I stared at the dresser for eleven minutes. There was a thin layer of dust there, like the fog on your windshield on a cold January morning. Only a few clean spots could be seen, where my fingers had groped, searching for my watch and tattered wallet.
The storm brought with its low-hanging clouds and relentless rain something new, something alien and surreal. And although I could feel it and it was real- like fire- I was not certain of what it wanted me to do. So I consulted the plastic cup, half full of milk all spoiled and rotten. A couple of mornings ago, the day the storm started, the white goodness had entertained my lips and soothed my fiery throat. I had forgotten about it. So I picked it up and said hello to the green polka dots that littered its side. Do something.
I shook it a bit, just to check and make sure it was real and not a specter of my mind. The liquid- which, at this point, was almost a solid- sloshed around in the cup. The sharp scent of the fermented dairy attacked my nostrils and I threw up into the cup. It didn’t want to be bothered and I could tell it. Elsewhere on the dresser, a silver line spun four times and I set the cup back in its place.
“Hello,” said the little red alarm clock in its simple dialect of ticks and tocks. I picked it up to examine. The clock was painted metallic red and it was pocked with the signs of countless late mornings. Its little bells were scratched here and there and its small silver hands read two and fifty-eight minutes.
I stared into the clock’s round, glassy face. Minutes marched on. Three, four, five…and then fifteen and twenty followed soon after them. I saw my reflection there, when I changed the focus of my bloodshot eyeballs.
Tick. Tock. Tick. “You are my prisoner.”
I banged the clock back down on its usual perch on the dresser. It’s watchful post. I hate you. There was a cracking noise as the room settled as it sometimes did. It too was a prisoner to the little red alarm clock, much like the book on the ground, by my feet. The words on the ragged, faded front looked at me longingly. So I obliged to it and cradled the book in my hands.
I pulled back the paper cover to peer at its inky insides. Books, not unlike many people, are always willing to spill their guts to you. Eight more rotations of my sentence passed and were met only with a quick slice from a yellowy page and a warm flood of red down the microbial canyons of my index.
I tossed the book onto the dirty green carpet where it was swallowed up by a beast of cotton and denim. I will be out of here before you. Sixty ticks were spent on fishing the book from its captor and then using a sock to wipe away the symbol of its crime of frustration. I placed it neatly on the shelf amid its other doomed brethren.
One hundred and eighty ticks looked on as I fell onto my slab of springs and sheets and gazed up at the white expanse above me. Like wisps of clouds, the plaster took forms in my mind and beckoned me to other places.
“No,” said the clock.
Patches of plaster were missing from the ceiling and seeing its imperfections made me smile. Your sentence is ending. More sound came to my ears. The sky was crying on my window and the result was a tragic symphony for all who would stop to listen. Day after day, it watched prisoners like me filling out their sentences, for a crime they did not commit. Some days, the injustice was just too much for the sky. This was one of those days.
Another one hundred and eighty saw me getting up off my bed, walking over to and opening the window. Rain splashed in and it soaked my computer, causing sparks to fly and smoke to curl up out of the monitor. The popping sound and the acrid smell of fried circuits caused me to laugh, for the computer was done- free from its time. My face- well, the wind pushed the prisoners hanging from the sides of the window to whip my cheeks. In a swift motion, I ripped them from the hooks that held them in place against their will and sent them sailing out the window down, down to the street below.
The silver line spun eight more times as I watched them go. I closed my eyes as the rain drenched my shirt and I watched a picture show cast on the backs of my eyelids. It was my sentence- drawn out, empty, pointless. Like the apple that awakened Newton’s mind, it made me realize what feeling the storm had brought to me. It was the desire for freedom. Freedom from those two silver guards, one big, one small.
A single rotation. I climbed to the sill and stood there for a moment. The feeling was burning in my chest. I supposed it would burst from my body and consume the apartment, freeing all.
“Your sentence is not over. You are still my prisoner.” The little red clock was in my hand. Fifty ticks saw me glaring at the reflection of my person in the face of the little warden.
“You are not done, prisoner.”
I am.
Five ticks and I leaned. A saint called Gravity pulled me in its invisible grasp. Four ticks and the pavement got big, like a gray giant waving hello. A fellow prisoner screamed, but the shouting and cursing of the little red clock was louder than all else.
One tick. The fire exploded from me and it splattered onto the faces of inmates and trickled in curved lines down the sidewalk and into the gutter.
My sentence is over.
I shook it a bit, just to check and make sure it was real and not a specter of my mind. The liquid- which, at this point, was almost a solid- sloshed around in the cup. The sharp scent of the fermented dairy attacked my nostrils and I threw up into the cup. It didn’t want to be bothered and I could tell it. Elsewhere on the dresser, a silver line spun four times and I set the cup back in its place.
“Hello,” said the little red alarm clock in its simple dialect of ticks and tocks. I picked it up to examine. The clock was painted metallic red and it was pocked with the signs of countless late mornings. Its little bells were scratched here and there and its small silver hands read two and fifty-eight minutes.
I stared into the clock’s round, glassy face. Minutes marched on. Three, four, five…and then fifteen and twenty followed soon after them. I saw my reflection there, when I changed the focus of my bloodshot eyeballs.
Tick. Tock. Tick. “You are my prisoner.”
I banged the clock back down on its usual perch on the dresser. It’s watchful post. I hate you. There was a cracking noise as the room settled as it sometimes did. It too was a prisoner to the little red alarm clock, much like the book on the ground, by my feet. The words on the ragged, faded front looked at me longingly. So I obliged to it and cradled the book in my hands.
I pulled back the paper cover to peer at its inky insides. Books, not unlike many people, are always willing to spill their guts to you. Eight more rotations of my sentence passed and were met only with a quick slice from a yellowy page and a warm flood of red down the microbial canyons of my index.
I tossed the book onto the dirty green carpet where it was swallowed up by a beast of cotton and denim. I will be out of here before you. Sixty ticks were spent on fishing the book from its captor and then using a sock to wipe away the symbol of its crime of frustration. I placed it neatly on the shelf amid its other doomed brethren.
One hundred and eighty ticks looked on as I fell onto my slab of springs and sheets and gazed up at the white expanse above me. Like wisps of clouds, the plaster took forms in my mind and beckoned me to other places.
“No,” said the clock.
Patches of plaster were missing from the ceiling and seeing its imperfections made me smile. Your sentence is ending. More sound came to my ears. The sky was crying on my window and the result was a tragic symphony for all who would stop to listen. Day after day, it watched prisoners like me filling out their sentences, for a crime they did not commit. Some days, the injustice was just too much for the sky. This was one of those days.
Another one hundred and eighty saw me getting up off my bed, walking over to and opening the window. Rain splashed in and it soaked my computer, causing sparks to fly and smoke to curl up out of the monitor. The popping sound and the acrid smell of fried circuits caused me to laugh, for the computer was done- free from its time. My face- well, the wind pushed the prisoners hanging from the sides of the window to whip my cheeks. In a swift motion, I ripped them from the hooks that held them in place against their will and sent them sailing out the window down, down to the street below.
The silver line spun eight more times as I watched them go. I closed my eyes as the rain drenched my shirt and I watched a picture show cast on the backs of my eyelids. It was my sentence- drawn out, empty, pointless. Like the apple that awakened Newton’s mind, it made me realize what feeling the storm had brought to me. It was the desire for freedom. Freedom from those two silver guards, one big, one small.
A single rotation. I climbed to the sill and stood there for a moment. The feeling was burning in my chest. I supposed it would burst from my body and consume the apartment, freeing all.
“Your sentence is not over. You are still my prisoner.” The little red clock was in my hand. Fifty ticks saw me glaring at the reflection of my person in the face of the little warden.
“You are not done, prisoner.”
I am.
Five ticks and I leaned. A saint called Gravity pulled me in its invisible grasp. Four ticks and the pavement got big, like a gray giant waving hello. A fellow prisoner screamed, but the shouting and cursing of the little red clock was louder than all else.
One tick. The fire exploded from me and it splattered onto the faces of inmates and trickled in curved lines down the sidewalk and into the gutter.
My sentence is over.
