Disclaimer: 'The West Wing' and all related materials do not belong to me.
Sorry to ruin your plans for financial freedom.
Author's Note: This is the first continuation of "Victims." It's not necessary to read that ficlet to understand this, but you may want to.
Victim #6: Chimes
By BJ Garrett
Full of random sound and the spiral of wind through evergreen boughs.
So you roll over and don't look out the window, just let God's music percuss in your ears.
This is what you listen to. This does not make your chest clench and your eyes dart. It leaves your fingers slack and your breathing mellow. It does not awaken a burning over your heart, draw your sweaty palm to press into the flames.
You open your eyes and see the light of your cell blink like a metronome. The chimes go on, uncaring. The wind is blind and deaf--it cannot see the movement of the conductor, it cannot hear the angry shouts, the sirens, the ragged breathing from your own lungs.
So you roll over and close your eyes, press your face into the pillow, arms out. Your left hand hangs off the bed. For a moment you recall childhood fears that kept you huddled on the bed--arms and legs inside the car at all times. You imagine a set of stiletto teeth and beady, bugged-out eyes rising from under the bed, called by the sound of the Helen Keller wind. Jaws closing over your hand, almost gone, almost gone almost--
You snatch your arm up and throw it over your head.
The wind is slowly being drowned out by the anti-gravity skid of cars on the wide road outside.
The chimes knell on, absolutely. Ask not for whom the chime chimes, it chimes for thee.
You smile against the pillow, taste cotton pillowcase and feel a hair on your tongue. Good old John Donne.
You wonder who the owner of the chimes is. You wonder if they know you live across the courtyard. You wonder if they would care if they knew you weren't supposed to listen to music.
So you roll over, onto your back again, and almost let your arms drop wide, until you remember the monster under the bed and scoot over. Turning your head, your fingers are curved like old men on the horizon of the bedspread.
Outside the window, copper chimes above your neighbour's balcony ricochet off each other.
It is utterly impossible to imagine if you would have been lying on your bed, thinking the things you are thinking, if the chimes had not chimed for you.
The wind sneaks in the half-open window, blows across your stubbled face. You close your eyes, enjoying the cool impartiality of its caress. The wind is not prejudiced.
You wonder if anyone ever told them you were raised a Jew. If it made them happy, made up for their missing Charlie.
The wind billows into the bedroom, startling you into realisation. The chimes start carolling wildly and do not stop. The sound of the cars becomes a bass line.
The alarm goes off. It is a metronome too, and the punctuation of two piccolos.
You grab the old men and press them to your chest.
But there is no fire.
The wind dies like a whisper against the dawn, pulling reluctantly back over your arms and legs, back over your pounding, dry chest, back over your face, drawing your eyes closed again.
Hand still pressed to your heart, eyes still closed, chimes on a melancholy ritardando, you reach out and slap the alarm, swing your legs over the edge of the bed, feel every bone in your feet move and respond as you stand.
We have the strength to call ourselves victims.
End.
Author's Note: This is the first continuation of "Victims." It's not necessary to read that ficlet to understand this, but you may want to.
Victim #6: Chimes
By BJ Garrett
Full of random sound and the spiral of wind through evergreen boughs.
So you roll over and don't look out the window, just let God's music percuss in your ears.
This is what you listen to. This does not make your chest clench and your eyes dart. It leaves your fingers slack and your breathing mellow. It does not awaken a burning over your heart, draw your sweaty palm to press into the flames.
You open your eyes and see the light of your cell blink like a metronome. The chimes go on, uncaring. The wind is blind and deaf--it cannot see the movement of the conductor, it cannot hear the angry shouts, the sirens, the ragged breathing from your own lungs.
So you roll over and close your eyes, press your face into the pillow, arms out. Your left hand hangs off the bed. For a moment you recall childhood fears that kept you huddled on the bed--arms and legs inside the car at all times. You imagine a set of stiletto teeth and beady, bugged-out eyes rising from under the bed, called by the sound of the Helen Keller wind. Jaws closing over your hand, almost gone, almost gone almost--
You snatch your arm up and throw it over your head.
The wind is slowly being drowned out by the anti-gravity skid of cars on the wide road outside.
The chimes knell on, absolutely. Ask not for whom the chime chimes, it chimes for thee.
You smile against the pillow, taste cotton pillowcase and feel a hair on your tongue. Good old John Donne.
You wonder who the owner of the chimes is. You wonder if they know you live across the courtyard. You wonder if they would care if they knew you weren't supposed to listen to music.
So you roll over, onto your back again, and almost let your arms drop wide, until you remember the monster under the bed and scoot over. Turning your head, your fingers are curved like old men on the horizon of the bedspread.
Outside the window, copper chimes above your neighbour's balcony ricochet off each other.
It is utterly impossible to imagine if you would have been lying on your bed, thinking the things you are thinking, if the chimes had not chimed for you.
The wind sneaks in the half-open window, blows across your stubbled face. You close your eyes, enjoying the cool impartiality of its caress. The wind is not prejudiced.
You wonder if anyone ever told them you were raised a Jew. If it made them happy, made up for their missing Charlie.
The wind billows into the bedroom, startling you into realisation. The chimes start carolling wildly and do not stop. The sound of the cars becomes a bass line.
The alarm goes off. It is a metronome too, and the punctuation of two piccolos.
You grab the old men and press them to your chest.
But there is no fire.
The wind dies like a whisper against the dawn, pulling reluctantly back over your arms and legs, back over your pounding, dry chest, back over your face, drawing your eyes closed again.
Hand still pressed to your heart, eyes still closed, chimes on a melancholy ritardando, you reach out and slap the alarm, swing your legs over the edge of the bed, feel every bone in your feet move and respond as you stand.
We have the strength to call ourselves victims.
End.