The hands of the clock turn, illuminating me. My shadow walks upon the wall. You twist and turn, an uneasy sensation coming over you. I brush past the curtains, causing them to flutter. I slink along the room, waiting, waiting. The hands are slowing, or are they going faster? Things seem different to me than to humans. Time passes. I can feel your body calm, but I don’t know what’s happening in your mind. You shudder, feeling a shadow pass over you. You try to pass it off as “someone walking over your grave.” Not too different than what just happened. I wait, knowing it is bound to happen soon. It happens to all of you humans. It’s close. So close. Just beyond my reach. You sit up, noticing. He’s I’m here here. The clock stops. Or maybe it just keeps going. This dream of a reality just keeps going. Never ending but never beginning. Forever and never, mixed into one.

The hand of the clock turns quickly, illuminating a few moments of a life. You wake up with a gasp. Your heart races in your chest. Vivid memories dance deviously within your head. Your curtains flutter, straining against the bonds that constrict them. “Just a dream, it was just a dream.” You try to convince yourself. Dreams have to come from somewhere. Where? The clock continues to tick. Your blankets are soaked with sweat. The hands speed up. Time moves fast. Your heart calms, but your mind is as active as ever. You try not to think about the dream, but these memories won’t go away. Memories are not from dreams. They come from reality. The clock slows. The hands move as if through syrup. The wind that rustles the curtains has stopped, as if the curtains themselves resign to be bound. Your dream mixes with reality, changing what you think, what you know, what simply is. I’m He’s here here. You shudder, knowing what must happen. It happens to everyone. It’s inevitable. The clock stops. For now.

The clock is running backwards.You don’t know where you are. No matter where, it’s dark and you want out. You hear wails coming from every direction. Are they coming from you? Are you the one screaming? I look at you and grin. This is turning out to be rather fun. Where? Where are you? Is this what it feels like to be dead? You thought if you were dead, the pain would end. You cannot hear the clock. It just keeps going at its steady, steady pace, ever going backwards. Why won’t it end? To be alone yet near so many? To never see but always feel. Is this what it’s like? Do you even have a body? Did you ever? Are you alive? Or are you a sick experiment made for fun by the rich? Not by the rich, little one. Not by the rich. You are my experiment. Are you crying? Are those tears? Do you even have eyes to cry from? You scream and scream till you can scream no more. Then you just keep on screaming. Just stop. Just stop. Don’t stop! This is fun. Make this torture end. Have you no cool release of death? Just a burning Hell? This place is not Hell. This is my playpen. And you are my toy. Will the clock ever stop?