When I unlocked my front door, I was foolish to believe I was free from my long day of minor inconveniences. I was completely expecting a relaxing night. Unfortunately, as I stepped into my house, I came to find that half of my living room had been sucked into a hole in the floor.
I stood there dumbfounded, in disbelief that today was the day this had to happen to me. I dropped my bag at my feet and attempted a deep sigh, but my stress would not allow the breath to release completely. When my surroundings truly registered, I first noticed that my TV had fallen in, along with the lamp my sister bought me. I stared into the inky darkness of the spill with a deep hatred. The black center looked as though someone had poked a little hole through the universe. It sat just above my carpet like oil on water, and the dust and crumbs from underneath my couch had formed an accretion disk around it.
Pulling out my phone, I started to make the necessary call to report this. As the dial tone sang in my ear, I felt a boiling frustration in my chest. This was my first time I ever had to call my county’s Reality Services Department since I moved here, and hopefully it was my last. Friends who have had a spill in their house had told me; this would be quite expensive to clean up, and even more costly to replace anything lost!
“Hello, you have reached the County Reality Services Department, we offer a variety of aid including non-Euclidean structure planning, cosmic entity extermination, and dimensional spill cleanup! Would you be interested in speaking to a representative about any of these services today?”
I screamed the words “dimensional spill!” into my phone multiple times before the automated voice finally understood what I was saying.
“All of our representatives are currently unavailable. Please hold, and we will take your call as soon as possible!”
I cursed wildly at the robotic woman.
With the terrible on-hold symphony blaring out of my guttural phone speaker, I began to pick up some of the debris on the ground; couch cushions and shards of my favorite vase. Candles, jars and mugs on top of my coffee table were rattling away, just heavy enough to keep themselves exempt from the hole’s gravitational pull.
“Thank you for your continued patience. Have you tried our website? We also offer counseling and physical therapy for anyone experiencing injury, delirium, or trauma from a recent distortion event. Check with your insurance provider to see if they cover these appointments, or visit our website for more information!”
The sonic whirlpool continued to pulsate at the center of the room, gradually dragging in dust bunnies and the occasional nail from the floorboards. It had stabilized for now, but it ate enough of my furniture in the early breakthrough stages to reach the size of a tennis ball. I saw my cat’s eyes lock onto it as soon as he entered the room, and I had to shut him in my bedroom to keep him from getting close.
Eventually, an actual human spoke through the phone and asked how they could help me. I scurried over and frantically grabbed my phone, nearly dropping it into the void. I explained the situation and he said, “Ah! You’re the third one this week! We’ll send someone over right away.” I gave him my address and felt a massive relief inside my body. They would take it from here. I took a seat in the corner, staring into the orb and listening to my cat scratch up my bedroom door.
About fifteen minutes later, a man in a hard hat and an orange safety vest was at my door. I found it difficult to match his friendly demeanor, given my situation, but his infectious smile pulled the politeness out of me. He dragged a very large metallic box behind him. The container was on wheels and had a heavy latched door on one side. There were large yellow and red warning stickers all over it that read; DO NOT OPEN. DISTORTION INSIDE. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
“You ever had a spill in your home before?” He asked me.
“No…first time. It was very unexpected.”
He laughed and said, “They always are! Well, don’t worry, that’s a little one. I’ll take care of it.”
Slightly barreling over the doorstep, he wheeled the box into my living room and set it close to the spill. “What is that?” I asked.
“Oh! You’ve never seen this? Well, there’s only one way to get rid of a black hole…”
He punched in a code on an electronic number pad, flipped the latch open, and turned to me. “…with a bigger one!” The metal door whipped open, and the air in front of the box’s open cabinet smeared like melted wax. The box had sucked up the spill before I could finish blinking, and it had taken some of my wooden floor as well. Once it had all been absorbed, he latched the heavy door and I heard the digital lock beep again.
“We will cover that floor damage caused by the cleanup, but as for the furniture you lost, you need distortion insurance for that to be covered,” he said with apologetic eyes. I asked if there was any chance I could get my old furniture back, but he said it was probably floating somewhere in the Oort Cloud by now.
He handed me his business card and said, “You can call me personally if this happens again. It’s rare they show up in the same place twice, but I’ve seen it happen a few times in my experience.” I walked him out of my front door, thanking him multiple times. “Have a great night! The bill will be sent in the mail.” he said, wheeling the massive metal box into the back of his work truck and driving off.
Thomas Mazzaferro 