Chela wedged the legs between the open spaces in each chair. They did not uniformly stack because they were not uniformly built, each one apparently slapped together with spare wood and no regard for design or even sound craftsmanship. Thus the structure she built was a crooked ladder that provided just the boost she needed to rise up alongside the man on the ceiling. Chela took hold of each section, driving the chairs together to ensure they were secure, then began to scale them.
It was an impressive sight. The other three looked on and wondered at Chela’s ingenuity. Despite his reservations about her intent, Alfred couldn’t help from feeling impressed by what she had accomplished in the little time he had known her.
As Chela drew closer to the man, she regularly checked her footing and the stability of the ladder. The wood squealed against itself and leaned against the wall but held. But the man on the ceiling grew increasingly agitated.
He thrashed against his restraints. “You’re not here to help me,” he said, “YOU WANT TO HURT ME TOO!”
She was nearly at the top when Alfred saw something touch Chela’s shoulder. It was so small it might have been a fly (after all, there were plenty of those), but heavy enough to make an impression in the fabric of her vest for the moment it made contact and to garner Chela’s brief glance. In the time it took for Chela to look up at the man, the leaden fly pinged on the ground and the man came down.
The man should have crashed down on his head, but the first bolt that had freed itself swung him toward Chela’s ladder before the other three tore loose. He screamed in terror, anguish, victory, or perhaps some combination of the three as he brought the scene toppling down. In that instant, Chela released her grip on the chairs and let herself fall backward. The man and his cacophony of splitting wood closely followed.