Repressed, Too Long

The boy stalked across the empty stage.

The sounds of his heavy footsteps echoed off the wooden floor,

resonating into the empty space.


The chair itself was nothing significant.

Fake blue plastic seat,  

iron legs holding it up that were rusted away from use.

It held no value.


The boy gripped the top of the chair in his hands,

his dull nails unable to puncture the plastic,

but it slightly started to bend underneath this new pressure. 


He picked it up,

hoisting it above his head before

slamming it back down to the rushing floor of the stage.

It bounced and rattled,

falling uselessly on its side

before being lifted by one of its legs to be thrown,

once again in a fit of a rage too long repressed.


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