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Description
The second hand quivers slightly on my little alarm clock, edging its way slowly up towards 12. I stare at it, watch it move and click against the glassy sheen of the clock’s face, feeling my heart thump exactly to its beat, as though it were a metronome set to gauge each passing moment of my life. My little golden alarm clock. My little undertaker. My little friend.

It’s an antique, you know, My great-great-grandmother designed it and her husband constructed it, using the gold they were able to gather in the hills near Sacramento in the mid-1800s and what spare parts they could haggle out of passing caravans, and whatever they could afford in the general stores nearby, apparently, it’s the only one of its kind, and it’s been passed down only in my family all these years. I had an appraisal down once, a few months ago, and the guy told me that he’d never seen one with such intricate details, both on the inside and outside, from that time period, and he told me that my great-great-grandparents would have been immensely famous, and immensely rich, had they created this masterpiece of a clock on the east coast instead, and that I wouldn’t even have had to get it appraised because I’d already know what it was worth. I told him that, had that happened, I would just have a worthless mass-produced item and its value wouldn’t have been more than fifty dollars. He seemed rather put off by that comment, but he agreed with me anyway, and then my fist was in his face and there was blood everywhere, and I don’t remember much more from that day.

The second hand has finally hit its mark, so I can get up now. I carefully pull the covers back and step gingerly onto the black throw rug on my floor, taking care not to touch anything other than the sheets. With serene grace, I glide towards the camera in the center of my room, the air around me nigh undisturbed, and tap a small red button which controls the device’s recording function. The screen turns off and the camera goes into sleep mode. I step lightly around the tripod on which the camera is mounted and double check that the power-cord is still in order. As usual, it snakes down the tripod’s legs and across the floor, disappearing into the pitch blackness a few feet away. Much as death is an inevitable and purportedly vile force that drives us as sentient creatures to do the things we do and live the way we live, this inexplicable darkness is the force that powers my camera. I never question its presence, though; it has always seemed as natural to me as the rising and setting sun is to my neighbor in her garden.

I would say that I’m going to eat breakfast now, but it’s, like, noon or something, so I guess I’m after some lunch now, which is perfectly fine as it’s the routine I’ve grown accustomed to over the years, so I grab a box of frosted flakes and a bowl and a spoon and some milk from the annoyingly under-stocked fridge, and prepare myself a bowl of sugar and grains and milk. I have to go shopping sometime and get more food, but that would take time and effort and I really don’t care all that much. Frosted flakes are enough. I traipse back to my room laden with my meal and flop down nonchalantly into my favorite chair, the brown and black one that’s covered in stains and smells like something you’d find in the corners of a meat processing factory from the early twentieth century, and flip on the dusty old TV that’s propped up on two cracked cinderblocks against the far wall, before taking a bite. The flakes are still crunchy, the cracking sounds in my mouth greatly overpowering the TV, and I laugh unexpectedly at stupid slapstick humor on the screen, spewing partially chewed cereal everywhere on the floor and furniture around me, but somehow not on me or my clothes. I glance down at the mess I just made and silently compare it to the countless other ancient spills and debris that litter what was once the visible floor, and I keep smiling, and I tell myself that it doesn’t really matter, I’ll get to cleaning it up eventually, and I redirect my attention back to the television where an animated bunny just bopped some bald dude with a bizarre accent on the head with a frying pan, and I laugh some more. But amid all the clatter in my oral and aural cavities there is this strange and persistent ticking noise, which sounds like an analog clock, and it’s always there whenever I’m in my room, and it’s really weird because I think it comes from that big dark patch over there, the patch that’s always been there and I’ve never questioned it because it seems so natural. I told myself once that I’d venture into it sometime and see what I find, but that sounds time-consuming, so I’ve never bothered. It’s strange, though, but there’s this extension cord running out from a now long-hidden outlet somewhere behind that huge pile of rotting clothes that runs over and connects to a camera mounted on a tripod that always faces the darkness. I’ve never touched it because it seems important, but I have examined it before, and it’s always powered but in sleep mode, and I just can’t figure out why it’s there, but then I guess I really don’t care all that much.

After breakfast I carefully wash first the spoon I used, and then the bowl, taking care to scrub them as clean as I possibly can. I gently place them back in their respective resting places, where they will stay until I next have use of them. Dreamily, and without making a sound, I float back to my room. It is as I left it, tranquil and white save for the throw rug. The dark end of the room remains as shrouded as usual, and the camera still is mounted on its tripod. I cease all activity for a moment to contemplate the camera. I have never deciphered its purpose, its meaning, either in a literal or metaphorical sense, but I always feel drawn to record my room. The device is never aimed toward the shadows behind it, and I haven’t once felt the need to readjust its angle. With precision and dexterity I disable its sleep mode and reactivate the recording function. As lightly as is possible, I slip back under the white, untainted covers and turn back to face my alarm clock. The second hand is on the 1. I watch it carefully, track its motions until it lands again on 12, when my heart again is synched with the seconds that pass. The ticking is hypnotic, and I suddenly feel so tired. As I drift off again into slumber, the last thought that crosses my mind is of my little golden alarm clock. My little undertaker. My little friend.

Description
The second hand quivers slightly on my little alarm clock, edging its way slowly up towards 12. I stare at it, watch it move and click against the glassy sheen of the clock’s face, feeling my heart thump exactly to its beat, as though it were a metronome set to gauge each passing moment of my life. My little golden alarm clock. My little undertaker. My little friend.

It’s an antique, you know, My great-great-grandmother designed it and her husband constructed it, using the gold they were able to gather in the hills near Sacramento in the mid-1800s and what spare parts they could haggle out of passing caravans, and whatever they could afford in the general stores nearby, apparently, it’s the only one of its kind, and it’s been passed down only in my family all these years. I had an appraisal down once, a few months ago, and the guy told me that he’d never seen one with such intricate details, both on the inside and outside, from that time period, and he told me that my great-great-grandparents would have been immensely famous, and immensely rich, had they created this masterpiece of a clock on the east coast instead, and that I wouldn’t even have had to get it appraised because I’d already know what it was worth. I told him that, had that happened, I would just have a worthless mass-produced item and its value wouldn’t have been more than fifty dollars. He seemed rather put off by that comment, but he agreed with me anyway, and then my fist was in his face and there was blood everywhere, and I don’t remember much more from that day.

The second hand has finally hit its mark, so I can get up now. I carefully pull the covers back and step gingerly onto the black throw rug on my floor, taking care not to touch anything other than the sheets. With serene grace, I glide towards the camera in the center of my room, the air around me nigh undisturbed, and tap a small red button which controls the device’s recording function. The screen turns off and the camera goes into sleep mode. I step lightly around the tripod on which the camera is mounted and double check that the power-cord is still in order. As usual, it snakes down the tripod’s legs and across the floor, disappearing into the pitch blackness a few feet away. Much as death is an inevitable and purportedly vile force that drives us as sentient creatures to do the things we do and live the way we live, this inexplicable darkness is the force that powers my camera. I never question its presence, though; it has always seemed as natural to me as the rising and setting sun is to my neighbor in her garden.

I would say that I’m going to eat breakfast now, but it’s, like, noon or something, so I guess I’m after some lunch now, which is perfectly fine as it’s the routine I’ve grown accustomed to over the years, so I grab a box of frosted flakes and a bowl and a spoon and some milk from the annoyingly under-stocked fridge, and prepare myself a bowl of sugar and grains and milk. I have to go shopping sometime and get more food, but that would take time and effort and I really don’t care all that much. Frosted flakes are enough. I traipse back to my room laden with my meal and flop down nonchalantly into my favorite chair, the brown and black one that’s covered in stains and smells like something you’d find in the corners of a meat processing factory from the early twentieth century, and flip on the dusty old TV that’s propped up on two cracked cinderblocks against the far wall, before taking a bite. The flakes are still crunchy, the cracking sounds in my mouth greatly overpowering the TV, and I laugh unexpectedly at stupid slapstick humor on the screen, spewing partially chewed cereal everywhere on the floor and furniture around me, but somehow not on me or my clothes. I glance down at the mess I just made and silently compare it to the countless other ancient spills and debris that litter what was once the visible floor, and I keep smiling, and I tell myself that it doesn’t really matter, I’ll get to cleaning it up eventually, and I redirect my attention back to the television where an animated bunny just bopped some bald dude with a bizarre accent on the head with a frying pan, and I laugh some more. But amid all the clatter in my oral and aural cavities there is this strange and persistent ticking noise, which sounds like an analog clock, and it’s always there whenever I’m in my room, and it’s really weird because I think it comes from that big dark patch over there, the patch that’s always been there and I’ve never questioned it because it seems so natural. I told myself once that I’d venture into it sometime and see what I find, but that sounds time-consuming, so I’ve never bothered. It’s strange, though, but there’s this extension cord running out from a now long-hidden outlet somewhere behind that huge pile of rotting clothes that runs over and connects to a camera mounted on a tripod that always faces the darkness. I’ve never touched it because it seems important, but I have examined it before, and it’s always powered but in sleep mode, and I just can’t figure out why it’s there, but then I guess I really don’t care all that much.

After breakfast I carefully wash first the spoon I used, and then the bowl, taking care to scrub them as clean as I possibly can. I gently place them back in their respective resting places, where they will stay until I next have use of them. Dreamily, and without making a sound, I float back to my room. It is as I left it, tranquil and white save for the throw rug. The dark end of the room remains as shrouded as usual, and the camera still is mounted on its tripod. I cease all activity for a moment to contemplate the camera. I have never deciphered its purpose, its meaning, either in a literal or metaphorical sense, but I always feel drawn to record my room. The device is never aimed toward the shadows behind it, and I haven’t once felt the need to readjust its angle. With precision and dexterity I disable its sleep mode and reactivate the recording function. As lightly as is possible, I slip back under the white, untainted covers and turn back to face my alarm clock. The second hand is on the 1. I watch it carefully, track its motions until it lands again on 12, when my heart again is synched with the seconds that pass. The ticking is hypnotic, and I suddenly feel so tired. As I drift off again into slumber, the last thought that crosses my mind is of my little golden alarm clock. My little undertaker. My little friend.