The Chair Loves Misery

It just stood there. Staring. Its legs rigid and unmoving. Its arms stretching, straining as far as they could muster. Its head turned away, either in great thought or absolute vacancy.

I may be the only living soul left in this place, but I’ll be damned if I let this thing outlive me.

This ends now.

I approach it, axe in hand. I strike first, plunging the axe over my head and deep into its protruding chest. It doesn’t even flinch. Just takes it. My grip remains firm and unwavering as I swing back and immediately slam the axe blade down, opening another deep gash.

And again.

And again.

And again.

It falls to one leg and collapses before me. Do I show mercy? He never did.

Not when he came home drunk, and angry.

Not when he hit her, and then me.

Not when he slithered back into his office to keep drinking as he sat in that chair.

That very chair.

I kick it across the room and drop the axe and they both hit the floor at the same time, birthing a blast of equal parts noise, splinters and sawdust. I walk out the door and lock it behind me. A sense of relief washes over me, followed by a shortness of breath. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy every second of it. God knows it once did. The throne it once thought itself.

The chair loves misery.

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