The Chair

As lightning pierced through the misty night sky and thunder rumbled in the distance, David watched the elemental display intently sat in the large study of his family's old home, transfixed by nature's show of force.

Tilbury House stood as the last station of civilisation at the edge of the uncompromising and desolate moor.

David never felt more at peace in the midst of a storm. It was during his childhood that he had grown to love, respect and see storms as a refuge. A wild and untempered hiding place from his troubled life within Tilbury House.

To many, it would have appeared that David had everything - a privileged upbringing.

His father was considered one of the wealthiest men in this little corner of southern England and perhaps wished to have a life like David's. David, on the other hand, wouldn't wish his life on anyone.

His father's main failing was that he was often absent for long periods due to work commitments. David barely knew the man aside from being his spitting image. His mother was a different beast entirely. David reasoned that his father's absence was something of a catalyst for his mother's cruelty. That in no way excuses her. For while it was true he had a roof over his head, a clean bed to sleep in at night and a full belly, his existence was a lonely one.

That was why he found solace in the storms. The storms that gave his mother crippling migraines meant that he was safe from her brutality.

His mother was very particular in her life and what she expected from her only offspring. This made life difficult for David as he could never really tell which version of his mother he was going to come up against in the morning – the twisted tyrant, the malevolent monster or the negative and manipulative narcissist.

There was no reprieve, really. If she wasn’t raising her hand or the nearest object to him, she was dismissive and withholding of the things David craved more than anything – undivided attention, support and love. Although the feelings died down eventually, dulled out as they were by her constant disregard and lack of anything approaching enthusiasm or encouragement, David longed to hear words of positivity in his direction.

She enjoyed her standing in the local community, even though she despised most of her contemporaries. Spent a long time in front of the mirror, beautifying herself. Something that made David smirk, because all the makeup in the world couldn’t solve her hideous personality. The scornful look that adorned her face whenever he was around had created unpleasant and untimely cracks and lines that made her look far older than she was.

Whenever his father came home from work, it was not really any better, because his father was understandably tired and detached. He didn’t feel he could interfere with David’s mother’s parenting methods. Besides, even if he had tried to voice his concerns, David’s mother knew how to get under his skin. Often, he would not see his father for days when he was home.

David looked back at the chair…that damn chair in the study. The chair that had been a bone of contention for as long as he could remember. The chair that served as a good gauge for the level of wild and uncontrolled wickedness his mother was capable of. An heirloom that was owned by his grandmother and her mother, which was one of the few remaining possessions of the great matriarch’s of his mother’s family. It was a wooden-framed chair with a gaudy gold and blue Paisley pattern cushion filled with duck feather down.

How he loathed that chair, because of what happened.

One day when David was incredibly young and his father was on one of his long business trips, David was playing in the study. Just silly childlike play – swashbuckling with invisible foes like he was Zorro or D'Artagnan, when a buckle on his shorts got caught in the fabric of the cushioned seat of the chair. As hard as he tried to free himself without damaging the chair, the fabric ripped.

To this day, he remembers the silence that fell in the study as the rip reverberated around the room. His heart beating faster and his breath quickening, he thought about trying to hide the tear, in the hope his mother would not see it and would maybe think it was her doing.

Unfortunately, his mother spotted the damage almost immediately later that day when she came into the study as she was accustomed to doing every evening. The blood-curdling crow-like call of his mother sent a shiver down his spine as he made his way down the long staircase from his bedroom to the study.

He could not remember the exact words his mother uttered as she cornered him in the study and towered over his cowering body. It was venomous, hate-filled words that left a bitter, acrid flavour in the air. That mixed with the metallic taste of his blood as his mother slapped his face, catching her razor-sharp nails on his adolescent lips.

That moment remained ingrained in David’s already wavering psyche. As he matured, he understood that his mother’s abhorrence towards him was her own problem, but it still left him feeling emotionally stunted and cold. Better the devil you know, as the saying goes, didn’t take away the great sadness that overshadowed him.

Any morsel of love and respect he tried to nurture for his mother was stamped out. David tried, desperately, over the years. But it was to no avail.

His father died ten years ago. The funeral was a sad affair…not least of all because they were celebrating a man he never really knew, but because his mother insisted on making it all about her.

In time, though, David felt like life may be handing him a better hand when his mother got sick and was confined to her bed for weeks that became months. Doctors were unsure what was the cause, but suggested it was likely a virus. David hoped this would be the end of her.

Unfortunately, she recovered, but was less able-bodied. This did not make her a kinder person or easier to deal with – in fact, it made her worse. Although her senseless beating days were long gone, she could still cut through David with her devastating verbal decimations.

David put up with it. As biting as her words could be, he was long numb to them. His heart was as calloused as her skin had become. Even as he sat and looked over at the chair, he could still hear the vile toxin whispers. Her words had no effect on him anymore.

“What was that mother?” he asked with feigned interest that barely masked the indifferent sarcasm behind the question. He really didn’t care and when she continued speaking, he was deaf to her responses.

Walking towards her favourite chair, he crouched down and played with the stitching, smiling as she snarled at him. The stitching woven into her arms and face, holding her in place in the chair she cherished so much. He gazed at his handiwork, he couldn’t help feeling proud of his grotesque creation. He admired her tenacity and ability to withstand the pain that she was suffering.

That he had inflicted on her.

Maybe one day, when the chair was a dusty old relic, he would move on with his life. For now, he remained at Tilbury House.

*

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: This is for Kenny Penn's awesome Gothic Stories unofficial challenge, which you can find out more about below. Had a few different ideas bumping around my head for weeks, but then David's story came to me.

Here are some other pieces: