I was going to help my suitemate clean out the bathroom the three of us shared. It would have been four, but his roommate had left the university after just two weeks due to personal issues back home.

We were entering his bathroom so as to clean it, as the toilet had decided to overflow on him. We had plans to kill the floor with fire—or, at the very least, Lysol with bleach. It was a bit dark in the room, and the open door had caused a power cord, strung in front of it, to stretch out to the maximum it could. Unseeing, I stepped on it.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw something begin to fall. I turned, and with horror it dawned on me that it was, in fact, the TV.

Everything played in slow motion.

I tried and FAILed to save the TV, but my efforts were in vain. The twenty-one inch cathode-ray TV hit the tiles screen first, dying while some cartoon did something. The glass shattered, the case violently cracked, and the expired unit began to pour forth acrid, foul-smelling smoke.

Lots and lots of smoke.