Today, I went down to the basement for the first time in over a year since I’ve locked him down there. I was already mentally bracing myself for the worst. 

After this much time, what state could I even expect to find him in anymore?—That’s what I asked myself some nights. The same nights in which I’d roll, from one side to the other, in my cozy California king-sized, just a few floors up from him while unable to sleep, and—for reasons unbeknownst to me—still thinking about him.

When I dragged him down there last year, I didn’t think I’d actually still have him around after this much time, so I naturally didn’t think of doing anything to preserve him. 

Why?—because I was planning to get rid of him! That was the damn plan! Hell, I actively tried to get rid of him but I just couldn’t! 

First of all, I don’t have a car. Secondly, leaving him on the side of the road was obviously out of the question since that could get me in trouble. Plus, he is too damn big and heavy anyway. I also couldn’t bring myself to throw him out on a random side of the road like trash, either. Not after all we’ve been through together. 

Yes, I know—who am I to say that, when I literally locked him in the basement and left him to rot down there for over a year now?—But even though I did that, I still don’t have the heart to discard him. I could do it, but not to him. I’m not a monster.

Since I couldn’t bring myself to move him on my own, I thought I’d try to get rid of him through someone from the internet. I took more steps in that direction than any others, but I still couldn’t go through with it. Even on the internet, it was hard to find someone willing to help me. I successfully exchanged a few messages about it, but the people seemed either too shady or too demanding, so I thought I’d better not risk getting myself mixed up with them, and I think it’s also good that they didn’t end up getting mixed up with me, either.

As I bunched together in my bed, the thought of him made me feel guilty at first, but as time went on and he kept being down there, I started to entertain the idea that maybe I didn’t have to get rid of him after all! That perhaps I could just keep him, and use him from time to time. Hey, don’t judge me too hard. A girl has her needs, ok?

Since I am telling you this story now, I obviously did not go to him even once for the whole first year that he was down there. Not to use him, not to see him. I did not go back at all. 

UGH! What was I even thinking!? How could I think I’d ever be able to make that work!? I sure wanted it to. I wanted him, but I did not want him upstairs and I couldn’t just make use of him in the goddamn basement, either. No way in hell. 

The basement is too damn cold. I can’t stay down there for more than five minutes at a time without freezing, let alone hours—and I know I’d need hours. It’s also too musty, and other people’s footsteps echo through the halls at all times. That is way too distracting. I don’t like being distracted. 

That was option one. 

Option two meant I’d have to break my back and drag him up to my apartment every time I wanted to use him. Despite the elevator, just the thought of me having to put in so much work every single time tired me out. I’d have to pick him up, drag him piece by piece in the elevator, and then piece by piece out when we reach my floor. Hm, maybe I wouldn’t need to take ALL the pieces—but still, having to do that every single day? What if I put him away too early only to realize I wasn’t truly done with him? Then I’d have to do that whole thing multiple times a day. That constant struggle would be so obvious, that I’d easily be coined the building psycho by the other residents.

I already know what they’d say. They’d say I was too afraid to let go. That I should have moved on. That keeping him was a sign of some sick obsession I should hurry and get myself cured of. But they’d never know how it felt to be supported by him. How he’d always wait for me to come home, ready to take on the weight I’ve been carrying all day, from the time I walked through the door and until 3:00 AM on some nights. 

As more and more time passed, I couldn’t stop thinking about how he was still down there. How could I forget? It was eating me alive. I gathered myself and decided it’s time I did something about it once and for all, so I began to plan the way in which to do it, and after a while, I got it: I was to take the elevator to the underground floor, find him by the number scribbled on the side of the storage door, unlock it, assess how good (or bad) his condition is, and based on that I’ll either keep him, or bite my tongue and get rid of him once and for all. I hoped it wouldn’t come to the latter.

Though I did not have high hopes for what I was about to see after all this time, and regardless of what that condition was actually going to be, I knew I wasn’t going down there without cleaning supplies.

***

The elevator opened down to the basement. The scent of the underground gushed through the corridor and wrapped itself all around me, together with the musky air and a thousand ice cold thorns. 

I paced to the unit, turned the key, and took a step in. 

The lights turned on from above, and in front of me, there he was. Just as I remember leaving him. All exposed, with not even one plastic sheet covering him.

“Oh, what have I done to you?…”

The initial guilt was hard not to feel, but the sight also made me happy in its own twisted way. Despite what could have been, he wasn’t in all that bad of a shape. 

I began to look around and assess his condition. Some dust got on him, which was to be expected, but there was also a little bit of something that looked too thick to be dust, so I winced at it in the hope that it wasn’t mold.

“Ah, what a relief! That’s not bad at all. I can do this.”

I grabbed the spray bottle of disinfectant and a roll of paper towels, and began to wipe down the dust and that thin layer of I-hope-it’s-not-mold. My fingers tried their best to be careful with him. They dragged the cloth over each side and around each edge, tracing the lines they knew with their deeply ingrained muscle memory. He was cold, but I could swear he was warming up with each pass. 

He also seemed even larger than I remembered, but perhaps it was just the dim lighting playing tricks on me. Still, one wipe after another, it felt as though the dust did not want to leave him. 

“Fuck off, already—he’s mine!” 

It was ridiculous, really, to feel this surge of…?affection?…for him again. But there he was, a silent testament to my bizarre minimalist inability to make a decision, patiently waiting for me to come back to him. 

“There,” I whispered, “that’s much better.”

Sigh—I remember the thrill I felt when I first saw him. The way he just belonged upstairs with me. The way I used to lean into him, seeking support. Having my back pressed against him was like having a wall between myself and the rest of the world. I loved how spacious it felt to be curled up on top of him, and how I could lose myself in him. And of course, I also remember the arguments I’ve had with myself about all these things, after. Oh, the anger. 

It was not my intention to lock him in the basement at all, but to be perfectly honest, it felt like he brought it onto himself. 

He’d always been too much for me. Too tall, and too imposing. He took up every spare inch of my space until I felt too claustrophobic to share the same room with him. Though I loved how he was a behemoth—because it’s what I wanted, and he was able to offer me at the time—the cost for that was always my body. 

He never seemed to understand the curve of my spine, and held me in angles that felt like a constant reminder that we weren’t a perfect fit. He didn’t bend for me, which meant I had to. Every evening with him left my back aching from all the awkward, strained positions he forced me into. I’d spend half my time twisting, trying to find a way to make it work, but it never did. By the time I’d pull away, I’d be stiff, aching, and cursing the day I ever laid eyes on him. 

 He was built for someone else—someone closer to his size, perhaps—but God, I liked the way he held me anyway. 

I, too, am at fault for being too caught up in the moment to realize the damage. He had a lot of support to offer, but never where I actually needed it. 

Soon after, all I could see was how rigid he was. I told myself I was done with the discomfort. That I deserved a change towards what actually did fit my life. And yet, here I was now, dragging him back into it.

It truly wasn’t my intention to lock him in the basement. I did it in a moment of blind rage, in a desperate attempt to remove everything that reminded me of my past life (oh, why did you have to remind me so much about it?). After I did it, weeks turned into months, months turned into a year, and the guilt solidified so much that I thought it would be best to keep him down here, and myself very far away.

“You don’t look too bad,” I murmured, spraying disinfectant. “I know you can’t hear me, but I am sorry.”

***

I cleaned until it felt safe enough to tell myself ‘that’ll do’, and started the operation to get him back upstairs. Neighbours, beware!

I knew I had to do it without breaking my back in the process, and I was confident I could, since I brought him down here in three pieces and he was still in just as many! 

Determined to get the whole thing done in one trip, I stacked the pieces on top of each other and alternated between pushing and pulling all the way to the elevator.

***

It is not that common that I bump into other residents, but this time the elevator started slowing down a bit too soon for it to stop on the floor I was planning to get off at—fantastic. The doors opened, I squeezed myself into the back wall to make room for the other person to get on, and we shared the ride together for one whole floor worth of dead silence. 

When we did reach my floor, the other person—a guy I’ve never seen before, and hope to also never have to see again—stepped to the side and opened the door into the corridor for me. 

He looked at the heavy, bundled-up shape in my arms, then at the sweat on my forehead. I wondered if he could hear my heart hammering.

“Do you…uhm, need some help with that?” he asked, eyes lingering on the way I was gripping at the pieces.

“Oh, no. I got it. Thanks!” I said, and continued pushing and dragging the stack of pieces down the corridor. 

***

What followed soon after, inside the apartment, was a real workout session. I was trying my best to fit those three pieces back together. The first two—the top and bottom—fit together from the start, but the legs gave me so much trouble that I was starting to consider that attaching them wouldn’t make that big of a difference anymore, and that I could use him just as well without them.

“Ugh! Why are you so heavy!?” I whined to myself and flipped his massive frame over the sofa to attach the damn legs. “I got this far. I can do it as it should be done all the way! Screw you!”

Haha, ‘screw’—that’s ironic.

It took quite the effort to get everything to align, but before I knew it—“YES! YOU ARE FINALLY READY!”—I cheered and flipped him down to the floor.

The memories came to me, of all the long nights we spent contorted in positions that could make the Twister wall-of-fame. But looking at him now, all put together in the middle of my room, I didn’t care about my posture.

The room was dead silent, and my body immediately collapsed onto him. 

The moment I felt that familiar pressure against my spine, my lower back winced in a full-body shiver. He was so cold against my skin. I felt my own warmth bleeding into him, the heat of my body slowly softening his stiff, frozen surface that had been neglected for so long. But I guess that is to be expected when you leave your gaming chair in the basement for over a year.