Seven-Thirty

Seven-Thirty

The harsh lights bore down on my frail body, shooting daggers into my retinas. Weakly, I pull myself towards the source of this light, desperate for the luster to wrap me in a feverish embrace. I was freezing; a glacial numbness pierced my figure and I was acutely aware my eyelashes were made of icicles. I yearned for a cascade of summery heat to puncture my ghastly skin and trickle into my veins, turning my feeble body into a scorching inferno. Fingernails brittle and short, I dragged my limp body across the dark concrete towards the radiance; I called it my sun. Or maybe it wasn’t the sun. It could’ve been a clump of blazing stars sprinting to rip open my organs and sip on the scarlet blood like it was a Capri-Sun. Or was it an intergalactic force at all? Maybe it was a million fireflies confined in an impenetrable cluster yearning to clutch me in their scrawny insect limbs and tear me apart. Regardless, the light was so brilliant that I felt myself brace for the gleaming wickedness to sear my skin, but the sensation never came. Instead, there was a screech as steel stabbed my battering heart, and aluminum prodded at my intestines. I toppled towards the inky blackness, a harrowing ache washing over me as I hit the ground. 

Seven-Thirty. 

Eight O’Clock

Meal One was a sheer metal tray filled to the brim with a single piece of multigrain toast, a honey crisp apple, and a cup of water. I spoke in giggly whispers to the girl made of glass as I shoveled the stale bread down my parched throat. 

“Well hello Glass Girl, how do you do?” 

    “Mmm… the toast is especially dry today, don’t you agree?”

“Are you thirsty Glass Girl? We could share my water, if you’d like.”

I fling the remnants of my cup of water towards her, and watch as it dribbles down her chin. The girl made of glass simply peers back at me, eyes dark and soulless, complexion ghostly and meek. Glass Girl ate when I ate, and blinked when I blinked. She never responded to my inexhaustible queries, and I often wished that she would reach through the serrated mirror and seize my hand. I wanted to feel the warmth of her touch. But instead, she was placid; simply a lucid figment that congested the hole of my warped mental cavity. Colossal mirrors lined the walls of my world. The barricade was icy and thick and grimy from days and weeks and months and years of pounding and scratching incessantly at the looking glass. I had pleaded and shrieked and bawled until my voice was raw and my vocal cords had shattered into a million fragmented pieces. But there was never a reply. Only frigid silence. 

Eight O’Clock.

Ten O’Clock

The puzzle arrived at precisely ten o’clock, and I felt my limbs rush towards the primeval cardboard box. I dumped the pieces out, feeling the decayed paper figurines under my fingertips. The puzzles changed sometimes, and it took me a few minutes to adapt to the new intricate mind game. I gripped the edge pieces and set them down first. I toil quickly, nimble fingers positioning the puzzle pieces with ease until I only have a handful left. I attempt to jam a segment into the puzzle, but it won’t budge. I don’t think that’s right. A silky voice hissed into my ear, and I whipped my head around. Emptiness greets me coldly. I turn back to my game, rearranging the pieces slightly. You’re getting warmer. I glance around my chamber. The voice is sweet and warm and close, so so close. Hovering over the puzzle I see it. The perfect arrangement. I thrust the last puzzle piece into place, and survey my project. The illustration I have manufactured is of a hummingbird. Faintly, I hear a shrill tune, the song of the hummingbird. The high pitched buzz moves through my earlobes, and into my subarachnoid capacity. It suffocates my skull, fluttering and tweeting and I clutch my forehead willing the noise to stop. I squeeze my eyes shut, allowing myself to feel comfortable in the ill-lit gloom. 

When I grant my orbs permission to flick open, a strange sight awaits me. 

I am lying on a denim sofa. I stretch my arms and legs outwards, letting my fingers graze the rugged wooden twill. The room is an orange haze, a pulpy marigold slush dousing the terrain. I am a seed curled up in a tangerine. And as I sprawl on the couch, the voice articulates again. Don’t close your eyes, honey. Good girl, stay awake. And I want to listen to the voice, I do, but I'm exhausted, and fatigue is pulling at my eyelids. Stay awake. I can’t. I can’t. You need to stay awake. The voice is slightly panicked, but I feel as though a candied melatonin has been injected into my bloodstream. Keep your eyes open, look at me. Look at me. I descend into a deep slumber.

When I open my eyes once again, the concrete feels especially numbing. 

Ten O’Clock.

Twelve-Thirty

I am not hungry enough for Meal Two, but I force myself to allow the slice of slimy cheddar to slither down my throat. I look at Glass Girl as I nibble. She nibbles back at me, a tousled black mane making it hard to see her sunken eyes. You don’t look so good, baby. I shake my head. I want the voices to stop- no, I need them to stop. I attempt to concentrate on my meal, but it’s difficult as pandemonium pulses at my skull. Beep .. Beep.. Beep. White noise overtakes my senses, and I want it to stop. I crumpled onto the stony ground sniffling into my calloused palms. Beep. Stop. Please stop. Beep. I can’t. I can’t. Beep. It needs to stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.

“Stop!” 

My pathetic cry fills the space with torment. It goes quiet.

Twelve-Thirty

Four O’Clock

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. It feels like an eternity, an infinity of existing in a crestfallen non-existence. An endless cycle of pure nullity. I am not dead, but I am most definitely not alive. I am entirely alone. I am nothing. Nothing. I let the word dance around in my mind. Nothing does an elegant pirouette on cerebrum. Nothing tap dances across my frontal lobe. Nothing salsa dances through my brain stem. Nothing. Nothing.

“There is nothing we can do. I’m sorry, ma’am.” 

The air is barren and bleak. I stare down at my hands, picking at my cuticles. What do you mean, nothing we can do? I am sorry ma’am. We’ve exhausted our resources. I’m sure there are other hospitals- We’ve been to other hospitals- Ma’am- Please, you have to help her. Can’t you see how much pain she’s in? Ma’am, I don’t know what else to tell you. Please. The voice begins to cry. It starts softly, but slowly amplifies until her distraught howls shake the wooden desk and tear the yellow wallpaper off the walls. The voice is an immense cataclysm, vibrating the medical facility to its very core. The voice’s wails fracture the structural backbone of the building, and I sit still as it caves in around me. Silvery smoke curdles the air encircling me. The voice clutches my hand, and we watch as what used to be a flourishing hospital was now

Nothing.

Four O’Clock

Seven-Thirty

I know it is Seven-Thirty because the fluorescent daylight begins to subdue, and the tundra that is my body undergoes even more chill. I loathe nighttime, when the darkness surrounds me, scratching and scraping at my ailing body until crimson streaks the floor. She can’t keep living like this. We’ve seen so many doctors. Tell me you can help her. No. No, no, no, not now. But the voices tiptoe around the room, creeping up on me before pouncing on my unsuspecting self, nailing me to the glacial ground. All I do is watch her become sicker and sicker. I- I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know who- who else to turn to. I wrench my hair, contorting into a fetal position. My headaches and I let out a shriek and bite down on my lip. I rock myself slowly, allowing the scarlet iron to fill my mouth and ooze onto the floor. I’m sorry- take her? You can’t take her- she’s mine. She’s my daughter. Hysteria claws its way up my throat in a horrified frenzy and spills onto the concrete. 

What are you doing to her? 

“What are you doing to me?” 

Let her go 

“Let me go!” 

I am screeching, my sobs thundering. I am mania, gashing, and ripping at my skin until I am swimming in a pool of bright garnet. 

You’re hurting her 

“You’re hurting me.” 

You need to let her go. Can’t you see she’s dying? 

“Can’t you see I’m dying?”

I gasp for sweet air, but my lungs have been capsized by my delirium. I seize and sputter until dizziness takes hold of consciousness. And the blackness seeps into my soul, suffocating my senses. 

And all is dark.