Under the Rug

Everlasting Love | Kayla Marasignhe | Acrylic

Under the Rug by Mila Sanchez

The old man knew that the thing under the rug was troublesome. At first, it came only for short periods in the afternoon; it did not linger. It didn’t grab anything, nor did it break anything; it just roamed around, as if it were making its presence known. For a whole week, it stayed the same; the only thing that would change was the pain in the old man’s knee. For as long as he could remember, he always had it, and the only time it got worse was when he overworked himself. But now all of a sudden, just having the thing around made it worse. He assured himself it was just the stress.

After a few days, the old man started to grow accustomed to its schedule; he would write a note reminding him it would come shortly in the afternoon, which pushed him to get everything important in the morning, so he could keep an eye on it. But by the second week, the thing started acting up; it’s usually behaviors changed. It went from appearing in the afternoons to arriving in the mornings and staying till the afternoon.

The thing wouldn’t scurry around, it’s fascination with the house ended, and it would silently trudge over to certain parts of the room and disappear into thin air. The Old man stood with his eyes wide, his face went white, and utter disbelief washed over him. The creature made him feel something new, instead of his usual teeth-clenching resentment, and his fingers were nervously twitching; the old man felt genuine curiosity. Not a minute later, the thing magically appeared again, but this time without its usual pride and puffed-up demeanor. It seemed much smaller, and it trudged even more; it looked like something invisible was dragging it. Sadness, thought the old man, but he didn’t know why. All of a sudden, the creature puffed itself up, making itself bigger, more daunting. But it didn’t work on the old man, the thing was no bigger than a baby bunny, except it was round and showed no identification of ears or a small tail. The old man stood unfazed. The thing then deflated again and disappeared. Somehow, the thing knew it lost its original hold over the old man, so it started taking things.

It started taking small things, like the old man’s posted notes and the new reminders. His daily tasks became harder and harder to carry out, and without his notes, he would forget. On top of that, the sharp pain in his knee spiked. Everything was unbearable, life was unbearable, and slowly the house became messier with the lack of love and attention the old man used to give it. While the old man’s world changed, only one thing remained the same: the thing under the rug. The old man laughed and wished for the days when he thought the thing was interesting or magical, when it was only in his headspace for brief periods of time. Now he knew it was a problem, and one he had to live with, and nothing was magical about it; there was no hope, it was a daunting, terrifying thing that was always there, and there was no escape.

One day, he got close to catching it, beating it. He threw himself down with the hopes that his hand would be able to hold it down. Once his hands grasped it, the relief and joy that flooded his senses, masking the pain of his knee, was addicting and something otherworldly. But only a fool would celebrate so fast, right as he was happy, truly happy, the thing vanished from his grasp and appeared on another part of the rug. Hope slipped from him as he lay on the floor; the pain in his knee came back just as he looked at the thing, it was taunting him, and it knew it won. By the puff of its chest, it triumphantly disappeared, and so did his memory of what happened. Why was he on the floor? Was he here because he was tired? Or was it because it was one of the only places that was still clean? He quickly got up and looked around. Something felt off, he thought the room would be filled with more things, most of the picture frames were gone, the only one that was left was a picture of him, his wife, and his daughter. He wondered why he was alone and what happened to his wife. He remembered his daughter moved out, or was that a figure of his imagination, he didn’t know.

He could have sworn she was just running around with her little braids bouncing up and down, and his wife, smiling up from the couch. The smell of stew bubbling over in the kitchen and the faint smell of his wife’s perfume mixed to form some sort of happiness. His daughters laughs and his wife’s smile lingered, and just for a moment, he was there again in that moment, that was his reality. Something wet slid down his cheek, shattering the memory. He felt a sad smile spread across his face. He was grateful for being able to remember and for having moments like those. It didn’t matter if the pictures, the notes, or time would disappear, as long as he could remember, he would be happy.

4 years passed, and the old man sat in a nursing home. He would wake up to quiet mornings and dazzling sunrises, and go to sleep peacefully. On somedays a woman would visit, she had two lovely braids that would bounce up and down. She felt familiar somehow. She would spend her evenings talking to him, playing games, or even reading with him. And once they were done, she’d kiss him on the cheek good night. When the woman with the braids wasn’t there, he would occasionally indulge in the bingo night or just talk to people, but lately, he would forget numbers or words, or even the reason why he should talk to people. So he would retire to his room with the thing, patiently waiting for him under a new rug. The thing under the rug followed him from his house to his room in the nursing home; it lived there. They coexisted, and both of them now fully accepted the fact that both of them being there was inevitable. Everything was silent. Too silent. The old man couldn’t remember why it felt odd to sit in silence; nothing stirred in his head except for one question. Did he ever fight with the thing? He thought to himself. Another question surfaced then. Why would he? The thing was peaceful; it wouldn’t make noise or ruckus, it only took some things, but he didn’t know why. He didn’t care if it took them, after all, they’re just objects. He just sat in silence, repeating the question over and over again until he couldn’t even remember what he was asking.

In the dead of night, the old man felt arms engulfing him. He opened his eyes, and he saw he was in a white room. He couldn’t believe it; it was his wife, standing in the center of the room. All his memories flooded back to him, and tears were streaming down his face. But they were happy tears; he had a big smile on his face. His wife whispered in his ear, something about leaving. He didn’t care; he just wanted to go with her.

¨It has been too long¨, he said.

¨I Know¨, she responded softly.

The old man thought to himself, as long as his wife and daughter remember, that’s all that matters. His wife then gently took his hand and led him with her into the unknown.