Start by imitating someone you both know. Push off from this if it helps: a chair nobody sits in.

Remember that wobbly chair in your old room? The one with the duct tape holding the leg together? You swore it was ergonomic, that you’d sit in it while you worked on your ‘masterpiece.’ It never sat. Just stared at you from the corner, mocking you with its structural integrity. Meanwhile, I’m here, still dealing with the fallout from the leak in my kitchen last Tuesday. My landlord says the building is ‘characterful.’ It’s damp, Frank. Damp. And that chair? It’s still there. I bet it’s got spiderwebs now. Or worse, dust bunnies that have formed a union. You never used it. Not once. And I’m the one who had to watch it rot. Classic Frank. Always planning to sit, never sitting.

Don’t lie. You didn’t break anything. You never break anything; you just abandon it. I’m sitting here with a bottle of bleach that’s clearly been opened, my throat burning like I’ve swallowed glass, and you’re telling me I’m the unreliable one? The landlord kicked me out because of the mold, Frank, not because of some furniture. And if I told you to hide something, it was the unpaid bills, not this. This is suicide, not clutter. Stop trying to spin this into a comedy about chair upholstery. I can’t feel my left hand. Is that normal? Tell me if that’s normal. I’m pretty sure that’s the part where I stop talking.

My hand is numb. I know what numb feels like. You’re telling me to stop talking because my voice is grating on your nerves? Fine. But don’t pretend you didn’t see the bottle. Don’t pretend you didn’t watch me pour it. You’ve always loved a performance, even if it’s just you talking to yourself in the mirror. I’m done. This is it. I’m going to lie down. You can keep the chair. Keep the mold. Keep the whole damn house. I’m out.

(...and if you’re reading this, Frank, you’re still alone. Just like you wanted.)

You called? Finally. Took you long enough. I’m sitting on the floor, water dripping down my chin, tasting like chlorine and regret. You’re pacing. I can hear your shoes. Thud, thud, thud. Always so fast. Why did you break the chair? Just to shut me up? It was a bad chair, Frank. Ugly. But it was ours. Now you’ve got an empty corner and a brother who smells like a swimming pool. The ambulance is late. They’re always late when it matters. I’m shivering. Is that normal? You said not to talk. But if I stop talking, you’ll think I’m playing the victim. And I’m not. I’m just… cold. Wait. Did you actually call them, or are you just saying that? Look at me. Am I playing the victim?

You hate me? Fine. Let them hate me too. I’m not looking at you because your face makes my stomach turn. It’s the same look you gave me when Dad died. Passive. Waiting for me to break so you can feel better about staying silent. They’re here. Let them in. I hope they find the mold too. I hope they find everything. You broke the chair, Frank. You broke it because you couldn’t handle the silence. And now? Now you’ve got noise. Your noise. My noise. All of it. I’m not moving. Let them drag me out. Or don’t. I’m done fighting. You win. Always. Just… don’t look at me. I can’t stand it.

I didn’t break it? Right. Because that’s your narrative. I was screaming, sure. About the black spots on the ceiling that looked like your face. But the chair? That was stress-induced agility, Frank. I jumped over it. It snapped under the force of my righteous indignation. You’re lying to save your conscience. And now the paramedics are piling on me like I’m trash. Let them. You called it. You said I was dramatic. Look at me now. Wrapped in foil, purple face, probably smelling like a chemical plant. You think you’ve won? You’re just left with the silence again. And the chair. The broken chair. In the corner. Watching us. I hate you. I hate this. Stop pushing me. I can breathe. Sort of. Just stop looking at me like I’m a puzzle you can’t solve.