"The clock in this room..."
The clock in this room is broken. It ticks at uneven intervals, not able to muster up enough energy to push the minute hand up past the 32 minute mark. It would have driven me insane if I was sure I was sane to begin with. I approximate the time by the long shadows on the floor and roll myself to my feet. It takes more effort than it should. I don't want to think what it would take to put on clothes.
I have been staring at the broken clock for close to three days now. Give or take a few hours. It's hard to keep track when your only point of reference is as as useful as a dictionary with no definitions. Just lists and lists of words in alphabetical order with no meaning. The clock seemed smug about the power it held over me. The glow of the late-day sun turned silver through the blinds as I pulled myself from my bed.
The low squeal of the clock's gears joins the arrhythmic staccato of the clock's cry for attention. I ignore it like I ignore the twisting clench of my empty stomach, moving through the ticking and the whining, feeling the sound bounce off my skin and bones like echolocation. I press myself against the wall to hide my presence from the eyes of the clock. The heavy noise is keeping me trapped in this room; a butterfly pinned to the board.
I squeeze my eyes shut and edge toward the door. As long as I can't see it, it can't see me. I feel along the wall with shaking fingers, find the door jamb and heave myself out. The ticking has followed. I don't dare open my eyes. If I do, I'll see the hands of the clock moving backwards.
nt - 5/28/10
Notes: Chronomentrophobia is the fear of clocks.
*Prompt taken from The Write Brain Workbook: 366 Exercises to Liberate Your Writing by Bonnie Neubauer