It is just an illusion we have here on earth, that one moment follows
another like beads on a string and that once a moment is gone, its gone
forever...
The ticking of the clock exploded through the empty house in a
burst of sound. Each hand echoing in the dead air, beating against the
chimes of it's bell. Sounding off the hours mercilessly in a perpetual exhausting manner, as though laughing in mockery at the thought of a mortal end. A paper, picked up by a soft breeze, floats to the floor, twisting in the wind. Blinds twitch as a dull light burns through the shadowing room. A low hum can be heard from the base of a refrigerator, white and rusted. A thick sheet of dust lined the entire room as if covering it in a veil of faded smog. A frame sat on a table near the door, a gold plated frame, coated with a smoggy grime. Barely, just barely a figure can be seen behind the curtain of filth suffocating the photo. A smiling figure was laced in this dirt. It was not always this way though, it was not always the filth that hid the image, once, before all this, it was the image that hid the filth. But that time had long since passed.
A girl, huddled motionlessly in the corner, was proof of that. Crouched in the dark drab of her surroundings, she was leaned up against a crack in the water stained walls. Eyes swollen with tears shed not by will but by eyes unwilling to restrain themselves. No tears fell now, just a dead stare that burned into nothing. Her dark hair sprawled onto her face but she did not move to brush it aside. Slowly her eyes raised themselves to the window. Dust particles floated in the twilight, her fingers raised to touch the glass. Small cuts laced her hands. The tiredness in her grew as did her inability to move. She dropped her hand, lifelessly at her side, knocking over the frame as she did so. The glass shattered onto the floor. Anya moved to pick it up, the picture inside had fallen out of the broken frame, the edges curled up in a yellow wave. The woman in the photo looked aimlessly into the sky. One who saw the same photo would think nothing of the woman in the picture. Anya knew better, Anya knew the dark truths, the corruption, the abuse, the psychosis. She scoffed at the memories. So tired, and hopeless. No more caring. With these feelings swirling inside her, Anya picked up a shard of glass off the ground, and as the clock chimed a new hour, she gave up on time and gave up on life.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"There is a purpose for you yet my child" a warm, gravely voice spoke to the darkness.
Gandalf, with his staff at hand, sat back in the darkness of the cave he had been sitting in, and closed his eyes. He had traveled far to find this cave and his journey had taken almost every ounce of energy from him. It was time for rest. All would be well now. The girl was on her way. Long had he known of her travels, long had he known of her destiny. The torture she must endure to receive it and the troubles she would have to face to achieve it were of too great a magnitude to think of.
The ticking of the clock exploded through the empty house in a
burst of sound. Each hand echoing in the dead air, beating against the
chimes of it's bell. Sounding off the hours mercilessly in a perpetual exhausting manner, as though laughing in mockery at the thought of a mortal end. A paper, picked up by a soft breeze, floats to the floor, twisting in the wind. Blinds twitch as a dull light burns through the shadowing room. A low hum can be heard from the base of a refrigerator, white and rusted. A thick sheet of dust lined the entire room as if covering it in a veil of faded smog. A frame sat on a table near the door, a gold plated frame, coated with a smoggy grime. Barely, just barely a figure can be seen behind the curtain of filth suffocating the photo. A smiling figure was laced in this dirt. It was not always this way though, it was not always the filth that hid the image, once, before all this, it was the image that hid the filth. But that time had long since passed.
A girl, huddled motionlessly in the corner, was proof of that. Crouched in the dark drab of her surroundings, she was leaned up against a crack in the water stained walls. Eyes swollen with tears shed not by will but by eyes unwilling to restrain themselves. No tears fell now, just a dead stare that burned into nothing. Her dark hair sprawled onto her face but she did not move to brush it aside. Slowly her eyes raised themselves to the window. Dust particles floated in the twilight, her fingers raised to touch the glass. Small cuts laced her hands. The tiredness in her grew as did her inability to move. She dropped her hand, lifelessly at her side, knocking over the frame as she did so. The glass shattered onto the floor. Anya moved to pick it up, the picture inside had fallen out of the broken frame, the edges curled up in a yellow wave. The woman in the photo looked aimlessly into the sky. One who saw the same photo would think nothing of the woman in the picture. Anya knew better, Anya knew the dark truths, the corruption, the abuse, the psychosis. She scoffed at the memories. So tired, and hopeless. No more caring. With these feelings swirling inside her, Anya picked up a shard of glass off the ground, and as the clock chimed a new hour, she gave up on time and gave up on life.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"There is a purpose for you yet my child" a warm, gravely voice spoke to the darkness.
Gandalf, with his staff at hand, sat back in the darkness of the cave he had been sitting in, and closed his eyes. He had traveled far to find this cave and his journey had taken almost every ounce of energy from him. It was time for rest. All would be well now. The girl was on her way. Long had he known of her travels, long had he known of her destiny. The torture she must endure to receive it and the troubles she would have to face to achieve it were of too great a magnitude to think of.