A/N: All inspiration for this story came from the quote. I picked the quote, and then I just...started writing. This is the outcome
Quote: Even a stopped clock is right twice a day ~Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach~
The door is closed.
Closed tight, tight so that nothing can enter, nothing can exit; it might as well be just another piece of wall. Lock and key, on the inside. He holds it tight, golden key, marking his hand with a pattern of square teeth. He watches, and listens to the clock as it ticks, ticks, ticks, ticks, stop, breath, listen, tick, stop, breath, listen, tick. What day is it? The calendar has run out of pages, ripped up, 365 days abandoned upon the floor, fluttering in a wind that comes and goes…despite the walls that have no windows.
Listen to the clock, tick, tick, tick, second, minute, hour, day after day after day.
Stop, breath, listen…
Stop, breath, listen…
Stop, breath, listen…
He catches his breath and holds it, lifts his head. His lungs beg for air, but he listens instead, squeezes the key until his hand hurts, his heart pounds, and his eyes open and trace the walls, following the path of pictures and shelves until his gaze falls upon the clock. Small, made of red mahogany. It's so detailed, a beautiful antique with curving leaves and delicate trails of wood enclosing a gold-encircled timepiece. The golden hands are both straight up at XII, midnight…or high noon…
He doesn't know…
…and the clock has stopped ticking.
Shifting, he stirs from the corner where he's sat for…how long?
He doesn't know. The clock has stopped ticking.
He crawls forward, placing the key on the desk, immaculately clean, perfectly organized, a fresh sheet of paper with one word written on it.
Dear
He uses the desk to support himself, lifts himself to his feet, and goes to the wall where the clock hangs, and stares at it. His head shifts to the side slightly, speculatively, as though curious, or fearful, about the sudden silence, the sudden failure of the clock to do what it has done for so very long.
"Curious isn't it…time? It's a strange concept, if you ask me. The need to keep track of something that goes on regardless."
"…Regardless of what?"
"Of everything."
He frowns. His heart beats faster. How many days has it been, he wonders. His body is moving on without him, growing older, living. He's missing it. And now he can't keep track of it. How long has it been now, how many seconds, minutes, hours, days? Slipping away, like a thin silk ribbon stretching into eternity, and he can't catch it. It slides through his fingers, as insubstantial as mist, as light…as darkness.
Suddenly the room seems so small, too small, confining, cramped, and all he can think is the clock has stopped ticking. So small, so painfully small. No knowledge, no experience, his soul is the place of a child who's never lived. Never been given the chance, never took the chance, never even tried.
He goes to the door, his hand strays to the knob, gold knob, so shiny because it's never been used. What if he left? So easy…open the door, open up, let the children out to play, it's so small indoors, why don't we go outside today?
"I wouldn't try to leave, Landlord. Your mind is," asmall chuckle, "unpleasant."
Unpleasant, like cold and darkness and fear, monsters that hide in dark corners, spirits that haunt and scare. He steps away from the door. Inside isn't so bad, then? No, no, it's raining outside today, cold and dark, let's stay inside… He goes to the desk, sits down before the nearly perfect white sheet of paper. He takes the key and holds it tight. Lock and key, on the inside. Door closed tight, no monsters can find him here. He always wins when they play hide and seek.
Pen in hand, place it on the paper. Retrace the word, Dear…
Who?
He frowns, his eyes heavy, tired. How long has it been since he last slept? He doesn't know, the clock has stopped ticking. Tap, tap, tap, pen to paper, like the ticking of a clock. Who will he write to? So many candidates, who's the lucky winner?
No, not you sir, sorry, sir. No, ma'am, you aren't the one. Young man, you were certainly considered, but today's not your day. And there, little girl, don't cry now, you came in second place.
Dear Spirit,
And that's where the pen stops, halted, unable to pass the threshold of the greeting, unable to put into words the unbearable thoughts that plague his mind, his soul, his room. Unable, stuck, trapped, wait for a rescue team. Will they search for long? Will they give up when they can't find him? Will they even realize he's missing (been missing…for how long?)
His heart pounds, and there's this feeling, this sensation of pressure. So much kept inside, he feels as though he needs to scream, but he can't make a sound. He paces, focuses on the sound of his feet scuffing over black carpet.
Black carpet.
Who made the mistake?
Who put black carpet in the white room? Please fire them, and replace it. Hurry before it stains the walls… Walls, white, snow, like clouds and perfection, like a new sheet of paper. No window, but the wind still comes, flutters the paper on the desk, the shredded calendar on the floor, plays with his hair. Such beautiful hair, so soft; silver water flowing over porcelain skin.
Desk to door, desk to door, pace the floor, pace the floor, he clenches his hands around the key. And he wonders to himself:
How long is this going to last?
"Forever" that's what he said, that's what Koe, Spirit, Darkness, Other, told him. Has it been forever yet? When does forever end…does it last years, or only days, perhaps, forever has already ended. Why doesn't he leave then? Surely forever can't be spent in a room, so small; not a room like this.
He goes to the desk, sits, puts pen to paper.
Dear Spirit,
When does forever end?
There, a start, it's better than nothing. Don't complain, not a sound. No yelling inside, no screaming. He wants to scream though, he feels it again, that pressure, unyielding, pressing on his chest, his stomach, his head. The air feels so heavy, and the wind doesn't help. Help, S.O.S, get me out of here.
Tell me, again please, I can't seem to remember…how long is forever? He stops pacing, stands in the center of the room, stares at the door. He can almost feel the silence left by the clock—what good is a broken clock?—behind him. The door is before him, and he has the key. Golden key, square teeth, gnawing on skin, begging to be used.
Let him out? Yes, let's open the door, let's go exploring…
But his hand pauses on the knob. Monsters…he doesn't like monsters. They hide in closets, under beds, behind trees and beneath bridges, they eat little children, devour them whole. Swallow them, sharp teeth, crunching flesh and bone, a snack.
Moral of the story: listen, do as you're told.
"I wouldn't try to leave, Landlord."
Oh but he can hardly stand it. This silence, silence, quiet, too quiet, the lack of sound like a fog that is shrouding everything, making it less real. But then, what is real? Real? This gives him pause. This room is real. He knows the room is real.
Leave the room, control his body, monsters, it all seems fanciful. Leave the room? That couldn't be real could it? A dream, perhaps? Silly child, it was only a dream…stop making up ridiculous stories. No more games.
Why try to leave?
There's nothing outside the room.
He goes back to the desk and sits. He takes up the pen, gets a new sheet of paper, and writes three small lines.
Dear Spirit,
I don't know what time it is. The clock has stopped ticking.
Love, Ryou
A/N: Here is the reason why this was so random and rambled a lot. While it was written in Present Tense 3rd Person, I was also narrating Ryou's thoughts. At this point he's been trapped in his Soul Room for, well, too long. So he isn't quite normal, if that makes sense. Oh, and the Italicized "words" with quotations were memories, not things that were said right then.
I guess that's all. Please do favor me with a review because I am trying to write, and that's better than nothing!