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Bleeding Chair

· 7 min read
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Old Wang felt he needed some noise, the deafening kind. Not the eternal hum of printers and keyboards weaving together in the office, nor the lukewarm background noise of his wife's chatter mixed with TV commercials at home. He needed the kind of colossal sound that could shake the soul from the body, a rock concert—the louder, the better.

The ticket was a perk from his work unit, for a band that was past its prime but had recently made a comeback thanks to a variety show. Outside the stadium, scalpers shouted prices in hoarse voices, the air filled with a mixture of roasted sausages and some cheap perfume. Old Wang squeezed through the crowd, like a sardine in a can, jostled forward. He felt a bit dazed. This collective frenzy, when was the last time he'd experienced it? Maybe twenty years ago, some kind of mass participation event, he couldn't recall the specifics. He only remembered the huge crowds, the loud slogans, and the emptiness after it dispersed.

By the time he found his seat, he was already covered in a light sweat. The plastic chairs were the cheap blue kind, arranged tightly like soldiers awaiting inspection. The lights dimmed, and screams erupted. On stage, multi-colored beams cut through the smoke; the lead singer, clad in shiny leather, screamed with all his might. The drum beats were like heavy hammers, pounding on Old Wang's chest. He tried to wave his arms and shout along with the young people around him, but after a few shouts, his throat felt dry, and his arm grew sore. He wasn't young anymore, after all.

Just as he was about to give up on blending in, planning to quietly 'enjoy' the noise, a piercing scream suddenly came from the row in front—not out of excitement, but pain.

A girl was clutching her thigh, blood seeping through her fingers, staining her white dress red. The person next to her stood up in panic, pointing at the chair she had been sitting on. Old Wang craned his neck to look. On the surface of that blue plastic chair, a sharp metal strip protruded, like a venomous sting, glinting coldly.

"My God! There's something wrong with the chairs!" someone shouted.

The commotion spread like ripples. Soon, more cries of alarm came from different sections. More people had been stabbed. This time on the arm, and the back. The scene started to get chaotic. The music remained deafening, and the lead singer on stage seemed oblivious—or perhaps, chose to ignore it—continuing his performance. The frenzied waves of sound and the scattered, pained groans formed a bizarre symphony.

A few uniformed staff members ran over, but they looked even more bewildered than the audience. They tried to soothe the injured, but their movements were clumsy, their eyes evasive. Old Wang saw a staff member speaking urgently into a walkie-talkie, reporting something, but the loud music almost swallowed his voice.

"What's going on? How can these chairs hurt people?" a young man next to Old Wang asked indignantly, though it sounded more like he was talking to himself.

Old Wang also found it unbelievable. He looked down at his own chair, carefully running his hand over the seat surface. Smooth, cold, seemingly without any abnormality. But he didn't dare to sit back fully, leaning slightly forward, maintaining a vigilant posture. The people around him were much the same; bodies that had been swaying to the music just moments before were now somewhat rigid. The fervent atmosphere was like a punctured balloon, rapidly deflating, leaving only unease and a sense of the absurd.

The performance didn't stop because of this. The injured were helped away by staff, moving with difficulty along the narrow aisles towards the exits. Their figures looked lonely and wretched under the flashing lights. Most of the audience, after the brief disturbance, turned their attention back to the stage. The music continued, and life must go on, mustn't it? Old Wang thought. Perhaps these were just a few unfortunate, isolated incidents.

He tried to immerse himself in the music again, but the jarring splashes of red and the pained expression of the injured girl kept flashing before his eyes, impossible to dismiss. That chair with its protruding 'venomous sting' felt like a prop from a Kafka novel, carrying some kind of ominous, absurd metaphor. It was supposed to offer rest and support, yet it had become a weapon that harmed.

The concert finally ended at midnight. The exiting crowd flowed slowly towards the exits. Old Wang moved with the flow, overhearing people around him discussing the earlier incident in low voices.

"Heard it was a quality issue with the chairs. They added this show last minute, used old stuff pulled from the warehouse." "No way, I heard someone sabotaged them intentionally, trying to create panic." "Come on, it's just chaotic management, shoddy work. Can't even guarantee the safety of a chair."

All sorts of speculations and rumors circulated in the air, but no one could offer a definite answer. Old Wang even heard a more bizarre theory: the chairs had 'emotions,' and having endured too much noise and pressure, they finally couldn't help but 'fight back'. He found this idea ridiculous, but for some reason, a chill crept into his heart.

At the exit, several people looking like reporters were held back by security guards outside. They wielded 'long guns and short cannons' [cameras], trying to interview departing audience members. A representative from the organizers, a middle-aged man in a suit and tie, faced the cameras, reading a statement with a solemn expression: "We deeply regret the unfortunate incident that occurred tonight... Preliminary findings indicate structural abnormalities in individual seats due to unknown reasons... We will conduct a thorough investigation and provide necessary medical assistance to the injured audience members..." His voice was flat and official, devoid of any emotion.

Old Wang listened silently, without stopping. He knew this incident would most likely be like a stone dropped into a lake, creating brief ripples before quickly being forgotten. Tomorrow, the sun would rise as usual. Perhaps a small corner of the newspaper would mention it, with a headline like "Incident at Concert, Several Audience Members Sustain Minor Injuries," before being drowned out by more entertainment gossip and financial news. Those injured would receive some compensation, then return to their own lives, carrying scars both physical and mental. And those 'temperamental' chairs would probably be collected, melted down, turned into other plastic products, as if nothing had ever happened.

Walking out of the stadium, the night breeze felt cool against his face. Old Wang glanced back at the huge, still brightly lit building; it felt like a giant, silent monster. He suddenly felt that the deafening noise he had sought today hadn't truly dispelled his inner gloom. Instead, it had made him feel even more clearly the presence of something vast, formless, and cold.

Back home, his wife was already asleep. He tiptoed into the study and sat down in his own computer chair. This was the chair he had snagged during last year's Double Eleven sale, advertised as ergonomically designed, with a soft cushion and comfortable backrest. He leaned back habitually, but then stopped abruptly. He subconsciously ran his hand over the seat and armrests, confirming they were still smooth, safe.

But that inexplicable chill in his heart lingered. He gazed out at the heavy night sky, seeming to see countless silent, docile chairs lined up quietly in the darkness. They bore the weight of people's bodies, and also the weight of this era—its frenzy and emptiness, its clamor and fatigue. Who knew where the next 'bleeding' chair would appear? Or when it might, without warning, stab some unsuspecting person?

He sighed, turned off the computer, and stood up. The chair let out a faint creak, startlingly clear in the silent night.