It was one Sunday evening that, upon arriving home, I made myself a bowl of popcorn and sat down in my recliner to watch television.
I shared my apartment with Jeremy Holtzfin, a close friend of mine since our first day on campus. Dorms were unavailable to upperclassmen and neither of us had much saved up, certainly not enough for a nice apartment. What we settled for had a kitchen-living room area, a bathroom, and two bedrooms—each no bigger than my closet back at home. Jeremy bought a few pieces of art for cheap from a campus show to decorate the living room walls: he had worked hard to make the apartment somewhat hospitable in spite of the rather inhospitable neighborhood. The television set was one of those bulky older ones you don’t see too often, purchased at a tag sale along with two chairs: a nice cushioned seat and a leather recliner. I usually took the recliner which stood too close to the TV but took too much effort to move any distance further. I had a couple metal folded chairs in my room in case of company, though we didn’t usually have much besides my girlfriend of two years, Becky Silver. We also bought two lamps due to the sporadic flashing of the ceiling lights when turned on; changing light bulbs never fixed the problem. One of the lamps, a smaller desk lamp, sat beside the recliner on a small, wooden table alongside a picture of Becky and I at the ice rink. The other, standing almost as tall as myself, rested beside the other chair. The kitchen was rather empty apart from some cups and dishes in the cabinets and a handgun hidden behind them. Jeremy and I agreed on getting the weapon in case there was ever a need.
That Sunday night, I sat there flipping channels for some time. After looking over each channel a few dozen times, I settled on a Clint Eastwood Special for the night. Jeremy was in his room, studying for tomorrow’s exams. While I know I should’ve joined him, it was much more entertaining to watch outlaws duel sheriffs and ride victoriously into the sunset. I cannot recall the remainder of the night apart from the sounds of guns from men on horses and a strain on my eyes that grew with every hour past. At some point, I reached for a handful of popcorn and accidentally knocked the bowl from the table, littering the floor with kernels. A new bowl—which I must have prepared at some point though I cannot recall when—sat on the table the next morning.
And I continued watching well after the sun rose. The special had ended so I resolved to flipping channels yet again. Emerging from his room, Jeremy paused behind my chair and said something that I did not hear before he left for class. I just sat there, eating and changing channels.
The weeks passed on across from the screen. Jeremy began to linger longer behind the chair everyday, speaking more aggressively each time; I never heard a word he said. One day, he stepped between myself and the television, determined not to move until I did. I don’t suppose I said anything and I surely did not stand, leaving us at an impasse—a stalemate where neither party would yield. I cannot remember if he gave up after a few minutes, or hours, but he eventually broke away from his stance, enabling me once more. I know I grinned once he walked away. I remember nothing else, except that I grinned when he walked away.
The months passed and I rotted in the chair. The floors were covered in the remains of whatever food was knocked from the side-table or missed my mouth. I used my phone to order food every night, but I cannot remember a moment where I stood to answer the door. To no surprise, I grew quickly out of shape, crumbs covering my oily shirt which reeked of body odor and vomit—I must have thrown up at some point over the past week. Jeremy hid himself from me, the only evidence of his continued residence here being the sound of his key turning in the lock every morning and night.
Becky arrived once at the apartment and I remember that moment quite well. She begged me to leave, to get up, to get help, and I sat there and ate, watching a mafia movie, hearing her words and not understanding them, seeing her only in my peripheral while I focused on the gunshots on screen, myself ever silent and disgusting with a beautiful woman begging me to save myself. She lunged for the remote, which was firmly in the grip of my left hand, but I held it too tightly, leaving her atop of me for a bit, prying at my fingers, pulling for the device that had become an extension of my hand, stuck in my grip so she turned to my face and kissed me, crying, pounding on my chest, screaming; I watched mob men blow each other's heads off as she stood up and left the apartment for the last time. At some point during the commotion, her picture had fallen from the side-table and lay amongst the scraps on the floor, the glass broken and her picture quickly soaked and stained under a spilled can of soda.
Six months passed and my toxic smell claimed the entirety of the apartment with the floor now covered in an amalgamation of rotting waste that no longer resembled the food and material it once was. A layer of unidentified sludge coated this mass, adding to the ever pervasive odor. I smelled no better than a corpse at this point, unbearable to Jeremy who spent fewer and fewer nights at the apartment. My eyes burned—a momentary relief granted in every blink. Yet, sleep evaded me while I watched sit-coms, war movies, documentaries, game shows, and every other genre of film. I wasted my education away in this chair. I need to pry myself away, but I can’t. I say only one more movie, one more episode, one more minute, and that turns into another day wasted.
Jeremy took his final stand, offering me an ultimatum: yield the remote or leave. I did neither so he tried to drive me out. He lunged at me and I fought back. By the end of our fight, he left the apartment screaming and cursing while I remained bloodied and bruised, brain-dead on the chair, but victorious. His key never turned at the door again.
I do not know how much time passed after that. I’ve lost my life and accepted it as forfeit before a hell whose name is television, a leather recliner, and a rotting living room. I have grown accustomed to the smell of death and the general feeling of illness that now claims my body. With every bill that appears upon the side table, the apartment seems to shrink and lose any charm it once had. The paintings all left with Jeremy—the walls now empty apart from inexplicable stains.
I so desperately want to stand but fear I will not remember how. The relief of sleep—now only a memory—taunts me as my eyes grow ever blinder staring at the screen; I think I forgot how to blink. I lost my life sitting in this chair. I once knew love and possibility, but all I know now is the mess I’ve created and sloth I am, waiting for it all to end so I may be freed of my lazy torture. Good God, I ask you: where has my youth gone? Where went the days where I lived and why did they go?
And soon, I received a letter from Jeremy. He had graduated and landed quite the job. He expressed hope that I had stood at some point while he was away. The letter fell only to trash below, quickly lost beneath it all.
And soon, I received a letter from Becky. She was to be married to a Jack Garrett and I was invited to the wedding. I told myself I would stand and I would see her again, remembering her kisses and tears. Yet, her letter soon fell from the wooden stand, joining Jeremy’s in its repulsive refuge.
Damn you! You’ve killed yourself on that chair! What illness has claimed your mind that you no longer have the will to live nor the will to die? What possessed you to sit down that Sunday evening instead of joining Jeremy in his room to study? I could’ve been a doctor! Maybe a lawyer or a banker. I could’ve married Becky and had a future: I’d live in a house, a New England mansion like the ones you see on TV, and I would come home everyday to greetings and love from my beautiful wife and children. Oh! How much meaning I could know from life!
Oh Becky! You could’ve pried the remote from my hands had you tried only a little harder. Jeremy, you could’ve fought much harder; I am but a living corpse, awaiting my coffin. Smash the damn television and the demon within its blinding screen would die. If it was merciful, I would die with it. Gunshots echo in my ears and I cannot tell if that is from the show I watch or if it is real. I hear them often, too often, and I hope one bullet is meant for me. There is no one here to kill me and God does not see me amongst the dirt. He assumes I have long passed on, not expecting me in his kingdom.
It was then that I stood. I stood and the remote fell to the debris below, lost quickly. I grabbed the tall lamp, yanking it from its socket, and swung for the television. Oh! What beauty! Sparks flew as I swung over and over, the television groaning as actors tried to say their lines and lost their voices. The screen flashed from show to show before turning to static and then dying entirely, shattering into thousands of pieces before the might of the lamp. The antenna snapped and flew across the room, one lodging itself well into my knee. I felt no pain; I felt nothing but the sensation of life. As the lamp fell apart, I grabbed plates from the sea of waste below and threw them at what was the television. With one final effort, I picked up the side table and I broke the wooden piece over the television, summoning a final round of sparks and splinters. I could no longer watch and so I was free.
Looking around the room, the smell hit me as it had not in years. It brought me to my knees, showing me the ants, rats, and other vermin crawling amongst the piles of shit, trash, and bile on the floor. The very same foul matter covered me and so I ripped off my clothes, letting them also fall to the floor.
The apartment looked nothing like the one I knew, certainly smaller. I ran to the bathroom, desperate for a shower, where I caught sight of myself in the mirror. Blood filled my eyes, coloring them crimson red, while black bags hung heavily below. My face grew thin with the rest of my body, ghastly-white skin clinging tightly to bone. As my mouth fell open, I noticed four teeth missing and another two blackened. My hair had all fallen away, exposing my bald scalp. Blood and cuts covered my body from the destruction of the television. I flipped the lightswitch to further inspect myself, prompting the bulb above to explode and douse me in glass. I now felt the pain of the cuts on my face, the cuts all over my body, and the antennae sticking out of my leg, warmed by the flow of blood over my skin.
My body had long stopped living though my heart still pumped.
I ran back into the living room, once more witnessing the horror I had lived in all this time. I could not remember what once was. I could not remember days outside of that chair.
Running through my living room, I opened a cabinet, now empty except for one thing. With a glance at the gun, I looked back to the smashed remains of the television, the landfill I had made, and, finally, at my bloody, emaciated bone-white fingers. I wrapped my hand around the handle, massaging the trigger, false gunshots echoing only louder in my ear as a thousand images filled my bloodshot eyes. Before I could fire, I saw, amongst the piles of filth, amongst the rats and ants, amongst the letters and debris, the picture of Becky and I at the ice rink, covered in soda and hardly visible under its shattered frame. Still, I could see her smile and I could see my own grin from a time when I was alive.
With the gun still in hand, I walked over to her picture, picked it up, and stared. I sat back in the recliner, with the gun in my left hand and picture in my right, staring for the rest of my days at what life could’ve been before I had let myself die in that chair.
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