I must be in hell. I pleaded with her again not to push me in front of the television. She ignored me. Again. Maybe if I could use my voice she would listen. My pitiful eyes and scowl never seem to faze her. She just left me here.
Charles controls the TV clutching the remote and punctuating his joy with a boisterous laugh. He bores easily and nods off too quickly. I can't nap like him. I wonder what he dreams about? I must stare at the screen, count the holes in the ceiling tiles, or pretend to sleep. The voice on the TV roils on making me more irritated by the minute. Again, no one knows because they can't hear me. I believe they don't care.
Charles likes to pick political shows to watch. He never finishes a program. Usually, he leaves the television stuck on a channel devoted to bashing people too stupid to fall in line. The talk becomes infuriating to me. I am used to robust discussions, debates, and chances to change a mind. I can't stand what I'm forced to watch. I argue with the speaker. I have great retorts. I can never say them outloud because the accident severed the switch in my brain controlling my speech. I try and shout my thoughts and become more irritated. I would leave and get some air, but I can't move the chair. My frustration grows with the hate speech until Martha moves me back to my room.
Alone, I exhale all of the tension of the day. I let it go. I close my eyes and dream of my home. I wake up each morning dreading the chair, the television, and my life.
Copyright © 2018 Michael Shawn Sommermeyer
