Laundry

Saxon stood in his small, windowless kitchen, the drone of street traffic leaking through the thin walls. The town house was an island of chipped paint and shadows, and the laundry basket stared back at him from the corner. It was too full, spilling over with shirts that had seen better days, undies with holes in them and socks that had given up their mates long ago.

Fold. Sigh. Reach. The clock ticked slow, each second stretching like old elastic, and Saxon could almost hear the seconds creak as they passed. He swallowed a yawn that tasted like yesterday’s instant noodles and ran a hand over his stubbled jaw. The acid was supposed to make this better, add colour to the black-and-white monotony of a day of household chores. Something, he’d thought, anything but this grey grind.

Tick. Tick. The tab had hit his tongue like a lie, but it was starting to spread now, creeping through the folds of his brain, waking up corners that hadn’t been lit in years. He folded another shirt, the fabric suddenly soft, delicate. The room shifted, as though a whisper had passed just behind him, and a chill pricked the base of his neck.

Then it came, slow at first — a soft thrum, a baseline to a slow rock song. The pile of clothes moved. Saxon’s eyes darted, but he couldn’t trust them; his pulse climbed, a tight, uneasy tempo. One shirt flapped, then two, sleeves writhing like fish out of water. The basket glowed, the plastic turning translucent and alive, lit from within by some unknown fire. He backed into the counter, knocking over an old mug that crashed, unseen, to the floor.

With a roar, the laundry leaped, taking the air in a mad cyclone. Socks and shirts swirled, pants twisted themselves into rigid lines like referees with whistles made of belt loops. The hum intensified, shrieking into a scream that ripped through Saxon’s chest. He felt small, insignificant, staring up at the whirling tower of fabric.
The shirts, now fully sentient, descended into madness. Dividing into teams, sleeves snapping and flapping, forming patterns like battle flags. Before his eyes: rugby matches were breaking out among clothes that yesterday were just crumpled, lifeless things at the foot of his bed. The socks formed a huddle, their fibres pulling tight in anticipation, and the shirts, emboldened by some unearthly spirit, charged forward, tackling each other in chaotic beauty. Buttons popped like shrapnel, small plinks on the tiled floor.

“Welcome to the Laundry League!” a Bruce Buffer sound alike bellowed, resonating from deep within the basket. It was the growl of something that had no business speaking, a nightmare tone that tightened his gut and sent his mind spiralling into questions. What am I seeing? A laugh, dry and cracked, fell from his lips. The laundry, his laundry, had become alive. And not just alive — aware. Competing. Knocking themselves ragged in a knock-out competition for reasons he could not comprehend.

Panic bubbled up, hot and fast. What does it mean? Saxon thought. His pulse quickened as the realization landed heavy — that life, his life, had become no more meaningful than this; a stupid, shirt-on-sock brawl in a corner of an empty kitchen. Was he nothing more than a bystander, watching chaos unfold, a forgotten referee in a game that made no sense? The acid twisted this truth, writhed in his mind like a worm gnawing at the last thread of reason.

He screamed, or maybe it was the voice inside that screamed, ricocheting through his chest and throat. The fabric armies surged, scored, and regrouped, careless of his existential terror. He wanted to stop it, stop the whole thing. But how? The room shrank around him, a pulsating prison made of cotton and sweat-stained polyester, and he dropped to his knees, hands in his hair, as the cheers of the winning shirts reached a fever pitch.

Then just as he thought he could take no more, silence. The roar cut out, leaving a vacuum that buzzed and echoed in his head. Saxon blinked, ragged breaths slowing, eyes adjusting as reality crawled back, piece by piece. The kitchen was still, heavy with the weight of what shouldn’t have been. His hands were shaking, fingers tangled in his hair. He pushed himself up and stared at the mess he expected to see — but there was none.

Instead, the laundry was gone. The basket stood empty and still, as if mocking him. He rubbed his eyes, muscles sore with tension, and turned, stepping over the shattered mug. The fridge door was open, and something inside caught his eye.
Saxon staggered back, a new wave of dread rolling over him. Inside, where there should have been condiments and half-forgotten leftovers, were neat stacks of his folded laundry, socks tucked into corners, shirts stacked like files in a drawer. The fridge hummed its usual hum, indifferent, and Saxon let out a half-laugh, half-sob.
Folding laundry would never be the same again.