I promise you, I'm not crazy. I've seen it with my own two eyes - my living room couch is breathing. The cushions pulsate rhythmically, expanding and contracting as if a pair of unseen lungs lie just beneath the fabric. I sat there staring at it for 3 hours this morning, trying to convince myself it was just a trick of the light, a quirk in my vision, anything other than what it seemed. I got up and made myself a fresh, piping hot cup of coffee, but by the time I took my first sip, it'd gone stone cold, as if hours had slipped by in mere seconds. My eyeballs felt as if they were on fire. I had to force myself to blink, alleviating the stinging. For what seemed to be the 100th time, I rubbed my eyes. Didn't work. My goddamn couch was still breathing.
How could a couch be breathing? It's just a piece of furniture—an auburn lump stained with the remnants of last month's dinner. I knelt down to the level of the couch, my knees hitting the floor with a soft thud. Putting my hand on the surface, I almost expected it to feel warm, alive, almost. But of course not. It's a couch. The leathery surface was cool to the touch, but unmistakably throbbing. My couch is breathing.
I wrote an email to the furniture company that day. I know it's been 4 years since I bought it, I said. But I'd like a refund. The couch is breathing. I never did hear back from them. I made up my mind to give them a 1 star rating on their website.
I got up from my desk, softly shutting my laptop. Venturing over to my kitchen for a cup of coffee, I stop dead in my tracks as I pass the living room. My couch looked odd. It almost looked as though it was...breathing?
I stepped closer. Yep, it was definitely breathing. It made no sense. It was a couch, how could it be breathing? If I strained my ears, I could almost hear it, too - soft, wheezing breaths. It made no sense. Nothing makes much sense to me lately. I need coffee. Where did my coffee go? I was just drinking it.
I woke up this morning with a start, 2 hours before my alarm went off. I have these nightmares, you see. Terrible nightmares. Horrifying ones. Ones in which I've committed crimes so heinous, it makes me disgusted to think my brain could come up with stuff like that. I was sweating, and my head was throbbing. Coffee would fix this. I should make myself some coffee. I really love coffee.
I stood there in my living room, steaming mug of coffee in my hand, which was strange because I didn't remember making it, and I don't like coffee that much anyways. My eyes flickered back to the couch in my living room. It was still brown. Still stained. Still breathing. I took a sip of the disgusting coffee, only to spit the mouthful back into the cup, because the coffee was now ice cold. I placed the mug on a table, and walked over to the couch. Plopping down on the worn out, brown leather, I let my body sway up and down, gently, with the breathing of the couch. There was a red stain. It seemed bigger than it was the last time I saw it. It was growing. And the couch was breathing.
My phone buzzed with a notification. It was the furniture company. "We've received your complaint," it read, the words cold and clinical. Strange. I don't remember making any complaints.
But that wasn't the disturbing part. Beneath the message was an image—a photo of me, sitting on the couch, staring blankly ahead with my hand pressed to the cushion. The angle was odd, slightly off, like it was taken from the corner of the room. I hadn't seen anyone. No one had been here. I was sure of it. It was just me and this couch. It was just us.
My pulse quickened. I glanced around the room, half-expecting to see someone lurking in the shadows, watching me. But it was just me—and the couch. Me and the couch. The couch and I. Just us.
Slowly, I looked back at the couch. The red stain had spread, darkening, seeping further into the fabric. I reached out, half dazed, and touched the stain. My fingers came away damp, and I stood up with a start, wiping my hand on my jeans. It felt sticky, almost warm. I shook my head, trying to clear the fog, but the details kept slipping, as if my mind was fighting to keep things in place.
