It was just another evening. I was alone in my apartment, flipping through the channels on my TV. I settled on some sitcom that I didn't really care about and just let the background noise wash over me. I was starting to feel sleepy, my eyes getting heavy. Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain in my back. I sat up, startled, and tried to rub the pain away. But it only got worse. I felt like something was writhing under my skin, something alive.

I ripped my shirt off and saw that my skin was rippling, bulging. I screamed as I watched my body transform into something else, something inanimate. I was becoming my couch. The very thing that I had been sitting on just moments before. I could feel the rough fabric of the upholstery against my skin, the hardwood frame digging into my flesh. I was horrified. I tried to move, to scream, to do anything, but I was trapped. I was a couch. A piece of furniture.

I would be used and sat on and abused for the rest of my days, never again to experience the joys of life. I would become nothing more than a decoration, a piece of property. I wept as I realized the futility of my existence. I was a couch. That was all I would ever be.