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_Author's Note: _

_ Original Character, Do Not Steal!_

_ Original Character, Do Not Steal! _

_ Original Character, Do Not Steal~! _

The Life of Petey

The life of a mattress is never easy. Sure, it starts out well enough. Freshly poofed and pressed and pampered in a store, with an exorbitant price tag to inflate your sense of self-worth. Until the first "Ginormous-Christmas-in-spring-cleaning-boxing-day-black-Friday-we-must-be-insane-take-everything-before-we-change-our-minds sale" comes along. After that, things change. You're hauled away from the warm, comfy store and all of your mattress friends, dragged by unskilled hands through tight spaces and across rough surfaces, sworn at, beaten and contorted, and finally dumped unceremoniously into an unfamiliar bed and left, all alone, day after day.

Even then, it might not seem so bad at first. A mattress is allowed to lie around all day, no responsibilities, no worries in the world, right?

Wrong!

From that day on, the life of a mattress is one of abuse and hardship. They are jumped on by small children. Torn by the claws of pets. Forced to hold up lazy people for hours on end nightly, who don't even seem to care how their elbows and knees may dig into uncomfortable places. Regularly, they are doused with unspeakable fluids, and never cleaned. If they have the misfortune to catch a disease of any kind, there is no hospital for them. They are burned alive, without mercy or trial. Should they survive that long, when their usefulness is deemed fulfilled, even then there is no peaceful retirement home. It's off to the dump, to be picked at by crows, raccoons, accident litigation lawyers, and other scavengers.

Yes, the life of a mattress isn't an easy one.

This is, however, not a tale of all mattresses, or even a few. No, this is a tale about one mattress. A very special mattress, named Petey. Few know the true origins of this tale. It is not a happy tale. In fact, you might say that Petey's adventure has made life worse for mattresses everywhere. In some cultures, mattresses are considered the work of the devil, and are burned at the stake on sight. Along with the abuse they take on a regular basis, mattresses are commonly blamed for every problem under the sun; from the terrorists, to the economy, to that piece of lego stepped on in the dark. Studies have shown that international incidents of prejudice against mattresses, mattress hate crimes and other violence against mattresses have risen a shocking 30% in the past decade. In some countries, laws and addendums are being passed to protect mattresses.

And all of it is because of Petey.

To understand Petey's story, you must know that all mattresses contain a secret, one that has remained of strictest confidence for decades. Top secret files on the subject in the CIA, MI6, CSIS, KGB, Mossad, and every other organization show more text blacked out with censor bars than legible. Only a select few are aware of the shocking truth, and in fact, reading these words may draw the attention of your own local authorities.You have been warned, but if you accept this risk, read onward.

The secret which wars have been fought to protect, is this: much like magnets, mattresses are, in fact, created by the use of powerful sorcery, rather than typical UN approved manufacturing methods. More powerful than the wish of a young child (and even an Apache helicopter), mattress magic must be contained in order to be safe for public use. This is accomplished by way of a device placed on the newly created mattress upon its summoning from the nether -a particular runic seal (the 'sticker' kind, not the, 'bark and balance things on my nose at Sea World' kind).

Many scoff at the small sticker if they happen to see it. Perhaps the wisdom of the mattress shamans should be questioned for printing 'Do Not Remove' in bright, obvious letters on the magical seal. Humans are, after all, easily tempted by forbidden fruit, and who would believe their nighttime lumbar support would contain a nexus of arcane energies?

So then, what could possibly go wrong? Enter the players. An ordinary mattress, living in the home of a woman named Alicia. He was overturned after a night of loud, messy fornication, the sundered sheets torn free of his body, exposing him to the world. Frank, the boyfriend of Alicia, drunk on both spirits and post orgasmic endorphins, laughed at the sight of the protective seal, and, despite Alicia's pleas, jokes about the 'mattress police' and the befuddling problems of manual dexterity, Frank managed to tear away the seal, before being tackled by Alicia for another bout of unclothed wrestling.

That, is where Petey's tale begins.

***

Th-whump. Th-whump. Th-whump.

Am I awake?

Th-whump. Th-whump. Th-whump.

In the distance, voices, raised in anger. The sound of shattering glass.

Th-whump. Th-whump. Th-whump.

Springs groaned. The boxspring creaked. Soft, fabric eyes blinked drowsily open.

Am I... alive?

Muzzy, confusing images. Bright light, bookshelves, colorful mosaics on vivid yellow walls. Stuffing morphed into limbs, strength fuelled by arcane arts pouring into the supine being.

I have a name... don't I? Yes, a name.

Floundering about with his newly formed arms, Petey found the edges of the bed, and heaved, shoving himself erect. He teetered, uncertain of the mechanics of bipedal locomotion, the room swaying about him. A cup of pens scattered onto the floor, followed by a book on gardening, as his flailing arm swept across the nightstand. Then, as if remembering a long forgotten fact, his balance steadied, the world ceasing its crazed rocking.

I'm alive.

"...And don't come back, you ass!"

Shouting from downstairs. More glass breaking, followed by the slam of the door. Petey stood, listening intently. For several moments, there was silence, broken only by soft weeping. Then the door slammed a second time.

Alicia, off to work. Information was flooding Petey's mind, his stuffing in a roil. She left at this same time every day. But, today was different. She was running late, on the day of a big meeting. Why?

Frank.

Yes, he had been here last night. They had seemed so happy then. What had caused their fight? Petey's fist clenched. His owner, his beautiful Alicia, had been hurt. How could he help? It was his job... no, his duty to be there for her, to be a comfort, a shoulder (or at least a surface) to cry on.

He had to go to her.

Getting out of the room required an exercise in aerobics. Petey squeezed himself through the door on his side, gasping as the frame drove into his midsection. The stairs gave no warning before jumping out at him as he dragged himself out of the bedroom, and it was only by dumb luck that he didn't tear a seam sliding down them.

Petey rose, dusting himself off, and cursing his lack of peripheral vision. This would be less of an issue if he were something more practical, like a sofa. He clumped his way into the kitchen, taking care not to knock any of Alicia's paintings from the walls. He'd known she loved art, but he'd never seen the downstairs of her home before. Every possible surface was covered, either by a painting, a mosaic, a print, or a mural.

So beautiful.

Pillowy lips curved in a smile. Alicia, his charge of every night. She whispered all of her secrets to him. Had she known all along that he could hear them? All the intimate moments throughout the years, shared in silent passion. She had never said his name, but perhaps, when he went to her today, she would realize her love for him.

The door was locked, but now that fingers were less of a mystery to Petey, he managed to defeat it, and step out into the world. Sounds and scents assaulted him. Birds flitting among the trees lining the sidewalk. Traffic hooting and snarling. Young shoots of grass, coupled with spring flowers. Exhaust and grit and heat.

Across the street, then down three blocks East, and one North. Gringles financial services.

"Oh my god! What is that thing?"

"Mommy? Is that a bed?"

"Dude, dude!"

Petey ignored the shocked pedestrians. Only one thing in the world mattered. Alicia. He strolled into the street, looking towards his destination. He never saw the bus.

The screech of brakes. Impact. Flying through the air. Car horns. Muted pain in his springs. Then, the asphalt met him, several seams tearing as he slid. His recessed ears rang, vision swimming.

Okay, that was worse than the stairs.

Unsteadily, he regained his feet, oblivious to the gaping onlookers. All about him, traffic had ground to a halt, drivers leaning out of their vehicles to stare at this strange creature that was now tottering across the road.

Alicia. I'm coming. Wait for me.

Objectively, he knew his body could take a fair bit of abuse. A bit of stuffing lost wasn't the end of the world. Still, his springs were aching now, which was a touch worrisome. At some point, he'd also lost one of the three fingers of his left hand.

As long as I don't need to play piano to impress her...

A crowd was beginning to gather, trailing along behind Petey, cell-phones recording the phenomenon. No more than an hour in the world, and Petey was already a celebrity. His pace was slow, unhurried, and two blocks passed without incident. By the time he made it to the corner of Excelsior and Davey, a news helicopter circled overhead, and sirens howled in the distance.

"Where do you suppose it's going?"

"Do you think it can understand us?"

"Is it an alien? Are we under attack?"

"No, it's a Serta. It says right on it. A military project?"

Petey turned right. He could see Gringles. Alicia would be there, waiting for him to come and comfort her in her pain.

Three police cars screeched to a halt in the street, officers leaping out and into defensive positions encircling Petey. Black, shiny gun barrels sighted on his chest.

"Stop! On the ground, hands up!"

Why would he do a thing like that? He had done nothing wrong. He was a mattress, for god's sake! Petey pressed on. Thirty meters. Twenty-five. Twenty.

A gunshot. Hot metal ripping through his body. Stuffing flying in a cloud. Fifteen meters.

"Get down, now!"

He could see faces pressed against the windows of Gringles. There she was! Her eyes red-rimmed, and wide with shock. Auburn hair still disheveled from her mad dash to make it to work on time. Their eyes met. Recognition tinged with incredulity flashed in Alicia's gaze. Petey smiled.

"I love you."

A hail of bullets tore a chunk out of his lower abdomen. The magical nexus, embedded at the very center of his being, fizzled into a hundred flying pieces. Fabric eyes fluttered shut, springs creaking as the heavy body dropped to the pavement.

The policemen approached first, prodding the monster to ensure that it was indeed dead. Then, the gawking public pressed in, poking and snapping pictures of the lifeless mattress, ignoring the attempts of the city's finest to hold them back.

Up in the office, Alicia watched the scene below without focus, her mind whirling with the impossibility.

"Did you see that? It looked right at us!" one of her co-workers was saying.

"I know! It's got to be from that chem lab out in Jensen Hill. I'm surprised the hazmat team isn't here already."

"Maybe, or maybe it's some crazy movie stunt. Looked pretty real though."

"Hey, Alicia, you okay? You look pale."

"Yes, fine," she replied, the words coming automatically. Somewhere deep inside, she knew the truth of what she'd just witnessed.

The world would never be the same.