Dumb Story
Mar. 16th, 2012 11:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
processingof(I've wanted to write something with a clock motif for a while, but this turned out like shit. I doubt anyone other than me can even decipher what this is about. I wanted to put some alliteration, consonance and other poetic elements in here, but oh well. Maybe I'll edit this later, maybe not. I'm done with it for now.)
It begins.
Tick.
The clock starts, and so does his wait. Anticipation is his only ally; he can’t afford to waste his thoughts on the present. He spends his time with Them, talking and laughing, but always, always somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he is waiting. He is watching, he is planning, he is preparing. Being taken by surprise is not an option.
They all smile at him. Their feelings are genuine; he can tell from the lights in their eyes.
The clock ticks onwards. Time passes. He can feel it.
Tock.
His brain begins to ache with repressed revelations. A heavy weight settles on him, like a thick, musty blanket. He can’t breathe.
They all smile at him, but the pounding in the back of his skull blurs his vision. All he sees are hazy halos of light. Faces are fuzzy: they can’t be read. Eyes become dark smudges.
Are They smiling, or baring their teeth?
Tick.
They talk and laugh, but all he can do is stare and wait. He watches the way They move around each other, examines how many times They turn Their heads towards him, keeps a running count of words and phrases said by each individual in the conversation. He scans chat logs, looking for any mention of him, afraid that when he isn’t present, he is forgotten.
His name, in print. Once, twice, three times. Almost enough to get his lungs working again.
Tock.
Not enough to get his lungs working again.
Tick.
He is doomed.
Tock.
The final stage has begun. He can’t even speak, because he knows that They don’t want him to. He is the useless one, the accessory, a superfluous teratoma that can easily be hacked away from Their body.
This is what he waited for all along: this knowledge. He is nothing. He is nothing, and he can’t let himself forget it.
The thoughts at the back of his mind burn. He desperately hopes that They can’t smell the stench of charcoaled flesh emanating from his skull.
Tick.
It hurts.
Tock.
He forgets.
But he remembers the wait. He always remembers the wait.
It begins.
It begins.
Tick.
The clock starts, and so does his wait. Anticipation is his only ally; he can’t afford to waste his thoughts on the present. He spends his time with Them, talking and laughing, but always, always somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he is waiting. He is watching, he is planning, he is preparing. Being taken by surprise is not an option.
They all smile at him. Their feelings are genuine; he can tell from the lights in their eyes.
The clock ticks onwards. Time passes. He can feel it.
Tock.
His brain begins to ache with repressed revelations. A heavy weight settles on him, like a thick, musty blanket. He can’t breathe.
They all smile at him, but the pounding in the back of his skull blurs his vision. All he sees are hazy halos of light. Faces are fuzzy: they can’t be read. Eyes become dark smudges.
Are They smiling, or baring their teeth?
Tick.
They talk and laugh, but all he can do is stare and wait. He watches the way They move around each other, examines how many times They turn Their heads towards him, keeps a running count of words and phrases said by each individual in the conversation. He scans chat logs, looking for any mention of him, afraid that when he isn’t present, he is forgotten.
His name, in print. Once, twice, three times. Almost enough to get his lungs working again.
Tock.
Not enough to get his lungs working again.
Tick.
He is doomed.
Tock.
The final stage has begun. He can’t even speak, because he knows that They don’t want him to. He is the useless one, the accessory, a superfluous teratoma that can easily be hacked away from Their body.
This is what he waited for all along: this knowledge. He is nothing. He is nothing, and he can’t let himself forget it.
The thoughts at the back of his mind burn. He desperately hopes that They can’t smell the stench of charcoaled flesh emanating from his skull.
Tick.
It hurts.
Tock.
He forgets.
But he remembers the wait. He always remembers the wait.
It begins.
