The Chair
by Andi Newton
I now knew the reason she acted that
way. The room -- cold, dingy, smelling of dirt and mold and something
bitterly metallic -- demanded it. I balked as they led me through the
doorway, tugging backward.
My struggles made little difference. The two guards, for lack of a better
word, tightened their grip and dragged me inside. My shoes left black marks
on the floor, a trail from the doorway to where I stood under a single bare
bulb.
A third man moved out of the shadows and motioned toward a straight-backed chair.
"Please," he said, "sit. There."
It was mostly white, the chair, except where chips had flaked off to reveal red, yellow, teal, and bare wood
underneath. Even that top layer
of paint wasn't a bright white, though. It was dingy, like the rest of the room,
with muck caked in the crevasses and a grey wear pattern on the sides of the
seat from so many people gripping it so many times. Grinding
sweat, dirt, and oil into it.
When I didn't sit down, one of the guards nudged the chair toward me with his foot. I took a
step forward, swallowed hard, and lowered myself down. I never thought
it could be so difficult, sitting in a chair.
When she described it to me the first time, the room, the chair, the dusty
silence that you didn't want broken, I didn't believe her. I tried to, but,
after all, it was just a chair.
It was different now. My fingers rubbed across a jagged splinter as
I gripped the edge of the seat. She'd gouged that splinter out of
the wood, scraped at it, driven it under her nail. Now I dug my own thumbnail under
it, deepening the gouge.
The interrogator watched me, taking notes without
pen or paper. Then he motioned to the guards and they backed out of the room,
shutting the door with a soft click. A
sound you didn't want breaking the silence.
We stayed like that for awhile, watching each other,
waiting. Observing, I corrected myself. Eventually he smiled and pulled
up a chair of his own. "So," he said, dropping easily into the seat, "let's
start with something simple."
THE END
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