The Clock Beats In Triple Time
Part Two of SanityFlicks, preceded by 'Losing Marbles'.
Tick, tick tock tock tock, tick, tick tock tock tock, tick, tick tock tock tock.
Your eyes are blank as they stare into the mirror. You examine yourself, tracing your nose, your lips, your cheekbones, your eyebrows and your eyes. You gently rub a creaseless forehead, no stress lines, no laugh lines.
You feel like a doll, porcelain and pristine, beautiful and hollow on the inside.
You can't feel anything. You're standing in a void of loneliness, a tiny pinprick of an island in a vast, still sea of black, and you feel nothing.
You don't know whether you should feel angry or sad, or even confused at this lack inside you. You simply feel nothing, barely a mild ache inside you as you watch yourself, gradually melding with the darkness surrounding you.
In the mirror, you are lovely. Your eyes are green, bright and shining like those jewels they are so often compared to. Your skin is pale, perfect, flawless, free of blemishes save a small creamy flush, void of the lines and creases induced by the stress and worry that so many of your year mates seem to be undergoing. Your face is all sharp angles and abrupt curves, a mixture of Raphael and Picasso, cheeks hollowed out from your unconscious lack of sustenance.
You should feel pride, you are beautiful, ethereal, lovely. You feel nothing.
You raise your fist and slam it into the mirror, watching detachedly as cracks seem to spider out, creating thin webbed lines across the surface of the mirror. A gentle, shaky line of red trickles to the floor, as the glass shards continue to cut into your skin.
You continue to watch yourself.
In the mirror, you appear to be a sort of fae, warped and perverted as you stand there, a pure white towel wrapped around your hips, water still dripping onto the floor. Your torso is like your face, all pale sharp angles and jagged curves. You are still lovely, still expressionless, vibrant green eyes watching yourself, your shock of black hair thrusting out in all directions. Your arm is still raised, your fist just above your head, still embedded in the mirror, the heart of the cracks and the broken warped lines.
Behind you, there is a shout. The door is flung open, and you see the vague reflections of five boys, blond, dark haired, dark skinned, two thick-heavyset.
A curse, and then a quick mutter from one of them. The dark haired one leaves quickly, and the rest stare, leaving the blond to come up and turn your face to look at him.
He scrutinises you curiously, checking your wrists and your arms. He inhales sharply when he sees the various shapes drawn in your skin, the cracks that look so similar to the mirror.
Then there is another. Taller, paler, with long dark hair and cold dark eyes. His eyes are comforting; they remind you of what is not inside you, reflecting you the way the mirror does not. He examines your fist, barely flinching as he sees the glass splinters in your fingers, thrusting out like your hair. He has seen far worse than this.
The shards are removed and the cuts are healed, leaving only spidery lines crisscrossed over your hand, and he drops it as if it burns, shaking his head in disgust as he turns away and sweeps out. You watch after him, watching his billowing robes and his scornful posture.
You turn to face the others- the two who are thickset are expressionless, thoughtless. The dark-skinned one is curious, but he does not ask. He turns away too, tired of the way you constantly act but never explain, he returns to his bed and his book. The dark haired one has already lost interest, he does not care and he has papers to fill.
The blond is sorrowful- he watches you with questioning eyes. You look back steadily, silently, and he sighs an anguished sigh and places his lips over your cheeks and your eyes and your lips, holding you at arms length before shaking his head and turning away with the rest of them.
Tick, tick tock tock tock, tick, tick tock tock tock, tick, tick tock tock tock.
You hear the ticking of a clock, growing louder and louder in your ears, increasing in pace and enveloping you in its chaos.
You sit there in the silence, listening to the beat that no one else can hear and waiting.
Soon the time reaches a crescendo and continues ticking, swelling in your ears and cresting the waves that threaten to drown you.
You are still unmoving, sitting in a room with five other boys, all sleeping with closed curtains.
Tick, tick tock tock tock, tick, tick tock tock tock, tick, tick tock tock tock.
The time stops.
You have not even begun.
*In a Russian accent* Heello, cheeldren. I haff returned.
*Now in normal London accent* So, anyways, not too fond of this. Harry seems to be a bit of a twat. But ah well, if I absolutely hated it I wouldn't be posting it, ne? Review, my darlings.
Onto more interesting things, I have, in actual fact, chosen to continue my Losing Marbles story. Before you get too excited however, it's not going to be a proper story. More of a collection of pieces all tying in with one theme- that is, sanity, and perhaps the loss of it. I'm good at the angst scene. :) This is Part Two of that, as mentioned at the top. Hopefully you lot got the HPDMness thrown in, not sure why I included it as I don't even like that pairing, but eh. Must have slash, and any slash is better than het :P x
Gratiae plurimi go to Taylor1991, who was lovely enough to review my stories. You lot should follow her example.
Disclaimer: I do not own, not Harry Potter nor even the plot, which goes to my dear friend who will always remain nameless. You know who you are, deliciae meae.
I'm in a Latin mood today. Must be because we had a good lesson :) XD