Bouts of Insanity

The Clock at Midnight

He sat, watching the clock. Hours slowly ticking by as his sanity began to question itself. Every once in a while, he'd hear a voice or a set of footsteps, but never did he see a shadow cross under the door as they passed. And every so often, he'd think that one would stop outside his door, but never did it open. He stood, reaching for the handle, but a chill ran down his back as his fingers just nearly grasped it, and his hand quickly shot back to his side, giving up again. He'd been here before, just about to reach for the door, but giving up halfway through. He couldn't even be sure if it was locked, as every time he almost tried it, something inside of himself told him he'd be better off here.

Here. Where was here? He'd been here so long he'd forgotten. He'd forgotten himself. He'd forgotten the world. He couldn't even remember his own name or if he even had one. He looked back at the clock. It had done nothing to remind him of how long he'd been there as every time he looked away, it seemed to reset itself, starting back at midnight and beginning to tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Until he finally looked away, and it stopped. He couldn't remember his past, couldn't remember yesterday, or if he even had one. The white room was stifling, dampening his mind, dulling his thoughts, it left nothing for him to focus on, only allowing his eyes to slide over the walls as each looked exactly like the other. The only way to keep track of where his eyes were looking was by the door and that damned clock on the wall. He looked. Midnight. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

He closed his eyes, tearing his thoughts from time, only for them to focus on the silence. The empty stillness of an otherwise empty room. If not for him. He alone stood in the white prison, unsure if he could escape, and afraid of what would happen if he found out. A thought of another life floated in and out before he could catch it, before he could even seem to think it, as if something was keeping even the notion from being entertained. As if he wasn't supposed to think of anything other than time passing, but not, or silence. Loneliness should accompany both thoughts, but the empty feeling in its place made him wonder. His brain quickly pushes that thought aside, too. Immediately forgotten as he hears footsteps, coming down the hall from the left of the door, a steady thrum of feet meeting the floor in an almost too perfect rythm, like the beat of a song. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Even as they pass his door, there are equally spaced, identical sounds from both feet as the person doesn't even hestitate. Doesn't even seem to think of the man locked in this room. As if he isn't there, or as if no one knows that he is. He thinks to cry out, but as he watches the light from under the door, there moves no shadow. No sign of the person now slowly moving away down the hall. Other than the constant thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

He would wonder about it if his eyes weren't drawn back to the clock on the wall as if by force. Midnight. Tick. Tick. Tick. This time, he doesn't think. He screams, kneeling to the ground as he hunches over. He reaches out, searching for anything to grasp to remind himself that he is alive, but all he can seem to find are his hair and his clothes. He grips at both, pulling, tearing, screaming harder in pain, but the feeling is welcome. Grounding. Pleasant, almost. He screams until his lungs give out, taking in great gulps of air and screaming again. He screams until his mind goes numb, and all he can hear are his panting breaths and the tick. Tick. Tick. Of the clock at midnight. No footsteps. No voices. As if there was no one around to have heard his breakdown, though he is sure that the noise must have traveled the entire building. Silence.

Midnight. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. He closes his eyes, hoping for rest, but no such peace could be found. Not with the thoughts in his brain that don't quite seem to be his or the disembodied voices he used to swear he could hear coming down the hall, but now he's not so sure they are really there. As they pass, there are not even footsteps to go with them, no shadow under the door. He cannot hear what is being said, cannot even discern the particular voices, but knows they pass the door without faltering.

He stands, moving toward the door. He reaches out a hand. Closer. Closer. Just a little bit closer. His fingers brush the knob before he opens his eyes and finds himself sitting on the floor, staring up to the clock that reads midnight as it tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Ticks. Tears fall from his eyes, but as he brushes them away, his hands come back dry. He stares at them, then laughs. He laughs and laughs. He laughs so hard his stomach hurts. His throat still aches from earlier, but he doesn't seem to care as he laughs some more. He clutches his stomach and laughs. He giggles a bit, almost calming down, then breaks out laughing harder. He doesn't know how long he laughs. He goes to check the time and sees that it's midnight. Tick. Tick. Tick. He thinks he must have laughed for hours. What was so funny? Why was he laughing? Why couldn't he stop? He stands - still laughing - and looks around, analyzing the room, wondering where he is and going to reach for the door, but as his hand gets close, his stomach seizes, and he finally stops laughing, a chill running down his spine as he draws away from the door. Partially due to the feeling of dread he got as he moved closer to the handle and partially due to the thud. Thud. Thud. Of footsteps coming down the hall.