Black Lantern Publishing: They've Been Taking Things Apart

by Ben Ellentuck

They’ve been taking things apart.

First the furniture; the furniture was the first to go. First the furniture was dissembled, all dissembled, all the furniture was dissembled, first, and packed neatly into many tiny boxes.

First the furniture.

They started with the couch, the old one. The old couch was the first to go. First the old couch was dissembled. Then the old couch was packed neatly away. The old couch became pieces of the old couch, an arm, a leg, a toe. The pieces were all neatly packed into many tiny boxes; it took many tiny boxes to neatly pack all the pieces.

The chairs were next, followed by the tables. Then the cupboards, which put up quite a resistance; the cupboards were not to be easily defeated. The cupboards put up quite a resistance.

Then came the appliances. The appliances went one by one, piece by piece until only pieces remained. The appliances were next to go. The dishwasher was left for last and it was certainly a sad sight to see it leave. I don’t know why I asked them but I know that I asked them. What are you doing? I asked them. I asked them what they were doing. What are you doing? I found myself saying, although I can’t say why. What are you doing? I found myself saying over and over again.

We’re taking things apart, they said.

Oh.

We’re taking things apart, they said. We’re taking things apart.

Oh I said. I found myself staring into what was left of the dishwasher and imagining all the dishes that had gone through it, knew its shimmering metallic inner lining, savored their time together, enjoyed the suds bubbling down their backsides. It was certainly a sad sight to see that dishwasher leave. What are you doing? I almost asked again. What are you doing? I almost said. Or perhaps I even did. They didn’t answer either way, which makes me inclined to believe that I didn’t say anything at all. I didn’t ask them what they were doing. I knew what they were doing. They were taking things apart.

The dishes would be the next to go.

After the dishes went the bed sheets. The bed sheets were not taken lightly. The bed sheets were not taken apart and packed neatly into many tiny boxes. The bed sheets were burned. I do not know why the bed sheets were burned; I simply know that the bed sheets were burned. The bed sheets were not taken lightly; the bed sheets were taken and burned; I know this. I know this because I smelled smoke. I never saw the bed sheets being burned but I smelled smoke after the bed sheets were taken away. They must have seen me sniffing about, trying to discover where the smoke was coming from, because they said Bed sheets. Bed sheets, they said. They said Bed sheets, I believe. I could have sworn they said Bed sheets.

Then came the appliances. The appliances were dismantled one by one, piece by piece until only pieces remained. The appliances were next to go. The dishwasher was left for last and it was certainly a sad sight to see it leave. I don’t know why I asked them but I know that I asked them. What are you doing? I asked them. I asked them what they were doing. What are you doing? I found myself saying, although I can’t say why. What are you doing? I found myself saying over and over again.

The chairs were next, followed by the tables. Then the cupboards, which put up quite a resistance; the cupboards were not to be easily defeated. The cupboards put up quite a resistance.

We’re taking things apart, they said.

We’re taking things apart, they said. We’re taking things apart.

Oh.

Oh, I said. Oh, went the bed sheets. The bed sheets were not taken lightly. The bed sheets were not taken apart and packed neatly into many tiny boxes. First the furniture was dissembled, all dissembled, all the furniture was dissembled, first, and packed neatly into many tiny boxes. First the furniture. The chairs were next, followed by the tables.

The cupboards put up quite a resistance.

I do not know why the bed sheets were burned; I simply know that the bed sheets were burned.

The bed sheets were not taken lightly; the bed sheets were taken and burned; I know this. I know this because I smelled smoke. I never saw the bed sheets being burned but I smelled smoke after the bed sheets were taken away.

The dishes would be the next to go.

We’re taking things apart, they said.

An arm, a leg, a toe.

The dishes would be the next to go, I found myself saying over and over again. They’ve been taking things apart. I smelled smoke. I smelled smoke after the bed sheets were taken away.

First the furniture.

They must have seen me sniffing about, trying to discover where the smoke was coming from, because they said Bed sheets.

Then the appliances.

Bed sheets, they said.

Then came the appliances.

They said Bed sheets, I believe.

The dishes would be the next to go, I found myself saying over and over again.

The dishes would be the next to go.

I could have sworn they said Bed sheets.

Bed sheets.

And after the bed sheets there was not much else to take apart. After the bed sheets there was not much left, save the floor and the ceiling and the walls.

I could have sworn they said Bed sheets.

We’re taking things apart, being what they really said.

Whatever was left was swiftly carried out into the fire or else packed neatly into a tiny box and then carried out into the fire. Trophies, files, stationary, books, balls of yarn. Arms, legs, toes. Bed sheets. It was certainly a sad sight to see it all leave. The books, especially. Books I had been meaning to read, books I had never really read. Books I wouldn’t have been able to read, even if I’d wanted to. Books I’d been thinking about and books I hadn’t. Decorative books. Books with no real pages in them. Books read before being written, books still being written. Pieces of pieces of pieces.

There was one book in particular that I had not yet finished reading. This was especially frustrating.

We’re taking things apart.

Then they dismantled the floor and the ceiling and the walls. The floor was the easiest; the boards were simply pulled up. First the furniture. Underneath the boards there was white. Then came the appliances. No earth, no brick, no cellar; that too had been taken apart. Just white, cold and hard and infinite and exact. The cupboards put up quite a resistance. After the boards had been dissembled and more of the tiny boxes were filled and carried off into the smoke the roof began coming off. The chairs were next, followed by the tables. Bit by bit, board by board, shingle by shingle by shingle, it was dismantled and packed away. What are you doing? All that remained above was white. No sky, no clouds; no color, no rain. What are you doing? The white was closing in on me, above, below. What are you doing? I found myself saying over and over again. I hugged one of the walls, desperate. What are you doing? I found myself saying, although I can’t say why. It fell to the ground. They took it apart and away and in its place was white. No earth, no brick, no cellar. The other walls soon fell away as well. I was surrounded, utterly surrounded and suffocated by the brightness of the blanketed blankness. Cold, hard, infinite, exact. Indefinite, indefinable, undefined. The smoke was closing in. Help, I might have shouted, although by now I don’t remember. The indefinite smoke was closing in. Help, I might have cried. They didn’t answer. The indefinable white was almost seeping into my skin, almost. I could almost feel it, cold, hard, infinite, infinite, infinite, exact. I was all that was left. Me; the smoke; the blinding, blinding undefined white.

They’ve been taking things apart.

I’m next, I think.