Instängd i IKEA

Christian was trapped on a never-ending road to hell.

Sort of. It was really more of a walkway than a road. Some people might have called it an aisle. And rather than hell, it was actually more of a multinational conglomerate founded in Sweden that sold furniture and various other household goods.

He was trapped in IKEA, basically. Or not basically. Literally.

He was literally trapped in IKEA.

At first, he thought the store was just big. He’d never been before, but his mom and sister always gushed about it, and he’d assumed from their shopping tales that the place was massive. It seemed like the sort of store a person could get lost in.

He’d thought that five hours ago, though. Now, he could no longer deny the truth: he was trapped on a never-ending road of IKEA.

He followed the arrows, promising him guidance toward the exit, but all of them just led to more Swedish furniture. In the five hours he’d been trapped, he’d only encountered two employees. He asked them for help, and they’d both pointed him in the so-called right direction. But their instructions just led to more shopping. It was just shopping, and shopping, and shopping, as far as the eye could see.

At the one-hour mark, he’d been frustrated at how large the store was. After two hours, frustration gave way to true anger, and after three, the first pricks of panic began to trail down his spine. It was at this point that he swallowed his pride and began asking other customers for help escaping. He got laughed at a lot. “Just follow the path,” they all said, and when he’d explained he’d been doing that for hours, they all either rolled their eyes or made a tutting sound, as if he were exaggerating his plight. He spent a good chunk of hour four choking down on embarrassment, because he was considering calling the cops, and then, at the fifth hour, when he realized he had no signal, embarrassment twisted into terror. It was only in the last twenty minutes that he acknowledged to himself that, despite never believing in things like ghosts or witches, something magical was afoot. After all, in all his five hours of wandering, he’d yet to see the same reasonably-priced good twice. No brick-and-mortar store had five hours’ worth of items on display. That, if nothing else, helped him come to terms with his situation. He knew he wasn’t crazy; he didn’t know enough about interior design to imagine so many different kinds of furniture. So magic was the only option left. IKEA was magical, and, for reasons he didn’t understand, it had trapped him inside.

After six hours, he felt too wearied from his emotional turmoil to continue on. Thankfully, he was surrounded by furniture, and it took him less than fifteen minutes to find a bed. It was a little kid bed, with a sea-themed tent over top of it, and he almost kept walking, because he imagined if he got caught sleeping in such a bed, he might end up on the news. But then he thought, if the IKEA employees thought he was a pervert and kicked him out, at least he would be free. So he slept in the little kid bed.

He awoke to a smell like raw sewage.

Wrinkling his nose, he opened his eyes and found himself face to face with a decrepit old man. He screamed, and the old man made no effort to shush him. None of the patrons or employees of the store came running at his clamor.

“It was the meatballs,” the old man said, once Christian ran out of breath.

“What?” Christian cried as he scrambled away from the stranger. He moved too quickly and ended up falling off the bed.

“The meatballs,” the old man repeated. He crawled to the edge of the bed and looked down at Christian, his head haloed by ocean waters and various sea critters. “Twenty years ago, I bought a bag of Swedish meatballs here. I forgot about them and let them get freezer-burnt. I threw them away. It’s because I wasted the meatballs. Twenty years, I’ve been punished! I’ve carved out the days on the back of a BILLY bookcase! I’m being punished one year for every meatball in the bag; it must be! There’s still so much penance yet to do. There must have been at least thirty meatballs in that bag. Isn’t that right, son? Don’t you think there’s thirty meatballs in a bag?”

Christian swallowed as he crawled backward, stopping when his back hit the edge of the tent. The old man’s breath was rank, and his clothes were tattered and dirty. He looked as if he’d never known a shower.

His initial fear of the old man began to ebb, though, as his words sank in.

“The meatballs?” he asked, scarcely able to get his voice out.

“A year per meatball,” the old man confirmed. “You wasted the meatballs, didn’t you, son?”

Christian could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. “I didn’t—” He had to swallow; his mouth was too dry to speak. “I didn’t like them,” he whispered. “I visited my mom, and she gave me some to bring home. She said I had to try them. But I didn’t like them. So I threw them out.” He sat up, no longer trying to flee. “I’m allowed to not like them. Lots of people don’t like meatballs.”

“It’s wasteful,” the old man hissed. “A year per meatball. That’s how long you’re trapped! A year per meatball!”

“That’s absurd,” Christian mumbled as he tried to remember how many meatballs his mother had given him. He’d eaten one, but how many did he toss? Was it four? Or five?

“A year per meatball!” the old man shouted, cackling. Christian noticed he was missing teeth. “There’s no escape! Not until your penance is done! A year per meatball! A year per meatball!”

The old man’s laughter grew louder and more shrill, until he scarcely seemed able to speak. Clambering to his feet, Christian slowly backed away, ducking out of the flap in the tent. The man made no move to stop him, yet still he turned and fled, his sneakers squeaking against the floor as he ran.

It had to be a lie. Being trapped within an IKEA for years because of some wasted meatballs was outrageous. And yet, the old man certainly looked like someone who’d been trapped in an IKEA for twenty years…

“There must be another way,” he muttered to himself. He couldn’t stay in this IKEA for four or five years. He had a job interview on Tuesday. And in a week, his parents were hosting a surprise birthday party for his grandma. He loved his grandma.

When he was satisfied with the distance he’d put between himself and the old man, he let his gait slow to a walk. None of the other people in the store seemed to have cared that he’d been running. He sat down in a POÄNG armchair and tried to think.

This was witchcraft. What else could he call it? The owners of IKEA were evil Swedish witches. He was like Hansel and Gretel, lured to their doom by a trail of candy. Except the candy was budget furniture. Hansel and Gretel had been abandoned by their parents, and the witch had taken advantage of them. Just like that witch, the IKEA witches were taking advantage of the fact that Christian was a poor college student who only had $60 to furnish his dorm room. But to what end? The old man thought he’d be released when his time was up, but how would he know? Maybe they would eat him, like the witch in the story tried to do to Hansel and Gretel. Or maybe…

Christian’s heart fell to his stomach.

Maybe they would make him into meatballs.

“I have to get out of here,” he whispered, and this time, he felt no embarrassment over his fear. His voice sounded watery, but whose wouldn’t, in his situation?

Putting his head between his knees, he took a deep breath and tried to calm himself so that he might think rationally. There had to be a way to escape. Hansel and Gretel tricked the witch into an oven, didn’t they? But he didn’t actually have a witch in front of him to deceive. The IKEA witches were probably bigwig executives living in Sweden. So what could he do? There were no windows to escape from, and all the doors just continued the maze.

He lifted his head. Not all the doors. Legally, there had to be a fire exit. Why hadn’t he seen a fire exit?

His stomach growled as he stood. Maybe he shouldn’t have run from the old man. He probably knew where to get food and water. He remembered there was a restaurant, but it was nearer to the entrance, which he hadn’t been able to find his way back to.

He didn’t know where the meatballs were sold, frozen or otherwise. Not that he would eat them.

Deciding he needed to conserve his strength, he walked slowly as he scanned the store for an employee. He passed a display of office furniture and swiped a clipboard that was placed upon a desk for decoration. After about thirty minutes, he finally came across someone in uniform.

“Excuse me,” he said, lightly waving his clipboard. “I’m the fire marshal. I’m assuming you were told I was coming.”

The employee, a girl of similar age to himself, blinked back at him. “Um, no?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. Well, I won’t bother you for too long. I just need to know where the nearest fire exit is. I’m having trouble locating the one in this area.”

Eyebrows furrowing, she pointed behind her without looking. “It’s right there.”

And there it was. The glowing red sign would have been impossible to miss. The only explanation was that it simply hadn’t been there before she’d pointed.

“Thank you,” he intoned as he stepped around her and made a beeline toward the exit. He kept his eyes open, refusing to blink, even when it stung. If he blinked, he felt certain the door would vanish.

He half expected the floor to extend, so that the exit would remain always out of reach, but that wasn’t the case. In less than a minute, he was standing in front of the door. Throwing the clipboard to the ground, he pressed his hands against the cool metal and then dared to blink. The door didn’t falter. It was the standard kind of emergency exit, with the long push-in bar across it. The bar depressed when he pushed on it, but the door itself didn’t open. He tried throwing all of his weight against it, but still, it wouldn’t budge. It was locked.

That was clearly against fire code. He didn’t need to be a real marshal to know that. The other IKEA patrons were apparently enchanted in some way, so that they didn’t notice his plight, but he assumed they were real people. If there were a fire, they would need to be able to escape.

He breathed in deeply. If he wanted this door to open, he needed to start a fire.

How, though? He had plenty of kindling; by and large, IKEA seemed like a pretty flammable place. But he didn’t have a lighter, nor matches. He doubted IKEA sold them; he certainly hadn’t seen any in the hours he’d spent browsing the store.

He saw a magnifying glass over by the kids’ furniture, but he wasn’t sure if it was real. Even if it was, there weren’t any windows, so magnifying the sun was out. He’d never tried rubbing sticks together before, but he’d always heard it was difficult to start a fire that way. Even if he could manage, though, he didn’t think there was any real wood in the store; he was afloat in an ocean of particle board and plastic.

There were lights overhead, though, which meant there were wires. Weren’t most fires electrical in nature anyway?

He would have to leave the door to find an outlet. The story of Hansel and Gretel fresh in his mind, he decided he would leave a trail back to it. The kids’ bread was eaten by birds, but there weren’t any birds in IKEA, and he wasn’t going to use food anyway. Casting his gaze around, he spotted a stack of DJUNGELSKOG playing cards. He had to stretch to reach them without letting go of the door, but he managed. He grabbed three packs, stuffing two in his pockets while he ripped open the third. Hesitantly releasing the door, he walked away, leaving a trail of animal-themed memory-matching cards behind him as he scanned the walls for an outlet.

He had a multi-tool in his pocket—a high school graduation gift from his grandma—and he used it to pop the cover off of the first outlet he came to. Squatting on the floor, he stared at the exposed wires.

He didn’t know what to do. He’d never started an electrical fire before, purposefully or otherwise.

Kindling would probably help. Looking around, he caught sight of a row of GULLRISMOTT canvas bags hanging from a hook. He walked backwards toward them, never letting the outlet leave his sight, and then quickly sprinted back once he’d grabbed one. Using his multi-tool, he cut strips out of it and began packing the material around the outlet. Once he was done, he snipped two wires at once, shouting at the immediate pop and flash that resulted.

The canvas went up in flames.

Shaking his hand, which was mildly burned, he picked up the remains of the bag off the floor and held it to the flame, dropping it immediately as it caught fire. Following his playing card trail, he backpedaled to a bin of ULLERSLEV sheepskin pelts and began tossing them, like frisbees, toward the growing flames. He missed the first pelt, but the second landed close enough to the bag to catch fire, as did the third. Smoke began to waft into the air. An alarm sounded.

Grinning, Christian turned around and nearly bumped into an employee. He had a broom in his hand.

Lowering his eyes slowly to the floor, Christian looked upon the pile of swept-up playing cards. His trail was gone.

“Please proceed to the nearest exit, sir,” the employee said. “You wouldn’t want to get caught in the fire.”

“Could you point the way?” he asked softly. The employee pointed, and he started to run, knowing already that there would be no exit along his path.

He was going to burn alive inside IKEA.

Customers were moving past him, not running, but speed-walking as they complained about the inconvenience of the fire, which was swelling in size. A sprinkler system went off, and the grumbles of the crowd grew in volume.

“This way, please,” an employee called, waving through the thin smoke. “The exit is over here. Please, follow me and remain calm.”

Christian's original emergency exit was gone, as he's assumed it would be. He found himself joining the crowd, bodies buffeting against him as he mindlessly shuffled forward.

Through the downpour of the sprinklers, he saw the unmistakable glowing red of an exit sign.

He kept walking with the crowd. He wanted to run, but he managed to suppress the feeling by focusing on keeping his tears at bay. The exit was growing closer. He'd made it. The fire had worked.

“Right this way,” an employee said, smiling widely. They were drenched from the sprinklers, but didn't seem to care. “Please exit calmly, to ensure the safety of others.”

Christian couldn't see what lay beyond the door; the haze of the water and the cluster of bodies obscured his view too much. But he could see light. He knew that. The crowd pushed him toward the door, and as he passed through it, he decided he would let himself cry after all, just as soon as he could feel the sun on his skin.

He stepped through the door, out of the water, and into dry air. He lifted his face to the sky.

And realized he was in another IKEA.

“Are you okay, sir?” an employee said, seemingly materializing at his elbow. “You've been standing there for quite a while. Can I help you find something?”

He felt tears track down his face when he blinked. “I'm looking for meatballs,” he choked out. “Not frozen, but fresh.”

The employee beamed. “You passed the restaurant quite a while ago, unfortunately, but you're in luck! Right by the exit, our bistro sells a meatball sub. Do you need help finding the way?”

“Please,” he sobbed. “Yes, thank you. Please.”

She led him down a walkway, and the home goods around him transitioned to a warehouse, filled with boxes and furniture displays. They kept walking, and Christian caught sight of a line of registers. Beyond them was a series of doors.

He could see the sky.

“The bistro is right there,” the employee said, pointing toward the exit. “Enjoy your meatballs. I hope you'll shop with us again.”

“Of course. Thank you,” he mumbled. He stumbled toward the bistro, where another cheerful employee was waiting to take his order.

He got a meatball sub and a bottle of water. He still wasn’t sure the meatballs weren’t made of people, but he couldn’t be wasteful. Holding his purchases tightly, he walked to the exit. The glass, automatic doors slid open at his approach.

He stared at the scene before him. With shaking hands, he took a bite of his meatball sub.

He’d escaped the never-ending IKEA.

But not the never-ending IKEA parking lot.