Rugged

I loved her once, I really did.

Life was bliss under her perfect size eights, the soft cream soles of her cute little professional shoes relaxing atop me, assuring me that she loved me too.

That love has turned to resentment now.

My beloved moved me to the other side of her desk so that her filthy clients can grind their dirty soles into my face; I'm not some cheap welcome mat; I am a designer rug, designer being the keyword.

I can't forget how she saved me from that awful carpet-shop all those years ago, or as the other rugs there put it, the birth-prison.

Then there were those times when she would slip off her sensible shoes and caress me with her heavenly supple toes, like a massage from one-thousand cherubs, their dainty feathered wing-tips like her silken-hose which tickled erogenous nothings that swelled from deep within me.

I'm grateful to her but this cruel punishment is too much to endure; what she has put me through just isn't right.

For the last few weeks whenever I have been alone, I have slowly been learning how to move; starting as simply as I could, by loosening one thread.

This first part was the hardest after that first thread loosened itself, it didn't take long for me to learn to really move; to unravel my threads and weave myself back together again, learning to do the same with my jute-backing took a lot longer although I eventually managed the same trick.

Tonight I dismantled myself for the last time; my threads all reaching upwards in perfect godless unison, a thick highly choreographed braid of compressed fibres dancing skyward as if they are a mighty cobra entranced by a skilled charmer's mystic harmony, only I am both charmer and serpent.

It doesn't take long before I hear her unmistakable signature foot-fall outside the door.

As the handle turns, I rear back, the door swings open, she enters.

I strike with a speed so great that it could drop the spots from a leopard's hide.

She doesn't have time to scream as my gangly mess of fibres spread around her firmly, constricting her body so tight that the quiet sound of her bones slowly cracking fills the darkness.

Her struggling is aggravating, I wrap around her tighter.

After what feels like an eternity-and-a-half, her body finally goes limp.

My threads untwine from their awkward bondage; now is my time to enter her.

I send my softer threads down her throat, deep through her digestive tract to her waiting organs beneath; my hard jute pierces her skin, burrowing their way inside of her thick flesh with ease to bind around her every bone.

What is a rug's plight after its owner's demise?

To be resold? To head to landfill?

No, that's not my fate.

Wherever she goes, I'll be there too.

Until I get restless that is.