tick. tock. tick-
a clock's only ability is to tell the time something is happening to humans who simply couldn't care. the noises it makes annoy everyone yet if we didn't have it we would be lost.
in a small library when the curtains brush softly against the dark, wooden bookshelves as their books come and go. the books don't exactly have a bond with the shelf. they're inanimate but some people don't like assuming that.
a pale hand grasps onto one of the books; a brown book. it's rough leather cover with a soft, smooth hand is one they both get something out of anything. attachment.
flipping through the pages, the weak paper embroided with a light pattern and dark words and letters that are supposed to mean something. these words just multiply and multiply, but somewhat they grasp people's emotions.
all the hand can do is keep turning with no stop. there is something to tell it to keep going but to never stop. overwhelming sensations would always come to just stop but there is no point to stopping.
flip, tick, flip, tock.
the clock chimes, the window plastered with the dark starry night, but the hand's own light just can't keep shining like the moon does.
the book contains the words to take in and think of yet it's so hard to think.
the curly hair of the pale-person is softly highlighted, like if ecstasy had a colour.
and day by day, there's nothing to reduce the stress. the constant flipping of pages, countless nights and phobophobia creating a home in one's head.
"a flower's roots will extend into the ground.." they muttered softly.
"..until it cannot no longer." a thick polish accent revealed, their lips separated to talk then meet again when they close their mouth.
until it cannot no longer?
it seems like a human can relate to a helpless flower.
a star can only shine for so long too, until it burns out and extinguishes itself, essentially a suicide.
a star can only shine for so long
until it cannot no longer?
a pale hand can only keep turning, their anxiety rising until they can't see the words infront of them anymore.
stress essentially. that's how you'd describe phobophobia.
and so the next day, the clock still ticking, there was no more rustling.
only small whispers and whines, the pages ripped out and their hair suddenly pale. their eyes unlike any other, too light to be brown but too dark to be black.
the light had suddenly extinguished, had it?
"you are my enemy, and my remedy.." a thicker voice mumbled, suddenly the pale being in a room with a darker entity.
the silver blade on the light's neck could only just hold back less. to drive it, stab it and never come back with your own lover is toxic. you've been getting to me lately.
piercing through their neck, a sudden hue of colours came out like if they'd been waiting for this moment.
there wasn't anymore expectation for them to be the bright light to everything.
falling over, the hue of liquid colour splattered on the titled book that was just about to be picked up.
it was hard to tell what it said. no one had told me how it ended.
but with the trace of a finger, it seemed like this very moment would be the last part of the story.
"a light so bright it has to be killed off".
and so to pick up the delicate feather, dipping it by the river of blood from the light's neck, and writing by the last page.
"they were killed off.
fin."
with a simple walk away, the clock sat with the silence.
tick, tock, chime.
© zeldah ♡, made with love.