by Declan Quinn

Blink. Blink. Blink.

This had been my routine for the past 45 minutes. Blink. Repeat. Blink. Repeat. Occasionally I’d cast a glance to my clock, if only to break the monotony. Its soft green glow penetrated the dark much like how cold slowly seeps through the frail bones of the ancients. Slowly, and with a dark foreboding that hints at something more, well, sinister. The blinking digits of the digital face were akin to the winking eyes of some unseen beast, taking refuge in the shadows.

This, however, was not as important as the fact that these demonic numbers read “12:38.” I had lay down to rest nearly three hours ago. Yet sleep did not come.

Only recently had I fallen into my routine. My first couple hours of restlessness were marked by the occasional bout of drowsiness, but always the pillow came up hard as a stone, and I fell into a state of unfortunate wakefulness once again. I’d slowly inch my eyes open, as if to give myself one last chance to realize the sweet slumber of sleep, but I knew it was futile. This was to be my curse, and I’d bear it alone.

My eyes would drift of their own accord to the lights carefully screwed into the ceiling. If I imagined, I could almost remember the way they looked lit. I could almost grasp the way they filled the room with their warm blush, and, if I pushed myself really hard, it appeared that they may even be emitting the faintest light from within, a glittering halo of pure radiance slightly cast from the glass exterior. This was fun to believe, but I knew I was deluding myself. These lights were turned off. I turned them off myself. These lights had no place in the black of night.

The green glow flickered, and the clock changed its face. “12:39.” Every second, the clock grew uglier. Its eyes grew misshapen; its nose grew long and snarled, its mouth curved upward into a sneer. It seemed to chide me, mock me for not being what I should be. Asleep. Its voice snarled at me from the depths of hell itself. The voice emanating was indeed worthy of such a place; the low growl that lacked all treble yet stood laced with silky temptations was worthy of the devil himself. It urged me to wake, to stand. And for a second, I wanted to follow its advice. I wanted to believe that the voice paid attention to me, the only comforting voice that I knew how to listen to. It was with what little restraint I had left I was able to block out the voice.

I blinked, and the clock changed once again. “3:13.” Had I fallen asleep, for even a few brief hours? I certainly didn’t feel it. My sloth certainly still felt the same: unrested. The voice still whispered sweet nothings into my ear. Nothing had changed except for the ever-uglier face of the clock. This time, however, it stared directly into my soul. It turned, as if it knew I woke from my brief slumber. It spoke.

“As if you thought it would change,” the voice growled, a combination of mocking and cruel sympathy. “Why do you think tomorrow will be different?” I shrugged in response, but I knew it didn’t need my gesture to know what I was thinking. “Every day is the same,” it continued, “one after the next. Tomorrow you will wake, and dress. You will work, and come home. It is my job to know these things. I wake you, and I put you to sleep again.” I could feel the demon worming its way into my mind, listening to my deepest fears, feeding on my desires. “Every day,” it continued on its vicious monologue, “you tell yourself the same thing: ‘tomorrow will be better.’ And has this ever been true?” The words fell with an incredible heaviness upon the room. “You don’t have the motivation to continue.” I don’t. “You’ll never go anywhere.” I won’t. “You’ll never be worth anything.” The darkness never seemed so black.

The clock blinked again. “3:14.” The voice was silent, but, much alike the majestic collapse of a building, the damage had been done. The words had been said. Their meaning taken to heart. The dark glare of the clock face dimmed, as the only one awake in the room became no longer so.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The rhythmic pulse of my alarm pulled me from my slumber. I glanced over at the time, and the clock innocently blinked the minute. “5:10.” I stumbled out of bed and turned on the light. Two bulbs shone dimly from three sockets, the third burnt out. It was, however, enough light to cast about the room. It illuminated the mattress on the floor, loosely covered by a sheet, a scraggly pillow at its head. A laptop sat on a small desk in the corner. A simple digital clock lay on the floor. The rest of the room was bare: the walls white, the floor white, and the ceiling white.

I quickly dressed and ate. Something tugged at my thoughts as I performed these daily routines. Something I couldn’t quite place. The tip of the tongue, as the phrase goes. But even I could feel the weight of the invisible statement. Even without knowing what it was, I knew it made me feel heavy. Heavy like nothing. Useless.

Still, a smile passed my lips as I crossed the threshold, and stayed with me throughout the day.