Member-only story
I am a Chair
I don’t have subtitles
I am a chair. A great one, I must say. The sitters with haughty smiles elegantly look at my legs. With a thrust, they propel themselves upon my beautiful face, that too I must say. Though I do reproach — one shall not blame me solely for this behaviour of mine — whenever at odd times, the sitters would adjust their positions to see the speaker clearly, they’d choke my neck for a few seconds and I’d scream scratching the floor with my eyes, not hands I must say. I would only stop noising them until they’d stomped me at a fixed place, and the pressure shifted to my torso that was designed for this purpose only.
Though I look quite open and inviting, I am more empty. But I do not aspire companionship for it makes my emptiness worse. It is in my nature to exhibit such qualities for I’ve spent my childhood this way, locked in a storage room somewhere among the rats and the lizards, crawling across the utensils and the dusts. It was representative of a place where people kept the souvenirs of their dead ones, in case they found a better way to use them in future or to celebrate their existence. I didn’t hope for the latter, for I desired a celebration of my virtues and not for standing since decades.
Recently, I saw my lord bringing another luxurious chair. It’s comfortable, they say. It has a flexible neck that extends in every direction…
