Tick,
tock, tick, tock,
goes the ticking tock of the ticking clock, suspended over the
mismatched glass and porcelain stock. A low, morning light sure
creeps to blight zebra stripes ‘gainst plaster white; that amber
sheen just scattering like light… scattering like light.
Dangling
ceramic of color haemic, brightly reflected on brass panoramic. A
hanging cloth and a flower pot, imprisoned china in dark, see-through
prisons. Above it all, a darkened lamp of scaly glass, not yet
shining down on four wood chairs and wooden table.
Beep,
beep, beep,
an
otherworldly tone. Was this for her? A reminder of the mon? A
crimson, flashing linger sounding more than ebon finger? This it was
not, though she recognized it clearly… She was naked, head to toe,
her burnt orange hair soaked, flung and strung. Though she breathed
rather heavily, her mouth kept open and still. This phenomena was not
common, not for her.
Here
she stood, in silence over the machine, the phone now lifted to her
ear. Still-borne water had begun to wriggle and writhe down her arms
and legs like snakes, or so it felt against her sebum-lorn skin left
drying in the cold. For the remainder of her idle time in the middle
of the room, not once had an answer come from the other side of the
line; nor had one from this side. She finally hung up, gaining
nothing and losing everything through no one.
Only
another narrow moment slaved itself to the eternal, malevolent time
and the woman’s mind came back to the there-and-gone present,
lifting her cerulean blue eyes from the void in which they once found
themselves. Time never waits, and for her the finger had no intention
to make an exception.
And
from the back of her mind, she had finally remembered the mon, and so
she removed herself… she was gone.
Tick,
tock, tick, tock,
the
ebon finger goes.