Phil Parisi

I assured her I knew that, sounding, I'm sure, completely unconvinced."

I turned and looked back once at all those mute chairs, the subtle and unexpected evidence of growing madness.

Already I was thinking, what do I do now?

What's the way I go about this?

Dealing with someone going through some kind of mental breakdown.

I had no experience with it.

I didn't know the rules, the etiquette, the dangers of doing or saying something wrong or accusatory.

At the top of the steps I closed the door behind us, wanting to shut out everything about that basement.

We started to walk through the dark, and had just entered the living room, no more than ten steps away from the front door, when we froze simultaneously at a new sound coming from downstairs.

It was of chairs being suddenly moved around.

Not just one at a time, but many at once.

Being lifted, slid, rearranged, knocking against one another, clattering.

Tess and I turned to each other and locked our eyes, unable to speak.

I heard what might have been one of the chairs bumping into the washing machine down there, and one or two falling over and maybe being put back upright, and the constant skating of wooden and metal legs over both sheeting and smooth cement.

It was happening quickly, chaotically.

Every action and clash left a faint echo behind.

It lasted for about 15 seconds, during which time neither one of us moved a muscle, except Tess's eyes grew wider and wider.

Then it just stopped, as suddenly as it had started.

The starkness of the quiet jolted me into action, and I grabbed Tess's hand more roughly than I intended and pulled her forcefully toward the door, getting her moving fast.

She came without resistance.