The Chair
it’s monday. the worst day of the week. it’s monday, and the chair is uncomfortable. you’d think it would be this paragon of relief, considering the secrets spilled between corduroy arms. considering the gut-wrenching sobs that eek out between usually tight lips. considering the amount of money spent and the time delegated and the trauma re-lived. when you sit in a chair like this, and you say the things you say, you think you’ll at least be comfortable while doing it. but you’re not. and it’s a crock of shit. everything hurts. your back, your stomach, your heart, your asscheeks. everything hurts, whether it’s from the uncomfortable chair or the uncomfortable questions, the forgotten coffee on the counter, the last cigarette in the pack, or something else entirely. it’s monday, everything hurts, and you realize the whole reason you’re here is because you need someone to answer the same question you’ve been asking for months: what happened?