The sofa

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
The sofa was made of immaculate fine white leather.
Originally, it belonged to a person from the underworld that “packet” it to some “Mr. Doctor”. In this way, the couch ended into a hospital, and remained there, although it didn’t suffered any health problems

Submitted: September 24, 2010

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Submitted: September 24, 2010

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The sofa was made of immaculate fine white leather. Originally, it belonged to a person from the underworld that “packet” it to some “Mr. Doctor”. In this way, the couch ended into a hospital, and remained there, although it didn’t suffered any health problems. At least not at first sight. Anyway, Mr. Doctor wasn’t a nobody. He occupied the fustian job of headmaster, and above that, he was the vice-president of the party that was in power at that time. In sooth, the divan was white, but you couldn’t say the same thing about those that were using it as a relaxing stand. On it, a lot of guys had rested their fat wallets; guys that had created their lives on other’s sufferings. And for each smile of them, there were, surely, at least ten people crying. If it would have been possible, the sofa would have made a preventive sorting, of those which were sticking their bottoms in its leather. Even though it was nothing more than a man-made object, that didn’t mean that it didn’t had its own dignity. Sometimes, sitting in the same place for longer, and without even wanting, you’ll start to discover many of the unseen things, which normally, you wouldn’t remark. When the air from the room becomes frowsy, you open the window, and in a few minutes it is ventilated. But when the World begins to stink… Let’s just say that they didn’t invent yet windows for this. But, what is to do? This is life: the fact that you were white didn’t save you from everyone else’s soot. A day before, a simple man seated on it; a man that came about a complaint. And when he rises from it sobbing, the couch too fetches a sigh. The sofa was too old in this “trade” to realize that words like: “We will take actions, don’t worry. It’s good that you came to tell me.”, actually mean: “Your five minutes are over, so get lost! If I nodded, that doesn’t mean that I actually paid attention to you! I don’t give a damn about your problems!” Vasile was his name, but friends called him Sile. Sile was at sea, on a ship as an engine mechanic. And when they were turning back home with their boat, he made a slip from a ladder, and he badly scratched his right knee. Then and there, he disinfected and dressed his wound, but it seemed that the problem was far more serious than he believed, because the knee continued to swell and turned purple. So he went to the hospital. The specialist sent him to take the proper analysis. And when the results came, the doctor informed him, with the other side of his mouth, that he must amputate his leg from his knee down. And that, as soon as possible. Preferably the next morning. Sile was stunned, and he hardly abstained not to burst into tears. He was on his early thirty, and at that age, you don’t actually know how to handle the problem of giving up one of your legs. He didn’t get any sleep that night. He hanged around his kitchen, smoking two packs of Kent. His luck was that in the morning, when he arrived at the hospital with his wife and two kids, the doctor that had consulted him was running late. So, someone else took charge of him. This one, after looking at the results and Sile’s knee, calmly said: - Antibiotics and an ointment. In two weeks at the most you should be as good as new! Sile was taken aback. He was expecting the doctor to say to him: “- I was just joking; you won’t get away so easily! So climb up the table and wait for me! I’ll go bring the axe!” But he was serious. - Well, I…, I mean…, he babbled, your colleague told me that the only possibility is the amputation of my leg, and I’ve came to… - My colleague…, said the doctor, and he made a pause taking his hand to his mouth and miming that he swallowed something. He has some problems, you know? - Ok mister, but he was going to cut my foot off! Sile blows his top, feeling that all the bad from him draws out, dissipating all over the room. - You don’t have to explain to me. Go talk to the headmaster! the doctor advised him. After a week of treatment, the knurl began to let down, the leg recovered its initial color, and Sile got his life back. So he went to the principal to relate his adventure. Because the hospital needed doctors, not grave diggers. That is a whole different trade. The sofa was made of immaculate fine white leather, and if it could, it would have helped Sile, because he seemed like a good, honest and working guy. He was the only one like that, from the past year, who laid his butt on it. And there were many, far too many to remember all of them, but… If it was possible, it would broke one on its legs and stick it in the headmaster’s bolt ass. Maybe like this, he would disabuse. Maybe like this, he wouldn’t ride herd on the papers from his wallet anymore, and he would brush up his head of all the worship, power and conquer thoughts. In the end, they all wanted to lay their hands on more and more; they all wanted to burry everything with them. To conquer… The sofa moved a little, in a better position. A crow is flying near the open window, going at her own problems. Unlike the others, the bird is black only at the surface. “Then”, thinks the couch, “when all will come to an end, there will be many that will want to have been beeing white.” In a world like ours, you don’t necessarily have to be crazy, to think that you may be Napoleon…

Robert M.


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