I open my eyes, my head pounding and nausea bubbling in my stomach. Finding that I am stretched out on a rather uncomfortable surface, I attempt to sit up. It is only after several unsuccessful attempts that I realize that my wrists and ankles are bound to an operating table by thick, leather straps. A distinct odor of disinfectants lingers in the air, tinged with something old and metallic. The sounds of clocks ticking reverberates off the white walls, echoing in my ears incessantly.
Tick…tick…tick…tick…
Numerous sharp objects hang on the walls and line the sterile counters, gleaming in the superficial lighting. A rather interesting collection of items is arranged on a small table beside me: a pair of shears, a scalpel, a pair of tongs, two knives, a cleaver, a needle, a few syringes, and several gears of assorted sizes.
Tick…tick…tick…tick…dong!
Every clock chimes six times, all in perfect grating unison. On the last ring, the heavy doors are pushed open. He walks in, slowly, through the doorway, his cane clacking against the tiled floor. His long-legged strides are unhurried, yet also prompt, as is his timing. Then again, he's a slave to time, obsessed with clockwork punctuality.
He comes to stand beside the table, black marble eyes glaring down at me. His skin is green with age and sickness. He stiffly tips his towering top hat in greeting, as though there is nothing abnormal about the situation. Thin, cracked lips pull back in a sneer, making his yellow overbite even more apparent. He rests his cane against the table and pulls his white, crimson-stained gloves on tighter; the fingertips still droop a bit.
I can't help but stare up at the mechanical marvel beside me, for he is indeed a clockwork creation fabricated from his own brilliant mind. One gear is visible jutting out from the base of his neck, partially hidden by the ineffective straightjacket that has become part of his chosen attire. When he turns, I can see the huge cog protruding from his back, no doubt somewhat responsible for his hunched figure.
His sneer turns into a soft smile, his gaze transforms into one of subtle admiration and affection. He frames my face with his hands and whispered in that sharp, jarring voice, "So beautiful…so lovely."
As he reaches for a syringe, I can hear the joints of his arms creaking with age, as though they are rusty; they very well might be. So fanatical, he had fused himself with his obsession of time and clockwork. But I can tell that he's not the well-oiled machine that he desired to be; that jacket is probably the only thing holding him together. He faces me, syringe in hand, and smiles. I shiver.
"Now you shall be perfect…forever." It is at this moment that I know what is to become my fate. I am to spend eternity as his clockwork companion. As he presses the needle into my arm, I can't stop the lone tear that runs down my face. At one time, long ago, I might have had no objections to spending my life with him. But back then, he was only mad; now, he is insane. Now that he is a cruel, warped version of the man I once knew, eternity seems much too long, especially when our lives will be ruled by time.
My eyelids grow heavy even while I struggle to keep them open, but my vision begins to blur as well. Finally surrendering to weariness, I close my eyes and allow the anesthesia to take away my last moments as a simple, living girl.
Tick…tick…tick…tick…dong!
I awake, screaming, sweat clinging to my skin, as somewhere a grandfather clock chimes six times.
I scream again when my gaze lands upon a mirror and I do not recognize my reflection.
Soooo? What do you think?