“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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