The Armchair

The creak of the door broke the silence. The silence had been deafening, it was driving him insane, but he did nothing about it. There wasn’t much he could have done. He just sat there draped over the armchair, motionless and limp. The armchair stood near the window, with its back facing the door. It desperately needed to be repaired, tattered at the arms, torn and stained almost everywhere else. It was too big for him, it engulfed him completely. Made him look even frailer than he actually was. All strength had left him. When he sat in that chair, he may have looked weak, but that is probably the only time he felt strong. It is the only time he felt he was invincible. Every time he sat in the chair the same images would come to his mind. They would play on endlessly. At first they were hazy and barely had any form – flashes off white, a clang of metal, smears of red, that’s all. Soon they took form; the sounds became clearer the flashes became a woman clad in a white uniform. The clatter of metal was now accompanied by the shrieks of a woman and maniacal male laughter. He could see the gashes made by the knife; he could see the blood running down her leg. He could feel her flesh and taste the tang of her blood. It was all very real. It was little too real, he could see life drain out of her, her limp body weighed down on his hand. As she grew weaker, he grew stronger. The images were becoming more vivid with every passing second. As the images became sharper, time inched by, the moon rose overhead and cast just enough light to illuminate his wrinkled face. The moonlight ignited the gleam in his eye which in turn flooded the entire room. His lips slowly curled upward in a wry smile, he gripped the armchair. The creak of the door broke the silence. The nurse walked in with his medicines. He knew what he had to do.