she'd said, "Whoevers hiding in my apartment. I'm going to call the police".
"No ones hiding in your apartment, silly girl", the chair had said, "Its me. The chair. The chair you were sitting on. I'm a person. I'm alive".
Sandy had started to inspect the chair more closely.
"There must be some kind of hidden speaker", she'd thought out loud, "Someones trying to play a trick on me".
She had looked round about her room.
"Maybe its one of those hidden camera TV shows", she'd thought.
But then she'd heard another different voice from behind her.
"Oh for heavens sake, woman", it had said with annoyance, "Its not a TV show. Can't you see the chair is talking to you?".
"Who said that?", she'd asked, spinning around but seeing only a corner of the room, a coffee table and a lampstand.
"The Coffee table", the table had said, "Who do you think?".
"She's not very bright is she", something else had said, perhaps the lampstand.
"No indeed", the chair had agreed.
Sandy had started to get really frightened then.
"Who is doing this?", she'd said whirling round in a circle, looking in all directions, feeling frantic and starting to cry, "Who ever it is stop it. Stop it. Its not funny".
"Haven't you worked it out yet?", the coffee table had asked, "Theres no one else in your apartment. Its your furniture. Your furniture is speaking to you".
Sandy had felt as if her reality was splitting apart and as if she just couldn't take it.
"No, no", she'd shouted, "Furniture doesn't talk to people. Furniture isn't alive. Its just objects".
"I object", the chair had shouted.
"Listen", the coffee table had said, sounding more sympathetic, "Everything has a living soul. Every substance and when that substance is made into what you think of as an object, the soul is transferred".
"But how can that be?", Sandy had said, "I'm a living organic being. I've got a soul because I'm alive, because I can think and feel".
"Well so can I think and feel", the chair had argued.
"But you're not alive", Sandy had pleaded with it.
"Not in the same way that you are alive", the coffee table had interjected, "I'll grant you that but just as there are different types of bodies there are also different types of souls; souls that cling to organic beings and souls that reside in the inanimate".
"But if thats true...", Sandy had said.
But just then she'd caught sight of herself in the mirror on the wall opposite, having a conversation with a chair and a coffee table and had started to feel embarassed.
"Who do you think you're looking at?", the mirror had said, "Don't you know that its rude to stare at people?".
Sandy had clutched her head with her right hand.
"I'm going crazy. I'm going mad", she'd thought.
"Well then", her couch had said in an Austrian accent, sounding like Sigmund Freud, "Why don't you lie down on the couch and tell me all about it?".
She'd considered for a moment, lying down, because she'd felt very dizzy but she didn't because she was now afraid of her couch; she didn't trust it.
"Why is this happening to me?", she'd asked, "Why? Why?".
"Calm down", the coffee table had said, "It must be because you're psychic. You can read the minds of inanimate beings while others can't".
"I'm psychic", she'd asked, not sure what to believe, "But how can I be psychic? I've never been psychic before".
"Well perhaps you're just a late bloomer", a vase of cut flowers on the windowsill had chimed in.
Sandy had gone over to her phone and, picking up the reciever had started to dial the number of her Aunty in Monaco.
"Hello?", a voice on the other end had said.
"Hello? Aunty Doreen?", Sandy had asked.
"No", an abusive voice had answered, "I'm not your Aunty Doreen, stupid. I'm a telephone".
Sandy had thrown her phone on the floor in fear.
"What is happening?", she'd said feeling so weak that she'd had to bend forwards just to breath, putting her face in her hands, "Its like some kind of nightmare".
But then she'd thought she should just get out; out of her Apartment; out into the air where there were other people.
She'd gone to the door of the room to open it but it had stuck.
"Hey you", the door had yelled, "Get your hands off me. Stop pulling on my handle".
"Just look how violent she is", the chair had commented, "Manhandling that poor door as if she owned him".
Sandy had sunk down onto the floor curling up into a ball.
"This can't be real", she'd said to herself, "This can't be happening".
"Look at her", said the lightbulb above her, glaring down at her, "She's falling to pieces".
"Obviously she is suffering from some kind of psychotic breakdown", said the couch that spoke like Freud.
"Oh its alright for you lot", her white bathrobe had said with revulsion, "You don't have to be worn by it; pressed against its sweaty disgusting flesh. My god it smells".
But then Sandy had thought that she'd felt her bathrobe tighten as if it was shrinking; trying to strangle her.
Undoing the cord she'd pulled off her bathrobe and thrown it across the room.
"There", she'd screamed at the bathrobe, "There. Now you don't have to smell me any more".
"Did you see how it just threw that bathrobe?", the chair had said.
"Yes", the lightbulb overhead had agreed as she'd curled herself up tighter and tighter to avoid its gaze, "Just like a little girl throwing a tantrum".
She'd started to cry then.
"Oh I hope it doesn't stain me with its tears", the carpet beneath her had said, "Its bad enough being sat upon".
Thats when she'd got back up onto her feet and why she was just standing infront of the door not knowing what to do.
But then, suddenly, the door of her living room opened.
It was her Landlord, Mr Crawford.
"Oh I'm sorry", he said, realizing she wasn't wearing any clothes and averting his gaze, "I heard screaming coming from your apartment and I wondered what was wrong".
She threw her arms around the old man.
"Please help me", she said, "I'm going mad. My furniture is talking to me".
Mr Crawford started to stroke her wet hair.
"Thats alright. I understand", he said picking her up in his arms and carrying her out of her apartment and into his that was just across the hall, "Don't worry. I'll help you".