“Hello?”
There is no answer over the telephone.
“Hello!?”
Bryan slings his phone across the room, sending it careening into a wall. The phone falls to the floor after leaving a sizeable imprint in the drywall.
“Of course there’s no answer,” says a frustrated Bryan. This was the fifth time in what felt like two hours that Bryan’s phone had rung with no response from the other line. Bryan was becoming very anxious and annoyed. His current circumstances weren’t helping the situation either.
Bryan Lord regained consciousness a few minutes prior to the start of the phone calls to find himself lying shirtless on his stomach on a cool, hard concrete floor. Groggy, he sat up and rubbed the crick in his neck. As he massaged his aches, Bryan took in his surroundings.
Bryan was encompassed by five white walls, each with paint peeling and fading in spots. The room was not incredibly spacious, but certainly not small enough to agitate his claustrophobia. A single light emanated from above him in the direct center of the ceiling that enveloped the room in a soft white. Bryan looked up to see where the light was coming from, but the light itself was so bright he had to avert his eyes. He then noticed something beyond odd.
There were no windows or doors in the room.
Bryan paces around the room, knocking on the walls, and looking around for how he got in. He picks up his phone and stares at it. Surprisingly, the phone is not damaged. He then looks at the dent in the wall. Bryan slides the phone back in his denim pocket, and turns around towards the center of the room.
A white chair now sits in the middle of the white room. Bryan stands still, staring at the chair.
“What the hell?” he says, confused. He looks around the room, wondering how the chair and he got in the room.
Bryan walks over to the chair and inspects it. The seat consists of white plastic molded into an L shape, which is fixed atop a pair of bent metal legs. Kneeing down, he runs his hands along the floor where the chair sits. There are no cracks in the concrete or any other indication of some type of trap door.
Standing, Bryan takes a few steps back and circles the chair, like a shark circles a diver, deciding whether his prey would taste delicious or like a mouthful of wetsuit. Very plasticy wetsuit.
“Where’d you come from?” Bryan interrogates the chair. The chair does not respond.
“Jesus Christ, I’m talking to a chair,” Bryan chuckles at himself. He pulls out his phone and lights the screen up. The digital display reads 12:00am. He slides the phone back in his pocket and leans against one of the walls facing the front of the chair. Bryan lets out a heavy sigh and slides down to the floor. He continues to stare at the chair.
The phone rings. Bryan quickly squirms to reach into his pocket and pulls out the phone. He looks at the phone to see who is calling; no caller ID. He presses the “send” button and answers anxiously.
“Hello?”
Again, no answer.
“Hello!? Answer me, God damnit! Who are you?” yells Bryan. With a grunt of dissatisfaction, he throws the phone across the room yet again. He buries his face in his hands, letting out a long downtrodden breath.
“You know, throwing the phone won’t make whoever’s on the other end of the line respond any quicker,” says a very articulate voice.
Bryan jerks his head up, startled. He looks around the room for whoever spoke.
“Hey!” declares Bryan to the room as he stands up, “I heard you!” He turns around in circles, searching for anyone. Thinking maybe he’s being watched from someplace else, he looks up, but the light is still too bright. He winces and shields his eyes. Bryan lashes out with a yell and kicks the chair, sending it tumbling across the room. He collapses to the floor, covering his eyes, “God damnit!”
“Ahem,” the voice coughs. Bryan parts his fingers and peeps through his hands. He looks around but still sees no one.
“Would you mind terribly turning me right-ways up?”
Bryan slowly turns his head towards the chair. He cocks his head and stares in disbelief. He scurries along the floor, further away from the chair.
“Really? You’re scared of me? Seems rather silly,” says the chair. Bryan stares, bewildered. He doesn’t know what to think. He’s seen some strange things in his life, but a chair talking to him was something he couldn’t possibly believe.
“You’re…talking,” counters Bryan.
“Irrelevant. Could you please just place me upright?” the chair asks politely. Bryan slowly gets to his feet and walks cautiously towards the overturned chair. He extends his hand towards the chair timidly, as if expecting an electric shock. He places his hand on the chair briefly, then pulls away.
“I know this is not the most normal of scenarios you have been in before, but if you sit me up, it would be much appreciated,” says the chair, reassuringly. Still hesitant, Bryan grabs the chair and places it upright on its legs. Resuming his frustrated and confused manner, he backs away and sits down against the wall.
“I understand if you don’t want to say anything for a while. Talking chairs are certainly a rarity,” says the chair. Bryan stares down at the floor between his feet, which are bare.
“Where are my shoes?” Bryan asks the chair.
The chair pauses before speaking, “Hmm…surprising.”
“What?”
“Surprising.”
“What is?”
The char responds, “You’re stuck inside an all-white, pentagonal room with no doors or windows, a blinding light overhead, and a talking chair. It’s surprising that your first question concerns the location of your shoes.”
Bryan looks up at the chair. His frustration is starting to tire him.
“I – I,” stutters Bryan, “I’ve got a lot running through my head right now.”
“Understandable,” consoles the chair, “Well if you wish to talk, I’m not going anywhere.” The chair chuckles slightly.
“I shouldn’t be talking to you,” Bryan says, turning away.
“I know,” says the chair, “because talking chairs don’t exist.”
“I have to focus. Get my head back on straight and think about this.”
“Splendid idea.”
“Okay, here’s what I remember,” says Bryan to himself as he stands. He begins to pace back and forth, collecting his thoughts. “My name is Bryan Lord. I am 30…five. I’m 35. I was…somewhere…somewhere dark.”
“Sounds about right,” interjected the chair. Bryan shoots the chair a cold glare, hoping it ceases interrupting. He then resumes his monologue.
“It was dark and…dirty?” questions Bryan, continuing to pace. “Yes. It was dirty. I remember I had shoes on. I was…sitting. Sitting on a bed.”
“You’re making me quite nervous,” adds the chair. “Would you mind not walking about so much? Sit down. Relax.”
“I was waiting for something,” Bryan says, ignoring the chair. “Someone?”
From across the room, the phone rings. Bryan stops midstride and looks over his shoulder towards the phone. It rings again.
“Are you going to answer that?” inquires the chair. “It’s probably for you.”
Ignoring the ringing, Bryan keeps pacing and talking to himself, “I was waiting. What was I waiting for?” The phone rings again. “I don’t remember feeling anything. Maybe I was going somewhere.” Bryan looks around the room, “Here?”
The phone rings again.
“If you won’t answer that for you, could you at least answer it for me so it will stop ringing?” beckons the chair.
“But where are my shoes?” continues Bryan, “I wouldn’t just go somewhere without shoes on. And how did I get here? I don’t remember anything about that.”
The phone rings again.
“Would you please answer the phone!?” pleads the chair.
“Where are the doors?”
Ring.
“Answer the phone!”
“Why is that light so bright?”
Ring.
“Please!”
“How is any air getting in?”
Ring.
“Pick up the phone!”
“Why?”
Ring.
“Just do it!”
“You’re a fucking talking chair! This isn’t real!”
Ring.
“The phone!”
Bryan yells, leaps towards the phone and picks it up.
“What!?” screams Bryan into the phone.
No answer.
“God damnit!” Bryan yells and throws the phone down and stomps on it, breaking it into pieces. “Why does this phone keep ringing!? What the hell is going on? Where am I? Why does this chair talk?”
With that, Bryan grabs the chair to throw it across the room, but the chair doesn’t budge. Bryan struggles to try and pick up the chair, but it still doesn’t move an inch. Bryan tries a third time, sweat dripping off his forehead, teeth clenched, straining his body, but can’t pick up the chair. With a yell of frightened frustration and confusion, Bryan kicks the immovable chair with all his might. He then falls to the ground, yelping in pain.
“Yelling doesn’t fix anything,” the chair comments.
Bryan forces back tears of helplessness as he holds his foot in agony, “Then why did you yell for me to answer the phone!?”
“I was not yelling,” corrects the chair. “I was merely sternly requesting. No sense in getting bent out of shape over this whole thing. I don’t believe there are any secret passageways or trapdoors lying about.”
Through teary eyes, Bryan looks up at the chair. The chair is now different than before. It is now tall, bulky, made entirely of wood and bolted to the floor. Bryan sits up and stares, bewildered.
“What,” Bryan begins, still choked up, “is happening?”
Bryan looks around the room and becomes more shocked. There are now only four walls to the room, and on one of these walls is a large glass window.
“A window!” exclaims Bryan. He runs over to the window and bangs on the glass. “Hey! Let me out!” There is nothing beyond the glass but whiteness. Bryan looks along the edges of the window for a way to open it, but his wishes are soon dashed. He pounds his fists harder against the impervious glass in anger.
“That’s a good color on you,” compliments the chair.
Bryan stops banging on the glass and notices his sleeves. He is wearing a light blue denim shirt. He steps back from the window and starts patting all over his chest, arms, and sides. He frantically unbuttons the shirt and throws it on the ground. He turns to the chair.
“Where the hell did that come from?” Bryan asks, pointing to the bundled up shirt.
“Why are you so upset, now?” politely asks the chair. “I would imagine you’ve had time to accept this.”
“Accept what?” wonders an irate Bryan. “I don’t even know where I am, how I got here, or – I – I just don’t know anything.” Bryan picks up the crumpled denim shirt, inspecting it. A series of numbers is printed above the chest pocket. Bryan scratches at the numbers with his grimy fingernails. He notices his dirty hands and drops the shirt in surprising disgust.
“Alright,” says Bryan, “why are my hands so gross?” He holds his hands out, turning them over. Bryan starts to notice more changes occurring inside the room. A single blue door is now in the wall to the right of the chair. Bryan drops the shirt and runs towards the door. He grabs the knob and tries to yank it open, but the door doesn’t budge. He tries harder and harder, shaking the door with a furious rage. Bryan kicks the door and yells up to the ceiling, to a certain entity in question.
“Get me out of here!” Looking up at the ceiling, Bryan notices the light is not so bring anymore. He can now see two flickering fluorescent bulbs and hear the soft, mechanical hum of the struggling lights. Bryan calms down slightly and scans the room for more changes.
The walls are now a drab green, and three rows of five chairs are positioned on the other side of the large window. Bryan cautiously walks over to the glass and peers into the other room. He sees an open doorway to the left of the chairs. He strains to see beyond the doorframe, but is unable to due to the impenetrable blackness seeming to solidify the frame’s space. Bryan finally turns around to face the chair.
“You do look rather tired,” observes the chair. “Why don’t you come and sit down over here?” Too exhausted to refute any more the fact that a talking chair exists, Bryan lumbers over to the chair, and collapses into its wooden arms. He lets out a sigh of relief.
“Comfortable?” asks the chair.
“Surprisingly, yes,” replies Bryan.
“Good,” says the chair. Bryan closes his eyes to try and collect himself. His comfortable feelings evolve into a strange sense of acceptance. He’s not quite sure what he’s accepting, but he feels questioning and fighting any further is futile. Bryan’s been through so much that sitting in this chair, for some reason, feels like the right thing to do.
Bryan lets out a heavy sigh and relaxes. He finds strange solace in the large wooden chair. Almost as if he’s been waiting to sit down in this very chair for years.
“You know, “ the chair speaks, “you didn’t have to be here.”
“I suppose so,” replies Bryan, “but someone had to, might as well be me.”
“Everything will work out. I promise,” reassures the chair. Bryan isn’t sure what the chair is implying, but he is so relaxed, he doesn’t find it necessary to seek any further answers from his inanimate confidant.
Bryan feels a slight tightening around his wrists and ankles, but he is so unconcerned with his surroundings now, that he doesn’t bother to open his eyes or even flinch. He then feels something tighten around his forehead, and still, he remains motionless.
“Hit the first switch.”
Bryan hears a low hum and opens his eyes slowly. There are rows of people sitting on the other side of the glass now. Most of them stare at him in disgust, however a select few peer through salty tears welling up in their eyes. Bryan recognizes all of them. One woman, in particular, covers her face with a handkerchief to hide her sadness when she’s not looking into his eyes with the purest love. Bryan smiles at her as a single tear rolls down his cheek. She mouths the words Bryan had heard so many times before; “I love you.”
Bryan sees a man in uniform standing to the right of the window, in the room with him. His hands are crossed at his belt buckle as he looks at Bryan with a statue’s gaze. Bryan also recognizes him, but their connection is strictly professional. He closes his eyes, and nods to the man in uniform.
“Bryan Matthew Lord,” the man addresses,” do you have anything left to say?”
Bryan smiles and opens his eyes, looking into the room of spectators. His voice is calm, collected, and peaceful.
“I’m sorry for what has happened,” says Bryan. “I wish things would have turned out differently. I will see them soon. I will tell them you miss them.”
An angry couple stands up behind the glass and begins yelling at Bryan, but their voices fall silent, leaving Bryan with only an image of hate. The couple then begins to cry and fall back down in their seats. Comforters sitting behind them offer a reassuring squeeze of the shoulder as the couple leans on one another, sobbing. The loving woman in the room stands up and smiles at Bryan. Bryan smiles back and shares one last embracing look.
“Bryan Matthew Lord,” the man, an officer, speaks up, “you have been found guilty by a jury of your peers for the murder of Frank, Mary, and Bella Bookman. You have been sentenced to death by electrocution. Your sentence will now be carried out. May God have mercy on your soul.”
Bryan closes his eyes for the last time, waiting for the inevitable with patience and acceptance. He thought someone had to pay for what happened to his friends and their daughter. He just never imagined it would be him who would pay the ultimate price. Bryan missed them dearly, and couldn’t imagine what their parents, and Bella’s grandparents, were going through, other than the obvious anger they expressed towards him. The love of his life would soon find out the pain of losing someone she admired, adored, respected, and longed for. Bryan says a silent prayer to a God he isn’t sure exists, and says good-bye to the life he loved so much before his friends were murdered. It is time for the end.
The phone rings…
No comments:
Post a Comment