Eternally Tired

Eternally Tired

By




storyteller

Butch was tired and the black leather chair glistened dully in the flickering light of the TV, inviting him to sit and rest. But the easy chair was occupied again.

"Get outta my chair!" Butch charged forward, mustering as much energy as possible into his voice.

The man continued snoring, the half-full beer bottle slipping from his grip. Butch slapped his hand next to the stranger's head, but felt nothing as his hand passed easily through the headrest.

Butch howled in frustration this time trying to make himself visible and frighteningly grotesque. He had to protect this leather against dirt and spills. Neither his children nor grandchildren were ever allowed to eat or drink anything when he granted them the rare privilege of sitting in it. He even resented when his wife sat in his chair and made her get out. In fact, this chair had been such a part of his life that he had died while watching TV in it.

After his death, his wife had quickly sold the house with most of the furnishings, including his chair. Another family moved in and he was now forced to defend his property every day against the strangers who wanted to abuse his chair. At first, Bruce presented himself as poltergeist and rattled items on tables and shelves nearby. But that did not seem to work and only made him more tired than when he had been alive. The effort it took to become visible drained what little energy remained in him, so he seldom manifested himself now.

The easy chair beckoned, promised him a rest that it could not provide. Butch just wanted to lean back and sleep as he had for all those years. He yearned for a long, refreshing rest, but that could never happen again and he felt the tiredness continually.

Alive he was usually tired, but could find some rest in his chair. Dead, he was only eternally tired.

END

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