It was... revolting. A veritable collection of every disgusting thing to be found on this earth. A breeding ground for disease and infestation, all contained in one, small, inoffensive room.
Well, inoffensive until my little sister found her place in it at least. She had developed the unfortunate teenage affliction (usually restricted to the male of the species, but displaying its incredible infective power) of forgetting simply to remove a plate, pick up a piece of clothing, or tackle the frightening mechanical beast termed "The Hoover".
It was one of the worst cases I had ever seen, nigh indescribeable. The victim had proven incredibly vulnerable to the disease and showcased some of the worst symptoms ever to plague a human specimen.
We falteringly made our way inside, breathing shallowly and grimacing to try and escape the sickening scent. With our hands shielding our sensitive noses, we stepped inside, beginning the perilous adventure. Bin bags in hand and survival bags full of Domestos and bleach seated loosely on our backs, we nervously surveyed our task.
And what a task it would be! We settled straight into it, hauling our way over mountains of creased and stained clothing, before carefully tip-toeing in and out of a seemingly insurmountable obstacle course of unwashed crockery and other things we were too repulsed to identify. There were several hairy moments, times when my other sister nearly succumbed to the penetrating reek of age-old food; or when Spencer was nearly crushed under a landslide of various books and dirty knickers.
But we prevailed. Strong in our belief that what we were doing was right, we surged on, hauling shirts and underwear into the strategically placed wicker washing basket; cringingly removing dish after dish and shying away from the moss that crept over the sides of mugs; gasping one final breath of clean air before diving into the foul labyrinth that lurked under her resting place.
It seemed to take days. In truth, with all of us helping (except, of course, the absent little sister herself) a task that should have taken lifetimes took us merely hours. Finally we stood, proudly surveying the wonders we had wrought; the shy sparkle from a pristine surface; the tender waft of a fresh breeze through the unearthed window. Delighted in the beauty we had returned to this place, we waited triumphantly for the return of the slovenly child who had wrought the terror in the first place.
With her first step through the doorway we rushed to tell her of what we had done, pleased with ourselves and sure she would be grateful. She gasped in shock, then ran up the stairs to gain her first look at the amazing feat we had done.
We stood grinning at each other, sure of our thanks, until a scream rang through the house. Racing up the stairs we begged to know what was wrong, not understanding what cold have escaped us in our gruesome task.
And from the mouth of the beast herself came only these words; "What have you done!?! You've screwed it all up! I hate you! How could you!" Then, with rage in her eyes, she slammed the door in our gob-smacked faces.
"Well," said Spencer, startlement written across his features. "Glad she likes it."
And we stumbled confusedly away.
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True event! Though perhaps embellished a little bit! Amusing as hell after we'd gotten over our indignation *laughs*.