From showroom star to hurricane survivor
Hurricane Milton left much destruction in my area. Just
outside of my housing development was an apartment complex that had gotten
flooded out, and all of the destroyed furniture was piled high out by the
street. I couldn’t help but see this as I drove by here every day. One red sofa
had caught my attention as it lay amongst the heap of discarded items. It
seemed to warrant its own story.
The Red Sofa
I remember the day I was delivered to
Mr. and Mrs. Grayson’s apartment in St. Petersburg, Florida. Two burly movers
lugged me out of the truck and into the heat of the parking lot. My first
destination? A first-floor unit in a sprawling green complex. Mr. Grayson was
waiting by the front door, waving his hands frantically. "No way that
door's big enough! Take it around the back."
Mrs. Grayson had already decided where
I belonged—on the far wall, perfectly aligned across from the big-screen TV. It
felt good to finally escape that cold, sterile showroom and stretch my legs, so
to speak. After months of sitting in a chilly display window, I had finally
made it to my forever home.
Mrs. Grayson adored me. She spotted me
at Lowry’s Furniture Store and gasped with joy when her hands brushed over my
velvety red velour. I’ll never forget the way her face lit up like she'd
discovered some lost treasure. Gone were the days of showroom strangers sitting
on me, only to move on without a second thought—or worse, kids leaving cookie
crumbs behind. No sir, the Graysons would take good care of me.
This was my new life: a quiet home
with no pets, no messy toddlers, just two retired souls who treated me like
royalty. Even better, Mrs. Grayson was petite—just the right size to keep my
cushions plump—and Mr. Grayson, though a bit stockier, knew how to respect a
good sofa. My left cushion, where she always sat, stayed in perfect shape. Life
was good.
The apartment was tiny but charming,
dressed in soothing shades of turquoise, beige, and light oak—a perfect Florida
vibe. I fit right in. Every night we watched TV together, usually some baseball
game or a cozy sitcom. It was the kind of existence most sofas could only dream
of.
Hurricane Milton Comes Calling
Everything was perfect—until the night
I first heard about Hurricane Milton. The weatherman’s voice, grave and
deliberate, warned of a Category 4 hurricane barreling straight toward Tampa
Bay. Mrs. Grayson perched nervously on the edge of my cushion, wringing her
hands. "We’ve gotta evacuate, Harold. We’re in a flood zone!" she
said, her voice rising with every word.
Harold—Mr. Grayson—tried to calm her,
but soon they were packing bags and making plans to head to Georgia. They had
friends up there, people they could stay with until the storm passed.
I knew the evacuation didn’t include
me. Why would they take a sofa? As much as I wanted to follow them, it wasn’t
like I could squeeze into the backseat. "Don’t worry," I told myself.
"I’ve got the end tables and floor lamp to keep me company." But
those pieces of furniture were no fun—they hadn’t spoken to me once since I
arrived. A bit stuck up, if you ask me.
Watching the Graysons walk out with
their suitcases gave me a sinking feeling. The TV clicked off, leaving me in
eerie silence. No weather updates, no sitcom laugh tracks—just the growing
sound of wind whistling outside. From my spot, I could see the palm trees by
the pool start to sway. Neon green pool lights flickered, casting strange
shadows through the glass doors.
The storm was coming.
Soaked to the Batting
It hit in the dead of night. The wind
howled like a banshee, rattling the sliding doors. Rain lashed against the
glass, and soon I heard the ominous slosh of water creeping in under the door.
At first, it was just a trickle, cold against my stubby little legs. Then it
surged, faster and deeper, climbing higher until it soaked into my cushions.
Oh no! I’m getting soaked—right
through to my batting! I
thought in horror. There was nothing I could do but sit there and hope for the
best. Every inch of my velour became saturated, heavy with water and despair.
By morning, the water had retreated,
leaving me soggy and deflated. My once-luxurious red cover looked dull, and a
faint musty smell clung to my fabric. The lamps on the end tables smirked from
their dry perches. Snooty little things—they had made it through unscathed,
while I lay here soaked to the core.
When the Graysons returned, I saw the
sadness in Mrs. Grayson’s eyes as she stepped inside. She clutched Harold’s arm
and whispered, “Look at the damage.” The tile floors were stained with muddy
water, and the apartment smelled like a swamp. They’d barely set their
suitcases down when the complex manager called a meeting, ordering residents to
toss any furniture that had been soaked.
The Curbside Goodbye
I knew what was coming the moment
Harold sighed and muttered, “We’ve got to take the sofa out.” My heart sank
deeper than my cushions ever had. Mrs. Grayson tried to argue, but Harold shook
his head. “Mold, sweetheart. We can’t keep it. Remember your allergies?”
Two men showed up—strangers this
time—and hoisted me onto their shoulders. Mrs. Grayson wiped a tear as I was
carried out to the curb, unceremoniously dumped among the other casualties of
Hurricane Milton. Chairs, tables, mattresses—the whole block had lined up their
ruined treasures, waiting for the inevitable trip to the dump.
I lay there for days, watching curious
passersby snap photos of the growing pile. A dark tourist attraction, some
called it. Every time a car slowed down, I held my breath, hoping someone would
see my potential. "I just need a little drying out," I wanted to
scream. "I’m still a beautiful sofa!"
A New Beginning?
Then one day, a truck rumbled down the
street with "We Haul 4 U" emblazoned on the side. Two older men
hopped out—one with a grizzly beard, the other with long white hair. They began
loading furniture onto the truck, tossing it all like yesterday’s garbage.
I figured this was the end. But then,
I heard it—the words I’d been waiting for.
"Hey, that red sofa’s in good
shape," the man with the long hair said, running his hand over my velour.
"My wife would love this."
I could have wept with joy. They
decided to drop off the other furniture at the dump first, then take me to my
new home. I rode in the back of that truck, hopeful for the first time since
the hurricane hit.
Would my new owners live on higher
ground? I sure hoped so. After all, this is Florida—we sofas can only take so
many hurricanes.
Lorraine Carey
https://authorlorrainecarey.blogspot.com/
Lorraine Carey is not only a paranormal enthusiast but has
had many unexplained events in her lifetime and has used these as a focal point
in her fiction novels. As a veteran teacher, Lorraine began to write for
Young Adults hoping to inspire young readers. Now residing in Florida, since
retirement has given her more time to write when the spirits are willing.
Posts
