Moonlight

It's 12:05, the clock stopped.
From now on, there's no time to hurry.
How about a cup of ginger tea? I found a few more bottles. The river takes them away. Did you find them? Is 12:05 a sign?
_{See Russian roulette and here by @almaguer}

Sunday 7:00
I hadn't pulled the trigger yet, but I couldn't control myself and gave that bag of rotten potatoes a good kick. Not a sound came out, not even a cough or a squeak. You know that sound like a tire, in this case a corpse, is deflating.

In the cupboard, there was a box that looked familiar to me. Inside it was a sketchbook. How long ago had I last seen that? Why was it here? There was a drawing inside. The old fart had been furious when I told him what it was.

"These are dandelions," I’d said proudly. "Can’t you see? The moon is shining on them—that’s the reflection. It’s not a puddle."

Why is everything blue then, he had said, it's in the sky so they're not stars but satellites, that crap from Elon Musk that's spying on us. He slapped me around the ears and I screamed in pain and then... then I couldn't remember anything except that he had locked me up in this hellhole and hadn't looked at me for days before I was allowed back in the house. Dirty, shivering, cracked lips and no voice to talk anymore. The rats had pissed on me but done nothing to me. They were just as affected, just as outcasts as I was. There were many more times that I was locked up in the cellar and forgotten. That's what he called it when the door finally opened: Sorry, I forgot you were here, what are you doing there? What are you doing there, was what he always asked, as if I had gone down to the cellar of my own free will to amuse myself or just because I wanted to be alone with the mould on the walls and the shadows that drew figures of faded dandelions and 999 pelicans. Pelicans that I imagined were pink. As soon as the door opened, they flew away. How miraculous is that?


Monday: 11:00
Somewhere a door slams shut. I wait, and when I finally go upstairs, a surprise awaits me in the kitchen. A guy is painting the wall. Stroke by stroke, he erases what was painted on the wall.

They are not pelicans, he says, and then the blow comes to the back of my head. My knees buckle. Did someone turn on the radio? What is that tune? I carefully move my crooked finger. Ready to pull the trigger, I think. It is a starry night. If I had a camera, I would have taken a picture.

How are you? she asks.

I look at her, and she looks at me. It’s as though we’re staring into a mirror. After a long silence, I ask: Have you forgotten me? Am I being impatient? Are we always meant to be together? I glare at her reproachfully. Did I go to all that trouble for nothing? Mother Holle might’ve warned me, I think bitterly. I lie on my side and hear the letter crackle beneath my weight. Is any of this real? Am I just a figment of my mind—or is she?

---

Wednesday, 12:05

A clock chimed in the distance. I could hear it clearly. I glance at my watch and hold it to my ear. Every now and then, I wish I could hear it ticking, but the time stopped just like my life. Devil spins, he’s having a grand time. The table feels safe; I wait until the kettle boils. I brew tea from the last of the ginger.
It smells like paint… someone’s painted the wall white…

_{15.4.25
#pic1000 is hosted by @freewritehouse
Picture: see @freeewritehouse
Prompts: sketchbook, miraculous, stroke by stroke, impatient by @freewritehouse}