They were children separated from mothers in the BRAVEN toilet plunger aisle. They were couples mid fight, storming off, then becoming lost in the twisting landscape of pseudo-Swedish-home decor. They were the confused husbands with lists of odd symbols getting PAX wardrobes muddled with HEX end tables.
And they all end up here.
The statistics on the missing are hazy, a long string of government technicalities. We can pinpoint exactly how many five-and-three-eights children go missing in an exact acreage of a certain forest, but have no such thing for the very furniture mega-store that infests every metropolis across this great nation.
I have spent my life investigating this vortex of ethically source pine and linen. I will stop at nothing to rescue these poor souls forced to survive off of meatballs made of unknown material and yet, they still taste so good. My findings have been sparse, and difficult to compile, so I have no choice to but to enter myself.
It starts simply enough, they lure you in with samples of CHOKLUS LJUS, and then you feel drawn toward the market hall. This is where it begins. The labyrinth. Your fate lies behind automatic doors and turnstiles that seem to be designed to send back out from whence you came. This will stand as your first warning to turn back. I had a purpose. I knew I had to continue. As I record this from the kitchen section, I pray my mental faculty will withstand this false Scandinavian hell.
It is odd, there appears to be arrows on the floor. The question is then posed: do I buy into this obvious trap? Or do I go my own way, attempting to thwart this twisted floorplan?
Wait, is that a sale on select dining room chairs? This week only?
This TOBIAS would look so beautiful in my apartment, right across from th- where am I?
And why am I craving meatballs?
I just left the path to look at chairs, I don’t remember taking any turns or new directions. The new objective is to orientate myself. My surroundings consist primarily of model rooms, beautifully decorated but empty, soulless. This is the upper floor. How’d I get here? I don’t remember going upstairs.
I must press on. The signs over the preset rooms seem tailored for me.
“Office for the Busy Professional”
“Bedroom for a Driven, Goal-Orientated Woman”
“Kitchen for Those Slowly Realizing their Fate”
“You. Will. Never. Leave (A new fabric style by our in-house designers!)”
The last one seems a little pointed, nonetheless I continue. There must be an epicenter, a congregation of this black hole of minimalist design, and there I will find all the other victims of this plight. A plight that has now become mine. I will (I must!) make it through.
I’m hungry. Meatballs would really hit the spot.
There is a sense of foreboding as I encroach what must be the end of the model rooms. I know not what I will experience, only that it is dawning on me. I feel its call. The air smells sharply of LIGONBERRY and LAX salmon. I approach. There is so much light. It comes from a large skylight. I’m in a warehouse. Beds and couches flat packed and left in aisles 4 and 12. I feel the pull. I can’t escape. I’m sorry. All I wanted to do was help.
I know what is in the meatballs.
I know why they taste so good.
I know why people disappear.
I know my fate.
Author’s Note: Translation was a difficulty here, when I first came across this report, it was carved (in Swedish) into a BJURSTA dining table near the front of store. (I dare not go further) For those unaware, wood carving and that specific Scandinavian language are deeply incompatible and raised quite a few issues. What is presented above is my best attempt to convey the speakers confidence, panic, and eventual vanishing.
Gif: https://www.freytaganderson.com/ikea-rethink
