death of a chair

I. The Captain’s Chair

The chair had been in the apartment for months. They called it “The captain’s Chair.” It had once belonged to a former roommate, one they called “Captain Kid,” but since his departure the chair seemed to belong to no one. The chair looked to be in decent condition; it was a recliner in working order other than the fact that it didn’t know when to stop reclining. Maybe that’s what did it in, the constant agitation caused by the chair continuously flinging them over backwards. Regardless of the circumstances surrounding it, on a sunny Tuesday afternoon the chair met its demise.
It came in the form of two men in their early twenties. Chris and Matt they called themselves. It started innocently; Chris simply nudged the chair and watched it tumble backwards. Then, even before this narrator could get a grasp on things (danger: cliché approaching), the shit hit the fan. Chris savagely pounced upon the chair, ripping at its arms and reclining footrest. Matt watched at first. Then, caught up in the moment, he joined in himself. He flipped the chair over, its bottom side exposed, and sent a series of dropkicks into its back. The room was caught in a massive storm of fury. Stuffing flew, wood and metal were flung across the room, and shouts of “Fuck you chair!” were heard many houses away.
No on will ever know what caused it, this senseless act of violence. Whether the chair looked at Chris the wrong way, or whether it was just the time in a man’s life when he needed to destroy something, only Chris and the chair will ever know for sure.
What’s left of the chair still sits out behind their house. A legless, backless, armless mass of wood and metal and cushion remains in the spot it landed as it was flung from their deck in a celebration of victory. The chair is glad it wouldn’t burn.

II. Tossed

The chair was in a very fragile emotional state. It had been tossed out the back door, off of the porch, only to be left in pieces on the lawn. But the chair couldn’t have been simply tossed out; first it had to be ripped to shreds. The people, in a rage, had stripped the chair of its back, its reclining footrest, as well as its respect and dignity. Now the chair rested on the grass, crying and bleeding stuffing into the yard.
The dew came at night, and the temperature dropped. The chair shuddered, lost more stuffing, and tried to fall asleep. The chair had trouble dozing, kept waking up after nightmarish flashbacks to the beating. Images of drop-kicking feet and ripping hands swirled about the chair in its dreams. Finally morning came to relieve the chair of its unrest.
Dogs came by that day. The dogs stared at the chair, circled around it sniffing, and barked confused messages to one another. One of the dogs started gnawing on what was left of its arm another lifted its leg near the rear section. The chair braced itself for the worst, but was saved by the dogs’ owner. The dogs trotted off, knowing that they’d get their chance at the chair.
That night the people came back out, smelling strongly of beer (a smell the chair had learned to recognize as trouble), and chanting an ominous tune. They came toward the chair and lifted it off the ground. Back up the porch they went, raised the chair above their heads, and once again heaved it down upon the lawn. There was a cracking sound this time, and what was left of the chair rested on its side, now crippled. The people cheered, before returning to the house and beer.
The sun came up again, and the chair did not resist. It was still on its side, comatose, when the men came to carry it off. They spoke Spanish, and the chair did not understand their words as they lifted it into the truck. The chair joined forgotten objects from all around, and felt better about its end. They were all going to a better place.