A Conspiracy

My bed is trying to kill me, I think.

I'm not sure of its motivations. It's never mumbled a word about oppression, or said anything about dissatisfaction with it job. But I'm suspicious. What makes this worse is that I don't think the bed intends to kill me quickly. No, I believe there is a conspiracy afoot with my pillows and bed sheets to take me out slowly; although the bedsheets seem to want to finish the job quickly – many a time's I've woken in the middle of the night to find the sheets wrapped around my head. I'm not sure if the sheets merely intend to smother me or are making an incompetent effort to choke me.

The comforter, I'm convinced is not in on the plot – it seems to slink away as quietly as possible.

I became aware of this plot about a year ago when I woke one morning to a throbbing pain in my left wrist, as if someone had spent the night bending it backwards. Within weeks, the assaults came at my right wrist, both my elbows, my knees and hips and my neck. Each attack seemed to be coordinated to coincide with the healing of the previous battery. I began to wear all sorts of preventative devices to bed – wrist braces, knee braces, elbow braces. For a while, the assaults would abate, only to pick up once I gained confidence that it wasn't the bed at all, but that I was “just laying the wrong way.”

I know now that this was part of the bed's evil plan; a way to lull me into complacency and to keep me from taking refuge with the couch. Then, the bed ratcheted up its attacks against me, twisting my ankle nightly until I could not walk. I see now the plan:

Injure my ankle just enough to make walking painful, then wait for an “accident” to occur in the middle of the night. The bathroom door has been complacent in this scheme, but not entirely resistance to the cause; sometimes standing wide open while at other times being closed. This, I know, is done to confuse me. I'm fearful as to what might happen if the toilet cannot resist and must join the revolution.

I'm not sure what I did to the bed. When it was welcomed into our home five years ago, everything seemed wonderful. It was a top-of-the-line bed, with the ability to adjust each side for firmness or softness. I would make the adjustment and everything would be fine. Those were the days – or should I say nights – of great sleeping. Then slowly, the bed started to rebel. It would lose air pressure in the middle of the night and I would sometimes wake to find myself in a bowl, my body lying on the flat hardness of the “boxspring.” Other times, during the day, the bed would inflate itself to its full capacity so that when I went to sleep, my throbbing knee would wake me in the middle of the night.

Now it seems like there is no relief from the onslaught, and I know my pillows are in on the plans. Why else would they jump out from underneath my head while I slumbered? I'm not sure how much more I'll be able to take. I'm ready to talk, but the bed remains silent on its demands. Does it want a pillowtop? A ruffle along its base? Is it upset we've never gotten it a head board?

I just don't know.

I do know that I'm at my wits end and think it might be time to move on; to get rid of this bed that made claims of a 10 year lifespan after only five years. If it hadn't cost so damn much, I probably would have been rid of it long ago. I keep going though, finding some relief in the middle of the night on the sofa.

The horror; the horror.