Floored

They were just small mishaps at first. Those tiny hiccups that cause an easily fixed and shrugged off disruption. The effect quickly smoothed over with a shouted curse or an apology for a few minutes lateness.

But then they became frequent enough to be remembered. And with being remembered emerged a sequence that brought overlapping memories that formed a chain. Forming a circle, the chain brought the fear of a link. When they became daily, the link became easily visible. Brought to the surface for analysis but not explanation.

Finding this explanation grew into a preoccupation. The lingering fear of what next preceded the actual occurrence. The time that was once relief now filled with anticipation and attempted avoidance. Don't drive so fast, careful on the stairs, slowly in the kitchen with the knife. It created a loneliness. A self carried invisible burden that shouted the suffocating question of why me? Any doubts that dared to stay and claim it wasn't escalating were chased away daily by each occurence.

Along the street were clues that it wasn't just him who was suffering. Another car with a new dent, a few cracked windows could be seen. But who can see or care beyond their own bad luck?

The only time he looked up in those days of forced introspection was while nodding off to the news one night. A story, far from the headlines, whose worrying tone startled him into taking notice. Government scientists to investigate a number of mishaps affecting an unrelated, but growing, number of people. The gap made by losing the fear of isolation was soon filled with the discomforting evidence that it was happening. The belief had lingered that it had been his immersion that had fed the fears. He had fought to dismiss what he now knew also existed outside his head. Which didn't make it any better, simply removed the persecution slightly. The story was short and held no more information, which simply built his hunger for more news. A flick through the channels didn't even feed him a light snack. But he sat at the table in hope for days.

It was a few days before he got more news to digest. Still not a headline story, but a tasty meal that fed the cynic in him to the point of indigestion. A link has been revealed between these mishaps and recently installed Chinese Oak floors. The sort he knew sat in his hall, but still has to pop his head round to look at quickly. The screen shows a distraught home owner, who's accent tells him is not local, and her fight to hold back tears at the regret of fitting the floor inside her house which the camera sweeps to show. It looks identical in all but the surrounding decoration to the one he has just sneaked a peek at. The story on the screen moves to other locations but he already has enough to enjoy the confirmation of his fears. Unable to stop himself from going and touching the floor, which immediately sets free the worry doing so will only strengthen its power to disrupt. As he walks back into the front room, a trip near the door jolts his theories into overdrive. Sitting down he kicks the nearly empty wine glass that has been an increasingly frequent friend over the recent weeks and curses as he gets back up to grab a cloth. Which he can't find until the wine has left its jarring, difficult pattern on the carpet.

The wood itself was innocent. Throughout its life it had been loyal to the task of growing without complaint, invisibly reaching ever upwards with the simple request for sun and occasional rain. There it had sat surrounded by the silence of expansion surrounding it. A quite broken by the arrival of machines and the grunting sweat of labour. Any concerns voiced were drowned out by the industry that was to grow around it. Before the finality of being cut down, stripped, shaped and loaded before a long journey in covered darkness. The workers who had aided this process never looked back to where the land was now bare with sadness and loss, focusing on the shared unquestioned beliefs instilled by their birthplace that were to shape the future up ahead. For a greater good, selfish in the pursuit of selflessness. All done because a need demanded it elsewhere.

There was no knowledge of what had been sacrificed included with the wood when it arrived in the shop he had visited last month. The price tag told him everything he needed to know. It was cheap. That was the only cost. He'd only known where it had come from when they came to fit it. Unusual characters were printed on the edge of each box that they carried in before starting work. He'd thought no further than the inconvenience he'd suffered during its fitting.

As he took his hammer to the floor he wished he had. Especially when the first blow hit his thumb.