I’m sitting on the worn wooden frame of my old bed, the late afternoon sun filtering through the threadbare curtains of my small apartment.
The peg in my hand is stubborn, refusing to twist smoothly.
These pegs, these remnants of a bygone era, have become a focus of my unease.
They always felt like an odd leftover in a world full of metal springs and foam mattresses.
And now, they are a testament to the fragility of my so-called stability.
My days are a blur.
Shifts at the diner stretch on, my feet aching by the end of the night.
I’m studying every spare moment for a certification exam that promises a step up at work.
The bed should be my refuge, but even here, the creaks and groans of the frame keep me on edge.
I’ve mentioned it to Mr. Cunningham, my landlord, but he waves it off.
“Old building,” he says, his voice dismissive.
The silence after his words feels heavier than the words themselves.
He holds the power, while I’m left to make do with empty promises and temporary fixes.
Each night, as I lay on the creaking frame, I wonder how much longer it will hold.
In January, it started with the ropes sagging.
February brought the loosening pegs.
March and April were patch jobs and growing anxiety.
Last week, a peg nearly slipped as I shifted my weight.
I’ve told Mr. Cunningham twice, but nothing changes.
Now, a housing inspection looms just two days away.
I haven’t mentioned the latest peg issue to him.
The thought of the inspector eyeing the bed, jotting down notes, fills me with dread.
What if it breaks before then?
What if the inspector’s report gets me into more trouble than I can handle?
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