In the Fading Sunflower Wallpaper

“Tick-tock, tick-tock. Round and round goes the clock.”

Cold hands grip at the hand-blown glass clock. Every six seconds, the glass plate is fogged up by a distant breath not too far away. Averted, gray eyes only come together when the hour hand lies limp at the seventh large tick-mark. Once the clock strikes seven, grips are released, glass is shattered, and scratches are halted. Broken whines are echoed through the windowless room of fading sunflower wallpaper. A shriveled figure is writhing beneath a large, dent-ridden oak door. The chipped doorframe has begun to blend in with its stains of long-dried blood. Rough, chalked-up fingers reach for but do not grasp a golden lion-like doorknob. The shivering fingers succumb to their illusions and pry at the door. Whining becomes howling, howling becomes coughing, and coughing becomes a blood-sullied mouth. Glistening red and yellow teeth form a crooked grin as the doorknob is twisted. Eyes widen with expectancy as the door opens with creaking melody. A large stature looms over the spastic shape at his feet.

“You haven’t written today, have you?”

“No,” an unstable voice croaks out, “I promised you I would not do it anymore.”

An eager look from the shrunken figure disgusts the man, forcing him to look elsewhere. Cold eyes scan the room warily. “Good. Here,” the man says as he holds out a hand-blown clock in his hand.

“Oh. F-ff-food? I honestly promise that I have not written.”

The man gives a sympathetic smile. “I know, sweetie. And as my wife, you will be given your share of the food. But you must serve this out first. If you had listened to me, this little incident may not have occurred. Alright?”

“Y-y-yes.” The voice has shrunken from its previously expectant tone.

“Don’t disappoint me,” he says as he brings the door to a close.

“Tick-tock, tick-tock. Round and round goes the clock.” On the doorframe, a sharpened fingernail resumes its toil. Letter upon letter, word upon word, tears upon tears, and shackles upon shackles. In a windowless room of fading sunflower wallpaper, a story is written in a place where eyes cannot perceive. In a windowless room of fading sunflower wallpaper, desperation has become a permeation so penetrating that not even light can escape it. In the fading sunflower wallpaper, the hidden words breathe out their last wisps of air as the glass pieces are swept away. They cringe as the shadow of a hand-blown glass clock envelops them. “Tick-tock, tick-tock. Round and round goes the clock.”