Unheard Frequencies

I am still there, in that old chair in the attic. I never left. Birds roost in the eaves now, and weather stains the ingrained grease of where I rested my hands, and the back of my head. It smells of mould and pigeon shit.

There must be an echo – still reverberating out, out into the neighbourhood. I must have broadcast way out beyond the stratosphere, to the edges of the galaxy at the absolute least. Fear, terror, tears, pain, heartache. My Mayday, my SOS. The degeneration of my young, strong body, for what? I never knew.

I never found the frequency that could be heard.

Then, he stopped coming and gradually the house stopped working too. Still, I sat shackled in the attic.

The house has been on the market for seven years; never sold. Instead, it began to cave: at first a few slates, a cracked window, children playing big and throwing stones. A small fire rumoured to have been set by squatters was extinguished promptly by the local fire brigade, that’s when they found me.

The house endured, until now. Demolition day: by order of the local authority.

The street, the neighbourhood, the local authority, all of whom sanctioned this cleaning up, the erasing of an eyesore in their community. They had all been deaf to my existence, then outraged and mystified when they found me. Even if it had not been too late, I would not have been able to tell them why.

So, here I sit, as the walls come down, in this old chair in this attic, where I had been bound so tightly in life that I remain forever thereafter.