Death by a Pillow

The prompt: "Write about the inexplicable menace in a seemingly neutral object." The result? Well, erm...

Pillows.

I detest pillows. They are fluffy little death traps, who know and savor the trust people put in them, so that one night - one warm, cozy night - they can slowly pull them further into their depths and crush the life out of their lungs.

I never knew that I hated pillows so much until I first came to this country, meek, innocent, and unwary of the dangers of the abomination called the “pillow.” See, I come from the small island country of Illowlesp, where I lived in blissful unawareness of pillows. There, we sleep on soft wood blocks, carved to match the indentation the head makes, and lined with layers of soft wool.

I arrived as an exchange student in America, to stay with a kindly family of the Rogers clan. They had a son my age, whose room I would be bunking in. As I flew over New York in a Illowlespian airline, I remembered thinking how much I would enjoy the “American Experience” and how much I was looking forward to meeting the Rogers. Would the Rogers welcome me with fully open arms? Would they embrace my culture? Would they learn to enjoy my national dish?

I finally met the Rogers as I claimed my luggage. They looked as if they had come straight from the depths of my TV and on to real life, the way they presented themselves. Mr. Rogers was a tall man, dressed in a dark suit, graying hair, a stern manner, and an expensive-looking watch. Mrs. Rogers was a slim woman, whose hair was violently curled into a stiff looking sweep, who wore pearls on her neck, and smelled of a warm welcome. Their son, William, who was to be my first American friend, was the tall, lanky, “big-brother” kind of guy, the one who called their little brother ‘squirt’, and was destined for top marks in everything.

The three of them approached me, and I was enveloped in a hug from Mrs. Rogers. We exchanged pleasantries, inquiring about the state of affairs in both America and Illowlesp, before finishing luggage claim and heading towards the suburban town of Sequoia, Georgia.

All of us chattered on the way back, with the occasional lapses between conversation, and I learned about the Rogers’ other two children, Katherine and Ryan. Katherine was a budding middle school cheerleader, who loved her friends and loved shopping. Ryan was only in grade school, but he had a talent for stirring up, in Mrs. Rogers words, “the most darling kind of trouble.”

Soon, though, after driving through many American farms and farm towns, we reached Sequoia, a typical, sleepy, suburban town, where everything fell into place perfectly, and “the Sequoia High Indians made legacies.” By this time, it was dark, and I could only make out a gleaming white fence and many windows of the Rogers house.

In actuality, the house was really a mansion, equipped with a fully furnished attic and basement, four bedrooms, a study, five bathrooms, and even more astounding, a laundry room. Apparently, Americans did not toil for any of their own work, only relied on simple machines to make ease their tiresome chores. I knew that any family, or many families would gladly live together in this mansion, yet only five people and a dog could occupy this.

I enjoyed dinner with the Rogers, a strange bird called Turkey with Stuffing, and later offered them my national dish, lamb testicles sweetened in honey, which they accepted but said they would save it for after they showed me my living quarters. An American tradition, they said, to show the guest to sleep before enjoying desert.

_________________________________________________________________________

William Rogers led me through the large mansion to his room, which was much larger than many houses in my country. The room had many doors in it, each plastered with Indians and Bulldogs posters. It seemed to me that pride for the natives of this country and dogs would also be something I would need to possess. 

"Shekar," William said, extending his hand once I had settled on the bottom of two conjoined bed frames. "This is neat, isn't it? You, a exchangee, and you get to make me top dog."

I took his hand, rather hesitantly, as I had no idea of what he was speaking about. "I am glad to be doing so," I finally replied, having gone through every possible meaning of William's words in my head.

The Rogers' eldest son grinned and hoisted himself to the bed above mine, soon throwing down his clothes to the bottom of the conjoined beds. Why was he throwing away completely fine clothes? Did he not know that in my country, many children wore the same clothing for as long as they were not more patches than cloth. He spoke before I could protest, however. "I think you're going to love America." he said.

This time, I understood what William was saying.

"Yes, William, I think I will also." I replied as he clapped his hand and the lamps magically blinked off. Such luxury these kings and queens of Sequoia lived in!

With that thought in mind, I too lay down on the bed, only to find that something was very, very wrong with where I was in that moment. It was not the bed, of course not, my country would go to war for a bed like the one I lay in; nor was it the covering and blanket. It was the headrest that was causing me distress.

I had just met the 'pillow.'

As I decided that I had only imagined what I had experienced, I laid my head once more on the pillow. Immediately, my head began to be sucked in by some dark force that resided within the pillow's depths. Little hands were reaching around my neck to pull me farther down, and my breathing became labored, heavy.

I sat up once more, now sweating. What was this? Had I been brought to this rich country only to be killed? I called William's name out, but he did not answer, either in deep sleep or dead. After deliberating, I laid my head on the opposite side of the bed, uncomfortable but safe from the evil that rested below my feet.

I would understand the full matter tomorrow morning.
_________________________________________________________________________

Author's Note

Uh, yeah...
What do I say?

Reviews

[Vannah]

Oh no. I can see the following a "the most darling sort of trouble" goes wrong. Killer pillows! Ahhh! Run for your lives! XD
Did I mention I like the picture? No? Well I like the picture, but I again say I have a bad feeling about killer pillows attacking.

[Emunah June.]

This was so epic in a weird way. It's what anybody's first reaction to a pillow may be, but at the same time it has a sense of humor in it.