In The Room, On The Chair

Graphic by ikiz

Sitting on the chair, he sits on the chair. He was on the chair sitting. The chair is in the room, the room the chair is in, he sits on the chair in the room. It is dark. He feels the cold on his skin, prickling cold. The hairs on his body standing, the cold dank and thick. The cold it wraps around him, the dank it touches him, very much gripping him. But again, it is dark, very dark. His eyes wide open but he cannot see. He waits for the darkness to settle but it never does. It penetrates deeper and deeper, darker and darker. All he knows is this. He is in a room, dark and cold. And he sits in a chair. He reaches forward from the chair and it creaks. The path of hand trying to grip, only grips the thin cold air. Then the darkness thickens again, folding around even denser. And pushes him into the chair still. It grips him harder. He can no longer move, move he no longer can, held hard in position, motionless in pain. The cold in his flesh now. The darkness in his blood now, pumping through his veins. He rocks gently back and forth, the chair a pendulum of creaking. The cold now grips the heart, and cold liquid pumps more cold. He sits there waiting. The dark is all there is. Darker there is none. The running cold is all he feels. Colder there is none. In the room, in the chair he sits. Silent now. All there is, there is none. In the room, on the chair. A tiny man.