It began with a simple thought. It was inevitable. Those stairs needed to be cleaned.
When Vacuums Attack
The vacuum stood proudly at the top of the staircase, growling and asserting its dominance over all things carpet. I slowly worked down from the top of the flight, step by step, enjoying the soft clatter as each pebble, piece of lint and dust was lifted from between the soft fibers. The hose stretched and strained with every motion I made and the vacuum’s growl rose to a high whine.
Realizing the stretch might be a little too much for the angry beast to handle, I stood and turned to move up the stairs and carry the vacuum down to the base to ease its temper. At that exact moment, I heard the first horrible sound.
Metal vs. drywall.
Instinctively, I clenched every muscle in my body and threw my arms up to protect my face. The second sound.
Metal vs. bone.
Bright white pain flashed through my body, radiating out from the point of contact on my leg and continuing to my fingertips. Stars appeared before my eyes, intermittently spiked with images of the curse words that threatened to escape my mouth. With a loud gasp, I stood up and grabbed the neck of the vacuum to upright it, my fingers clenching as I attempted to strangle it at the same time. Slowly. Step by step. I limped down the stairs, opened the closet and jammed the vacuum into the back, concealed by coats, not to be seen again for a long time.