No, that's fine. It's... just hold it steady there.
[On the bedside table, a tape recorder clicks itself on, unbidden.]
Statement of Freja Carbone regarding the death of her mother and an old wooden chair. Original Statement given 3rd of November, 2018. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. Statement begins...
[The Statement details a story about a woman whose mother had been growing increasingly isolated in her old age. More and more of her friends dying, fewer connections. The daughter, Freja had tried to reach out now and then, but it had just got so hard with a new job and really, her mother wasn't an invalid or senile. She was perfectly capable of getting out and doing things. And she just... hadn't. Just sat alone in her house, in an old wooden rocking chair that Freja had always hated. It was an uncomfortable thing, forever cold, no matter how long it was sat in, its rocks were uneven, and it didn't even have a satisfying creak to it. It was an utterly silent thing. You felt like you might just disappear into the cold forever sitting in that chair.
But every time she'd visit, her mother would be in it, staring at old pictures on the wall, listless. She'd tried to have it replaced. It wasn't even a nice chair. It had to be terrible for her mother's back. But every time she'd think to bring it up, she'd just as soon had a sense that if she got rid of that chair, something terrible would happen.
And it did. She'd hauled the chair away one evening when she'd forcibly sent her mother out to see a movie with her husband. Drove the thing to the dump and left it just outside the fence line since it was after hours. It couldn't do anymore harm. She'd replaced the chair, of course, with a proper rocker. Something padded, something warm with a gentle squeak that could bring a little life to a quiet room. Her mother had hated it, had despaired. She'd just gone to bed sobbing. Freja had found her like that the next day, lying abed in misery.
She stopped eating, stopped moving. Freja had had to move her to hospital, but even with IVs and feeding tubes and medications, she hadn't lasted long. Perhaps it was because the staff were inattentive, though. Freja had noticed it. They seemed to forget her mother was there sometimes. Missed checking in on her for hours at a time. And no matter how many blankets she had, her mother always felt cold.
Freja had convinced herself, this was the chair's doing somehow. But she'd left it for a few weeks, just mourning her mother. She'd come into the Institute because of something that had happened three days before giving her Statement. A large crate had been delivered, no return address, but clearly postmarked to her. It had contained the chair, and she'd felt compelled to bring it inside, to sit down.]
It's been getting harder to leave that chair these past few days. And I'm very cold.
Statement ends.
[Jon sighs out a breath. Throughout the thing, he's become more and more alert, shifting to sit up more, straining that the braces that are no longer needed.]
A artefact of the Lonely, if I have my guess. Or something very like it. We'll need to follow-up with Ms. Carbone and see that the chair is removed and destroyed. Hopefully, fire will ensure it won't return this time.
[He cranes to look over at Ava.]
Could you get all of this off of me? I don't need it anymore.
no subject
[On the bedside table, a tape recorder clicks itself on, unbidden.]
Statement of Freja Carbone regarding the death of her mother and an old wooden chair. Original Statement given 3rd of November, 2018. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. Statement begins...
[The Statement details a story about a woman whose mother had been growing increasingly isolated in her old age. More and more of her friends dying, fewer connections. The daughter, Freja had tried to reach out now and then, but it had just got so hard with a new job and really, her mother wasn't an invalid or senile. She was perfectly capable of getting out and doing things. And she just... hadn't. Just sat alone in her house, in an old wooden rocking chair that Freja had always hated. It was an uncomfortable thing, forever cold, no matter how long it was sat in, its rocks were uneven, and it didn't even have a satisfying creak to it. It was an utterly silent thing. You felt like you might just disappear into the cold forever sitting in that chair.
But every time she'd visit, her mother would be in it, staring at old pictures on the wall, listless. She'd tried to have it replaced. It wasn't even a nice chair. It had to be terrible for her mother's back. But every time she'd think to bring it up, she'd just as soon had a sense that if she got rid of that chair, something terrible would happen.
And it did. She'd hauled the chair away one evening when she'd forcibly sent her mother out to see a movie with her husband. Drove the thing to the dump and left it just outside the fence line since it was after hours. It couldn't do anymore harm. She'd replaced the chair, of course, with a proper rocker. Something padded, something warm with a gentle squeak that could bring a little life to a quiet room. Her mother had hated it, had despaired. She'd just gone to bed sobbing. Freja had found her like that the next day, lying abed in misery.
She stopped eating, stopped moving. Freja had had to move her to hospital, but even with IVs and feeding tubes and medications, she hadn't lasted long. Perhaps it was because the staff were inattentive, though. Freja had noticed it. They seemed to forget her mother was there sometimes. Missed checking in on her for hours at a time. And no matter how many blankets she had, her mother always felt cold.
Freja had convinced herself, this was the chair's doing somehow. But she'd left it for a few weeks, just mourning her mother. She'd come into the Institute because of something that had happened three days before giving her Statement. A large crate had been delivered, no return address, but clearly postmarked to her. It had contained the chair, and she'd felt compelled to bring it inside, to sit down.]
It's been getting harder to leave that chair these past few days. And I'm very cold.
Statement ends.
[Jon sighs out a breath. Throughout the thing, he's become more and more alert, shifting to sit up more, straining that the braces that are no longer needed.]
A artefact of the Lonely, if I have my guess. Or something very like it. We'll need to follow-up with Ms. Carbone and see that the chair is removed and destroyed. Hopefully, fire will ensure it won't return this time.
[He cranes to look over at Ava.]
Could you get all of this off of me? I don't need it anymore.