Two Chairs Remain

"Two chairs remain" by Bradley Miller

Everyone has a god. In this place or person, they find safety from the wickedness of men turned to monsters and monsters living in men. Safety, security, solitude. 

Should I continue, please know my lips should never dare to speak such a story, so I prefer to write it. When a small child sees the darkness in men, that monster in the hallway, no words have been instructed for such a sight. 

Mother rests her feet on one of three kitchen chairs. Her eyes bloodshot from the graveyard shift and fresh sweat pours from her head like stew boiling over. I look to the window and see the sun shining through a tattered curtain grandma gave us three years ago. I wish she were here now.

Mother stood up and turned to me as I stood in that long narrow hallway just off the kitchen. She smiled faintly and touched my head just as my friend’s mothers used to do. She walked to the end of the hallway and slammed that flimsy door shut. Though the bottom hinge was broken it still worked with a squeak. But her slam killed any squeaking noise. In that moment not a shutter ran through my body as the clash of wood to wood echoed in that hall. Small children don’t usually understand what it means to be angered like she was. But small children don’t usually see what I’ve seen. 

Father got back from his office job at about 5 o’clock on that Friday. His office clothes looked crumpled as usual, and he wasn’t in a hurry to change them. The routine had been the same since I can remember: come home, change, eat a sandwich, and speed to his next job without saying a word. The last six months leading to this day had been very different. He was sluggish and smelled like whiskey. The rush had left him and what remained was annoyance at the world. I remember mother and father fighting nearly every moment they were together. They always fought and slammed doors but this was different. Passion and rage mixed together to create something I had never seen. A noose was attached around their necks, and they pulled each other’s every day.

Father sat in the same chair of three that mother left a few minutes ago. If he had known it was her chair he would have moved, but the look in his eyes showed that he was too tired to tell. Before my mind could stop me, my mouth wriggled out a few words, “How was work today father?” Unknowingly I brewed a quiet storm. His answer came in grunts and sighs. Frightfully, my mouth squirmed few more words, “I’m sorry it was a bad day father”. 

Father slammed the table abruptly and stood up saying, “Go to your room! Now that’s enough of this nonsense.” I ran in tears and closed the door behind me. What had I done? Did I say something stupid? What silly thing caused him to be angry? Crying into my small caseless pillow I asked myself these questions repeatedly. Stupid girl! You should have stayed quiet. Why can’t you remember that it is better to stay quiet? Then more tears came to the tips of my eye lashes. Rolling over and down my t-shirt they landed on my favorite possession. Yet another gift from my grandmother. It was a Walkman MP3. Small enough to fit into my pocket at school but too sacred to take out of my room. 

I clicked until my favorite songs appeared on the screen. Not once did I sing along but my method was full volume and a pillow covering my earbuds. Even though pairs of tears glistened my cheeks with their translucent misery, the peace of beautiful sound kept my mind occupied. Without this weapon against the horror there would have been no light in my world. Even though I heard noises louder than my encapsulated headphones, each one drifted slowly away in a majestic breeze propelled by something bigger and mightier – an unfettered musical transcription of the human soul. It was god. This freedom was all I desired. No glamourous polish for my nails or makeup for my face could compare to the weight of freedom’s refreshing taste on my tongue. Of course, I knew it was only a dream and what transpired outside of my bedroom walls knew nothing of that sweet taste I most craved.

I fell asleep on this note. Something about daydreaming turns to mindful calmness and restful slumber. But my waking was not a joyous one as I had considerably hoped. Something broke just outside of my bedroom door. This crash had jolted me awake. Fully alert and ready to react, I heard nothing for the next ten long minutes. My guard began to lower just to realize my Walkman had died as I slept. Searching my room for a charger it dawned on me ever so terribly that my charger was sitting on the kitchen table where I placed it nearly two hours ago. My heart began to quicken, and I felt the breath in my lungs follow suit. Thoughts of contemplation played a chess match inside my mind seeking to find some resolve to walking out that door. But slowly I talked myself down. The crash happened fifteen minutes ago so why should I be afraid now? Even if they are out there, I can grab it and quickly and return, is that so bad? The encouragement I tried to show myself did little good as there was an ultimate reality that involved me leaving this room and entering the unknown. 

I walked toward the door. Running in my mind was the pathway to the table and the safe return trip to my room. With the pathway locked in, I grasped the small metal handle. Heart racing and hair standing proud atop my skin, I slowly opened the door. Sitting there broken on the floor was the vase my mother was gifted as a birthday present last year and next to it was mother. The sweat that rested upon her head from before was replaced now with blood. Her eyes widened as she saw me almost to say she had forgotten I existed. Looking down the hall was the sight that haunts me even now. Silhouetted and raw was the outline of a figure I knew only to be father. His stature had changed. His demeanor was not natural. The alcohol within him gave birth to nothing less than a monster.

I had no words to speak to him this time. The fear had won me over. Frozen and confused, I watched mother raise to her feet and cover her only child from the beast that was standing in our hallway. My Walkman was now on the floor as I gave it up to cower behind my blood covered mother. Peering around her waist, my small innocent eyes watched as the monster raised his arm and pulled the trigger of what appeared to be his wedding present from the very woman he just shot dead. She fell in less than an instant. Her eyes cold, her heart still, and her hand resting on top of that same Walkman I claimed to be god not five minutes ago. It was this object that had led to her current state. But a simple thought shuffled in even amongst the shock of it all, was all of this because of me?

No, there is not nostalgia to feel. At one point or another there might have been, but not anymore. Because nostalgia is all the good and pleasant in the world that urged you on as a young child into full adulthood. Nostalgia is that whimsical breeze in the park or that fruitful sweet taste of cotton candy while sitting on the Ferris wheel after the sun has set. This is not nostalgia, this is trauma.