A Steady Beat
(oneshot)
The clock ticks slowly, its soft ticking interrupting my thoughts and I find myself turning my head to glare at it in annoyance from where it sits on my night stand, just out of reach. I resist the urge to knock it on the ground, a thought partly discouraged because I don't want to get out of bed. Still, the clock survives.
Its ticking, a steady beat I find myself growing used to in the silence. It is the only consistent thing I have going in my life. I turn to look at it again, removing my eyes from the ceiling. Black and white. There was no grey on the clock, just like I had found there was none in the world. Cold, hard fact – nothing more.
Around me everything is the same. There are no changes in here, nothing is different. Except me. I find myself thinking it, a random thought entering my mind which changes my perspective. Still not a thing has changed.
I scratch my arm. As I did it, my eyes trail down the red scarring marking my skin. I raised a finger, tracing it, enjoying the wince of pain it caused. A tear fell down my cheek. I wiped it away angrily – constant vigilance.
The clock ticked on, a black blob in my vision but it never missed a beat. An unchangeable object, one that would always be there. It would tick on long after I did.
I make myself focus. I blink, attempting to rid myself of the ridiculous emotions interrupting my thoughts. My vision clears and I look around. Its there, sitting on the night stand next to the clock. It catches the light, the silver gleaming. This I have to do.
I lift my leg out of the bed I hadn't left in six days. I feel dizzy, the blood rushes to my head and I sway slightly. Ignoring the black blur falling across my eyes I turn to close the door before advancing towards my night stand.
Its sitting there. Its teasing me. A test of strength. A test of character. Slowly I extend my hand, my chipped nail-varnish glimmers faintly in the sunlight. I bite my nail. The clock ticks on. My hand hovers several inches from where it sits.
I pick it up. It isn't a graceful movement. The plastic is hard beneath my scarred skin. I run my finger along the cool surface. I feel the point with my finger. It wasn't blunt – a drop of ruby blood falls from my finger.
I trace my neck. It will only take a few seconds.
No one will hear me scream.
The clock ticks slowly, its soft ticking interrupting my thoughts and I find myself turning my head to glare at it in annoyance from where it sits on my night stand, just out of reach. I resist the urge to knock it on the ground, a thought partly discouraged because I don't want to get out of bed. Still, the clock survives.
Its ticking, a steady beat I find myself growing used to in the silence. It is the only consistent thing I have going in my life. I turn to look at it again, removing my eyes from the ceiling. Black and white. There was no grey on the clock, just like I had found there was none in the world. Cold, hard fact – nothing more.
Around me everything is the same. There are no changes in here, nothing is different. Except me. I find myself thinking it, a random thought entering my mind which changes my perspective. Still not a thing has changed.
I scratch my arm. As I did it, my eyes trail down the red scarring marking my skin. I raised a finger, tracing it, enjoying the wince of pain it caused. A tear fell down my cheek. I wiped it away angrily – constant vigilance.
The clock ticked on, a black blob in my vision but it never missed a beat. An unchangeable object, one that would always be there. It would tick on long after I did.
I make myself focus. I blink, attempting to rid myself of the ridiculous emotions interrupting my thoughts. My vision clears and I look around. Its there, sitting on the night stand next to the clock. It catches the light, the silver gleaming. This I have to do.
I lift my leg out of the bed I hadn't left in six days. I feel dizzy, the blood rushes to my head and I sway slightly. Ignoring the black blur falling across my eyes I turn to close the door before advancing towards my night stand.
Its sitting there. Its teasing me. A test of strength. A test of character. Slowly I extend my hand, my chipped nail-varnish glimmers faintly in the sunlight. I bite my nail. The clock ticks on. My hand hovers several inches from where it sits.
I pick it up. It isn't a graceful movement. The plastic is hard beneath my scarred skin. I run my finger along the cool surface. I feel the point with my finger. It wasn't blunt – a drop of ruby blood falls from my finger.
I trace my neck. It will only take a few seconds.
No one will hear me scream.
AN: A review would be handy.