It sits empty. Legs solid on the ground. A reminiscence of lacquer. The wood solid but brittle and worn by time. The grain. Miniature chasms leaving memories behind of the kind to be reconciled with a needle and tweezers.
Contemplating. Waiting. The chair. Familiarity. It’s been set there. Purposeful in its nature. It’s for you. Or some game for something. For you.
Waiting. Hunger. Her scent. Light in its way. Memories of mornings. Memory of coffee and showers. Talking and laughing. Day and days past.
The energy doesn’t have to come. It’s there. As palatable as the darkness that’s closing in. The energy doesn’t have to come. It’s here. Having sought its way in without needing welcome. Like a blanket set taught and laid tight. Waiting a welcome. To be pulled back. To be pulled open. To be pulled over. The unknown of tomorrow a reflection of the seeker as the slumber sets to an empty background. To be painted by the night.
Being moved to the chair. Familiar figures. Guides silent in their task. The chair just as silent. Musk. The smell of fall rain on summer’s death. The chair. Gives a small creak as arms are bent behind. Secured. The zip tie makes its familiar sound. As familiar as the tightening on the wrists. The contradiction of shoulders pulled back. The spine as it straightens in response.
Metal is set in. Mouth open. Beginning to wet as the thought of dryness and pooling and drooling begins to settle in.
A band. Rubber of some medical use. Color urine. Smelling of warm tires and cat piss. Pulled over. Around. Throat exposed. Secured. Jaw open and waiting. Jerked back. Unyielding. Eyes set focused pleading the nose line. Trying to see the ropes as they’re secured around the chest and shoulders. Testing at the wrist. Nervously. Tight. Unease sets. Ankles. Feet, legs to follow. They’re being pulled under. Secured from behind the chair.
She sits. Unable to move. Strapped in the chair as if an asylum patient. Waiting her psychopath.