Centrifugeringscykel

If I could breathe I would be choking on the thick, black smoke. I do not breathe because I am not alive. I was once. I was part of a tree in a great forest before men came and hacked me out and made me into something else, something dead. I am a coffee table.

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I do not understand how I can know that, or how I can be seeing and understanding so much, but I do. The house is burning. Everything is burning. I will also burn soon. The world is ending.

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But I am getting ahead of myself. Today is 8 o’clock on Thursday night. Let me take you back to 6.30 in the evening on that same day, when things were less clear.

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On Thursday Ingrid, Anders and Greta were gathered around me. I do not know why and I do not believe they did either. Scattered around were broken pieces of plastic and metal. Part of the ceiling was black, damaged by smoke. In the corner of the room there was something covered by a curtain, the curtain rail still attached. The window was uncovered.

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Apart from those things, and me, the room was empty. The only other objects were Ingrid, Anders and Greta.

They were all washing machines. Greta was slightly smaller than Ingrid and Anders. It seemed as if she was their daughter but how could that be possible? They sat there for hours. There was no washing, so there was nothing to do.

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They did not eat and they had no desires. They were able to talk, in metallic voices, and they could move, sort of. They were able to clumsily shuffle around.

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Why did all this exist? Washing machines that were sentient and a coffee table that could observe them. The only thing I can think of is an author somewhere created all of us for some reason.

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After hours of silence Greta suddenly spoke, “I am sad.”

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Anders said, “Why are you sad Greta? Also, what does “sad” mean?”

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Ingrid said, ”Yes, what does “sad” mean? Tell us Greta.”

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Greta said, “It is how Erik felt.”

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“Oh yes,” said Ingrid, “I remember now.”

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Greta said, “Are you sad, mother?”

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Ingrid replied, “Am I your mother? I do not know. And I do not know what sad really means. I know it is how Erik told us he felt but I do not know what it means”

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Greta’s door opened and closed, flapping for no reason except there was nothing else she could do to show how she felt. Ingrid and Anders made their doors flap back and forward, copying her. The doors made light tapping noises. After an hour of this they all stopped.

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Greta said, “I am sorry.”

 

Ingrid and Anders didn’t know what the word meant. They were going to ask Greta but suddenly her door slammed shut and she began to spin her drum faster and faster. Ingrid and Anders tried flapping their doors but it didn’t stop her.

The spinning became faster and faster until she began to jump and shake. After a minute smoke began to come out of the back of her and she burst into flames. Anders and Ingrid watched her burn, spinning faster and faster until she began to shake herself apart.

Ingrid and Anders didn’t know what to do. Eventually Greta had burned for so long and damaged herself so much that she stopped spinning. They sat while she burned, uncomprehending.

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Ingrid tried speaking to her, “Have you stopped spinning now? Are you not sad anymore?”

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She flapped her door and watched to see if Greta did the same. She did not.

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Anders lit up all of his lights and flapped his door, “Is that what sad is Greta?” he said.

The room filled with smoke until Anders and Ingrid could hardly see each other. They shuffled together and touched their doors.

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Anders lit all his lights and said, “Maybe Greta is not sad anymore.”

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Ingrid slammed her door shut and began to spin her drum as quickly as she could. Anders tapped her with his door, “What are you doing Ingrid?”

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Ingrid didn’t answer. Soon smoke started to appear and she burst into flames, just like Greta. Anders watched her burn. Some of her fell onto the carpet and set it on fire. Anders was confused.

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“Greta, Ingrid. Why aren’t you talking anymore?”

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Anders blinked his lights and tried to shuffle over to Greta but could not get past Ingrid, who was burning. He shuffled from side to side as the fire spread and the whole room began to burn. Soon he couldn’t see Ingrid or Greta at all.

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Anders closed his door and began to spin until he caught fire. Soon the room was full of black smoke and the whole house was on fire. Everything was burning and I couldn’t see any of them anymore.

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But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me take you back to Thursday morning, when things were less clear.

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There were four washing machines in the room. The fourth was small, like Greta. It was called Erik. Erik was speaking.

“I am sad. I had another dream.”

Ingrid said, “What does ‘sad’ mean?”

Anders said, “You had a dream yesterday. Also, What does ‘sad’ mean?”

Greta flapped her door and said, “I wish you weren’t sad because you said yesterday you did not want to be sad. Why are you sad?”

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Erik said, “My dream was worse this time. I dreamed a man who wrote books never showed them to anyone. Nobody ever read them or knew all about the boy he was writing about. Just because the man didn’t know what to do. And one day he died.”

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Greta said, “That is sad.”

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Anders switched his lights on and off. Nobody understood what they should do or why they were there. It was as if an author had created it all for no reason.

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Erik closed his door and began spinning, faster and faster until black smoke came out and he burst into flames. Three washing machines watched Erik burn and spin until pieces of machinery were scattered all over the room. Erik shuffled over towards the wall. He bumped into it and toppled over, ending up on his side. They all watched him burn for hours until the fire went out.

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They could see inside him now. They couldn’t do that before. Ingrid thought that was wrong and shuffled over to the curtain. She opened her door, moved forward and then closed it again, trapping the curtain. She tried to shuffle towards Erik but the curtain was attached to the curtain pole and wouldn’t move. Anders and Greta both came over and did the same, snapping their doors shut on the curtain, which was now stretched out into the room.

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Three of them all pulled and the curtain rail fell to the floor. They dragged the curtain, the rail still attached, and tried to put it over Erik. The three struggled for ten minutes before they managed to get it into position and let it go so it fell over him.

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After that there was nothing left to do so they waited there for hours. But I am getting ahead of myself. I should talk about the day before, Wednesday, when things were less clear.

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In the morning Erik said, “I had a dream while I was asleep. It made me sad. I do not want to be sad.”

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Ingrid said, “What is a ‘dream’?”

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Anders said, “What is ‘sad’?”

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Greta said, “What is ‘sleep’?”

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Erik said, “I had thoughts when I was not awake. I dreamed about a book. It was about a boy in a hotel in a place called Portpatrick. And there was a war and the world was ending. And they tried to protect him. It was sad. It made me think.”

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I am not sure if the washing machines could really think. I think an author was creating all this and making them think, for some reason.

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But I am getting ahead of myself. I should take you back to Tuesday morning, when things were less clear.

On Tuesday morning Greta asked, “Why are we here? What are we doing in this house?”

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Anders said, “I do not know.”

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Ingrid said, “We live here.”

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Erik didn’t speak.

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Greta said, “The neighbours are angry at us.”

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Ingrid said, “Yes. I know that. But I do not know how I know.”

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Anders said, “We must do as the other neighbours say, the ones far away.”

 

Erik said, “Why?”

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Anders blinked his lights and said, “So they can protect us.”

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Erik flapped his door, “From what?”

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“From the other neighbours far away.”

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“What do we do?”

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“We be on their side. We wait.”

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Greta said, “There is no washing. I don’t understand. Why are we here?”

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Ingrid flapped her door and replied, “I don’t know. There is nothing to do here.”

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Erik said, “Is there anything outside this house?”

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Anders said, “There must be. More washing machines.”

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As I watched them I thought about how there might be nothing outside. If there was an author they might have forgotten to imagine anything. Or they might stop imagining everything at any moment.

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But I am getting ahead of myself. I should take you back to Monday morning, when things were less clear.

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They all sat around me. Anders said, “Bad things have happened. Very bad things.”

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Ingrid said, “Yes, I know that too.”

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Greta said, “I do not know that.”

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Erik said, “I do not know that bad things have happened.”

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Ingrid and Anders flapped their doors.

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Anders said, “There was a war. Now we must not have a war again. But the war was not in our house. It was in the neighbours’ houses.”

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Ingrid said, “We must choose the neighbour we like. The biggest and strongest. Then wait.”

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So they waited.

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But I am getting ahead of myself. I should take you back to Sunday morning, when things were less clear.

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On Sunday morning there weren’t any washing machines. The room was empty, except for me. On the wall something was written. It said:

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“I don’t get this. Do it your way. Write a book in reverse chronological order from the point of view of a coffee table if that’s what you want to do. Set it in a world run by sentient washing machines. Write the whole thing as an allegory for 1950s Swedish politics. Who cares?”

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And I understood. At least, I understood that I was a coffee table and that other things would happen.

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And the writing faded, and there were four washing machines.

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But I am getting ahead of myself. I should take you back to Saturday morning, when I didn’t exist.

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It was like this: