𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘱𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘩? ❝ 𝘵𝘧𝘱 𝘹 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘮𝘢!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 ❞ | REWRITING

[ 1 ]

　
┏━━━━━━━━━━━┓

CHAPTER ONE

┗━━━━━━━━━━━┛

-BROKEN CLOCKS AND BEDS FROM IKEA

BIRDS chirped in unison around the apple trees, and the emerging sun - ablaze, similar to lukewarm honey, glowed gently, kindred to a candlestick regaining its resilience from the passing wind.

The birds whistles, it's distinct tune of laughter : a sing-song cacophony of mismatched rhythm that resulted, fascinatingly, in a united choir of symphony pleasing to the ears. They hung from the jagged branches of the towering trees, unaware of the wind teetering in its prissy stupor, gently brushing the scattered leaves inches by inches.

A breath of fresh air it was, the smell of damp earth in the early morning dew and the bustling murmurs of the city starting to wake. Rustling, tossing-

Everything was ruined, when the alarm clock initiated its heinous assault. A noise that causes panic in the hearts of those who hear it. It continues to blare its siren loudly, disrupting the peace of the early morning - in an erratic, repeating fashion.

A surge of wind whipped everything in the little bedroom aside, cluttering the objects against the other side of the wall in a rancid succession - the coffee table upturned, clothes flew around as though there was a 5 grade tornado, pencils and rulers pinning the walls like mere throw darts - followed almost instantly by a loud deafening bang.

Blinking at the ceiling, you felt your fist balling and your arm outstretched with what you would assume as fume, or smoke emanating from your fist as a result from the explosive aftermath. Slowly, you unclench your fist, vision blurring like glassy camera lens, head spinning from the leftover sleep in your eyes.

When you cock your head to look in the direction of your punch, you were surprised to see that the poor clock had been lodged into the ground.

Broken and smashed in a pool of cogs and bolts.

The seams of your forehead crease. You might have to buy another one, that is, if your local store receptionist would restrain from demanding a reason why you barge into his shop daily for a brand new unsmashed clock to withhold.

At this point, he is prompted to to stash them inside a high tech vault, hidden far away from the depths of earth , every time he'd as much as notice the familiar molecular matter of your existence, waddling in front of his shop.

Though, you mused at the very thought he would bring himself to clutch the clocks against his chest mama-bear mode, with a predatory snarl as though they were his children.

You squint to take a second look.

"Ah..."

• • •　

YOU hoard from the bed, more like crawled, four legged cockroach fashion, since it's not necessarily a bed is it when it's legitimately a garish, economically, low-cost almost five bucks mattress bought from Olive Garden slapped to the ground of your room in impotence. Angularly tilted to the side like a misplaced Xbox console, your shabby mattress - if you were to admit proudly- is like no other mattresses you found from the scraps of Walmart.

Similarly of the Harry Potter to the Mazarin Stone ( p.s not a Harry Potter fan here, never read it), the soulmate of the soul, the prophecy of the chosen hero.