By Yolanda Gray-Lucero
It was midnight. I was swallowed by darkness. I felt blind. The time was going, the clock was ticking, getting faster. It was getting faster. Then it stopped. Completely stopped. Suddenly. It stopped. Finally it stopped, I had peace. But then it started again. Getting faster and faster and louder and louder until it became an unbearable, deafening ringing. I had to stop it. It was driving me crazy. But I’m not crazy! I had to stop the time. It was going to fast, to loud. A cunning plan formed in my mind. I knew who was doing this. They were trying to make me mad. Ha. Their plan wasn’t working because I knew who they were. I was going to stop them. Yes! And there is only one way to stop them.
I carefully, cautiously crept over to the house opposite mine. It had always haunted me. The old, wrinkly lady who lived there was the cause. She was mad. Her haunted eyes. Those funny looks she always gave me. It was her. I knew it. I slid the window open, so carefully, so quietly. I slipped into the house. I crept into the kitchen. I knew where it was. Watching her walking around. Crazy. She was crazy. And she was trying to drive me crazy. I went over to the draw. Carefully, quietly. I slipped out a kitchen knife and slipped it into my pocket.
I tiptoed up the stairs. Creaking. The eerie house had always made me shiver.
I saw her room. The time was still deafening me. I had to hurry. I slowly walked in. There she was. Asleep on a chair with a book in her hand. She had always made my blood run cold. I was going to drive her crazy. Just like she was trying to make me. I walked over shook her awake. I wanted her to feel all the pain that she deserved.
She tried to shriek.
She started stuttering.
She was crazy.
I slowly, carefully, painfully killed her.
I felt proud of my plan. But what was wrong? The time carried on ticking. Why? Maybe it wasn’t just her. She was working with others…
I stormed back to my house. I opened my front door and slammed it behind me. I saw someone sitting by the fire place. It must be her. She was a demon, sent from hell, back from the dead.
I lashed out.
Slashed the knife down upon her neck.
Blood was dripping down.
What could I do? I had to get rid of it.
I walked towards her. Turned her over from where she’d fallen onto the floor. I let go and jumped back. It was my mother. My own mother.
Next to her on the table, she’d laid out two cups of tea, a large present with a card addressed: To my wonderful daughter, Happy Birthday.
I’d just killed my mother. The time was still ticking. It still is now. It will never stop. I’m the only one who can stop it. I pick up the knife and put it up to my neck. And now I am dead. The time still ticks. A deafening ringing that will never end.