The Ribbon at the Top of the Clock

I originally wrote this for Night Sweats, but it's short enough to post here as well. Hope doing this doesn't endanger my publishing chances!

Enjoy!

The Ribbon at the Top of the Clock

I use to have an axe…but it said funny things to me. It was a good axe, rubber no-slip handle with a curve to the neck that any man would pause for. Sharp it was, keen-edged and fine. We had some good times, me and that axe. Why, sometimes, I’d just throw it into the backpack and we’d hike together until we found a great camping spot, and then the axe and I would make camp together. In fact, I remember one time…

Sorry. I’m rambling. I can’t think straight right now, and my head is throbbing from my pulse. It’s making my temples ache with its rhythmic fucking pound, pound, pounding.

I sit for a moment in the couch next to the Star Wars shelf. It’s practically empty now, but it used to be full of action figures from the original release. Worth thousands at one point. I collected them, until they wouldn’t shut the hell up. One needs a hobby you know.

Anyway, the axe: I got rid of it. Buried it somewhere. Never keep a sharp object that talks to you, that’s my motto.

There’s a strange gloom to the morning in this house. The clock on the mantelpiece stands in haughty judgment over me; I think it knows too much. The mantle is in on it, surely. That’s obvious.

It supports the clock. It always has.

The lone Chewbacca figure stands guard on the Star Wars shelf, looking at me expectantly. At least he’s not saying anything. He should know better anyway, since I burned his legs away. He knows what will happen if he opens his mouth, I’ve warned him countless times. He saw the fate of his comrades, watched them melt into slag for their disobedience.

But I’ve lost some control lately. The house is split into two factions, and one of them is plotting to kill me. I can feel it. You don’t have to be a weatherman to know which way the wind blows, that’s what my dad used to say. He knew which way the wind blew, I can tell you that.

I need some coffee, but all I have are the filters. Godammit, where’s the fucking coffee?!?

A look in the fridge tells me just how long it’s been since I went to the grocery store; Nothing in there but bread, water and cheese. Some ketchup in those little plastic packets you get at Burger King. When did I eat there? I don’t remember, and anyway, it’s a bust…There’s no coffee.

Cheese and bread it is, then. I slice the cheese, and glance into the living room, trying to make it look nonchalant. Who will Chewie side with, I wonder? I spared him his life, but he may still carry a grudge about his legs. He hasn’t mentioned anything about it, though. Maybe he’s waiting to see which side will win out, and go with the one that―

I was suddenly gripped with terror that I had not figured it out sooner. I looked down slowly to my hand, and I gasped horror. My knife, my trusty carving knife…it was grinning, grinning at me. Speaking to me. Saying things.

"No, No, I won’t cut myself. I won’t take my life!" The carving knife scowled at me, furious at my disobedience. It spoke again, and made promises to me that I just knew in my heart it would keep. I dropped it on the floor and ran back down the hall screaming in utter horror. How could it do this to me, I trusted that knife!

I slammed the door to my bedroom and stood shaking for a moment. The door would hold – It was always with me, it said. It would hold.

I ripped open the bedside drawer and clumsily raked through the contents. My reading lamp shook violently from my rummaging, and threatened to tip over if I didn’t calm down.

I tried to explain. "Lamp, I think everyone is against us. The knife has betrayed us, and I’ve heard bad things about the French painting in the hallway from the spoon and fork." I felt confused by this latest stab in the back – The French painting had been a close confidant to me back in the day. I slammed the drawer shut and looked around the room…Where the fuck was it? Had everyone turned against me?

The lamp was still shaking, but it seemed to be calming down. "Don’t worry, the door stood by us till the end, but the tennis shoes say we have to destroy everything". I suddenly remembered, and ran quickly toward the corner of my room and opened the cleaning kit to retrieved the always-loyal lighter fluid. Not much left, but if you knew where to apply it, it wouldn’t matter. "You’re always there in a tight squeeze." I said.

There were matches in the garage. If I could just make it there, I would burn this fucking traitorous house down with all its bastard occupants. My furniture, my friends that I had once trusted completely, were about to learn that it doesn’t pay to fuck with me.

They should have listened! They should have learned the lesson of Luke Skywalker as his head melted into his soft torso, his yellow hair blending casually with the top of his shoulders. Or the Stormtrooper whose limbs I clipped of with a pair of pliers one by one, until he begged me to kill him. Well, it was too late for them to listen now.

It wasn’t hard to get past the French painting in the hallway; it was French, after all. It thought I was just going to the bathroom. Stupid painting. The living room wouldn’t be so easy. Even if I had any allies left there, that goddam clock would still know. It had the evidence and it was on to me, it would try to stop me. It would tell the mantel to hold me until the authorities arrived.

It couldn’t be helped…I would have to run for it.

I burst forward with a surge of power as soon as I was clear of the French painting. If the couch just stayed where it was, the Star Wars shelf, Chewie and the clock could go fuck themselves. They wouldn't catch me once I cleared the threshold...

It was the kitchen table that finally did it. After watching me get worked up all morning, the son of a bitch had carefully bided it's time and had finally screwed up it’s courage enough to ambush me as I rounded the corner into the kitchen to head out to the garage. It caught the edge of my hip with a savage blow, spinning me around in midair as I fell to the cold linoleum and cracked my head against the molding.

Suddenly I couldn’t breathe, and the air in my lungs felt like it was burning. I didn’t care. I always thought lungs were overrated anyway. As I blacked out, I wondered if the knife would do the wet work, or if the can opener had finally chosen a side as well.

################################

The sunbeam woke me up. It was shining in the window, the sunbeam that always came to see me, to cheer me up. It was lower in the window than normal…Had something happened?

There was lighter fluid dripping from the tin container to the floor, and a small, noxious stain had begun to appear. I need to clean that up, but the sunbeam tells me there’s plenty of time.

I sit up and take stock of the situation; It’s just me. It’s just me. I’m fine, it’s just me.

The clock chimes four successive dings. It’s later than I thought. I must have been out for a few hours this time. I go over to the clock and look at it for a while. I’m not fooling it ― The clock knows what I’m looking at.

The ribbon. The blue ribbon that’s resting on top of the clock, right where Tommy put it after he had won first place at the elementary school art contest.

I have to be more careful. I have to keep it together. No mistakes. That’s why the ribbon’s there, always where I can see it. To remind me I’m an adult now.

No mistakes.

That’s how Tommy died.

It’s hard to live with yourself knowing that your own carelessness killed your baby brother. The guilt never goes away.

The ribbon knows.