It was a day like every other, and it wasn't until the struck of the eighteenth hour – the dullest of all hours when you know something ought to happen, but nothing ever does – that she started screaming for help. She was scared, and she was lost, but no one helped her because she was at home. Supposedly she was. Her cries were ripping at the walls and the wallpaper was peeling down slowly. Her nail polish, all scratched and ruined, was leaving a tiny red stain on the wall, but what did it matter? - no one would ever see it. There was a shadow of broken glass scattered all over the ceiling, the chandelier shaking madly, the light bulbs heating red, about to burst any second,
but not yet.
The torture continues.
A godless cry came out of her lungs and got stuck in her throat, and no sound was produced. So no one came to help. It was only the wallpaper that kept scratching, peeling itself off. The faded daisy flowers crumbled and fell into pieces. Their little blossoms couldn't take the pressure and drove down a one-lane suicide road. There's no coming back.
She heard him approaching. She screamed more loudly, louder than ever before, but no one came except for him. She wished his steps would echo up the stairway or his breath would resonance in the distance; but he moved like a shadow. You can't stop a shadow. A door locked and windows barred. She panicked. She cried once more and threw herself on the floor, rumpled into a tiny little ball of skin and bones and eyes bigger than her heart.
The door is locked, the door is locked, the door is locked...
She kept rocking back and forth repeating the words inside her head that the door, her only savior, was locked. The windows barred and a shadow of a chandelier smashed against the ceiling. Thousands of sparkly pieces falling gracefully upon her, like snowflakes or butterflies, raining all over her body. She looked up hoping for a piece of beauty to strike her face, change her, make her beautiful and strong again. Make her strong, so she could fight him.
He was approaching.
She looked up towards the ceiling and the scattered stars hanging dead from it. Maybe she could run. She broke away from her protective cocoon and started running in circles, and the dreadful daisies were mocking her in their one-way flight. Run! Run faster!
But he was getting closer.
Red and out of breath she stopped a moment and started shaking again. The daisies, and the shadows, and the stars - they are all here now. And he is here too, and he has a key.
The door opens and the alien enters. It's tall and white and scary. It smiles at her, but she doesn't want to look - look away! His eyes sparkle with menace and heat, and his head looks big and bubbly. Something's wrong. The daisies stop for a moment to look - they will fly again later.
The alien takes out a weapon, she screams and as she screams, she hears the cries of others outside. Help! but no one can help because they are all animals trapped in their cages, waiting for their time to come. The weapon is long and silver; he smiles, holds her by the shoulder and strikes. Is that pain? Pain? What is pain?
She passes out.
When her eyelashes lifted again, everything was blurry. And the door was locked and the windows were barred. The daisies were all gone or had all gone to a funeral; they weren't on the wall anymore. A chandelier - there was no chandelier, and no stars and snowflakes. The jacket felt better now, it was readjusted. She heard him strolling out and peeking through the small window.
"You feel better now?" he asked.
"Yes. Thank you, Doctor Jones."
but not yet.
The torture continues.
A godless cry came out of her lungs and got stuck in her throat, and no sound was produced. So no one came to help. It was only the wallpaper that kept scratching, peeling itself off. The faded daisy flowers crumbled and fell into pieces. Their little blossoms couldn't take the pressure and drove down a one-lane suicide road. There's no coming back.
She heard him approaching. She screamed more loudly, louder than ever before, but no one came except for him. She wished his steps would echo up the stairway or his breath would resonance in the distance; but he moved like a shadow. You can't stop a shadow. A door locked and windows barred. She panicked. She cried once more and threw herself on the floor, rumpled into a tiny little ball of skin and bones and eyes bigger than her heart.
The door is locked, the door is locked, the door is locked...
She kept rocking back and forth repeating the words inside her head that the door, her only savior, was locked. The windows barred and a shadow of a chandelier smashed against the ceiling. Thousands of sparkly pieces falling gracefully upon her, like snowflakes or butterflies, raining all over her body. She looked up hoping for a piece of beauty to strike her face, change her, make her beautiful and strong again. Make her strong, so she could fight him.
He was approaching.
She looked up towards the ceiling and the scattered stars hanging dead from it. Maybe she could run. She broke away from her protective cocoon and started running in circles, and the dreadful daisies were mocking her in their one-way flight. Run! Run faster!
But he was getting closer.
Red and out of breath she stopped a moment and started shaking again. The daisies, and the shadows, and the stars - they are all here now. And he is here too, and he has a key.
The door opens and the alien enters. It's tall and white and scary. It smiles at her, but she doesn't want to look - look away! His eyes sparkle with menace and heat, and his head looks big and bubbly. Something's wrong. The daisies stop for a moment to look - they will fly again later.
The alien takes out a weapon, she screams and as she screams, she hears the cries of others outside. Help! but no one can help because they are all animals trapped in their cages, waiting for their time to come. The weapon is long and silver; he smiles, holds her by the shoulder and strikes. Is that pain? Pain? What is pain?
She passes out.
When her eyelashes lifted again, everything was blurry. And the door was locked and the windows were barred. The daisies were all gone or had all gone to a funeral; they weren't on the wall anymore. A chandelier - there was no chandelier, and no stars and snowflakes. The jacket felt better now, it was readjusted. She heard him strolling out and peeking through the small window.
"You feel better now?" he asked.
"Yes. Thank you, Doctor Jones."