9:07

A Story by silasthegray

9:07

Tuesday:

You wake with warm sun on your cheek. You sit up. You stare at the alarm clock. It stares back. It blinks at you --" 9:03, 9:03, 9:03. You blink back, trying to push the fog of sleep out of your head. You lay back down. As your head clears, you sit back up. The clock blinks --" 9:05, 9:05, 9:05. You pull the covers back and stand up. Toes, then heels, touch the bare wood floors. They are always warm at 9:05, at this time of year. Your eyes flick back to the clock --" 9:06, 9:06, 9:06. You pull the curtains closed. The room gets dimmer. Sun still glows through the faded fabric, but it feels easier to see. You climb back into bed. The clock keeps blinking. 9:07, 9:07, 9:07, 9:08. A spider creeps across the ceiling above, and your eyes follow it. It did the same thing yesterday, going the other way. You don’t wonder why. It’s none of your business. As it reaches the other side of the room your eyes close. Sleep beckons you with a pale finger.

When you wake again, the sunlight is gone. The spider is nowhere to be seen. The clouds are grey and brooding. The clock still blinks. It doesn’t sleep. You leave the room, but the clock doesn’t leave your head. It never does.

Wednesday:

You wake with sun on your cheek. Your eyes flick to the clock on the bedside table. It blinks at you --" 9:03, 9:03, 9:03. You sit up. White light filters through the faded curtains. You swing your feet over the side of the bed. Toes, then heels, touch the floor. Cold. You shiver. You look back at the clock. It blinks. 9:05, 9:05, 9:05. You stand to pull the curtains shut but they aren’t open, so you sit back down. Your eyes ask the clock. It answers. 9:06, 9:06, 9:06. You slide your legs back under the covers. You lie down. You close your eyes. Sleep shakes their head. You open your eyes. The ceiling is empty. The spider hasn’t returned. The clock blinks under your stare. 9:09, 9:09, 9:09. It doesn’t know what a spider is. It blinks but it cannot see. You lie there until sleep holds their cold fingers over your mouth, and you slip out of consciousness.

Thursday:

You wake. Your eyes flick to the clock on the bedside table. It tells you what you want to know. 9:03, 9:03, 9:03. The light is dim, barely illuminating the room. The patter of rain sounds like hammering on the windows. You glance at the clock. 9:05, 9:05, 9:05, it blinks away. Your feet touch the floor. Toes, then --" you freeze. There is something under your left foot. You lift it up. The spider lays dead on the floor. Its legs are curled up towards its tiny spider body. It is somewhat flattened by your foot. You pick it up. It feels so fragile in your fumbling hands. You look hesitantly toward the clock, but it blinks back, oblivious. All it knows is 9:07, 9:07, 9:07. It doesn’t know what a spider is. It doesn’t know what to do. You take the spider to the garden, your hands cupped around it, protecting it from the rain. You kneel in the dirt and push your fingers into the wet soil, making a small hole. You take one last look at the spider. One of its legs has come off in your hand. You tip the spider into the hole and brush the leg in after it. Your shaking hand covers the hole. You don’t make a headstone, though you remember that’s what people do. You don’t know how to make one. You go back inside. Wet soil and water drip from your hands and knees as you walk back through the house. Muddy footprints follow you to the bedroom. You didn’t put shoes on before going outside. The second you enter the room your eyes snap to the clock. 9:13, 9:13, 9:13. You cross the room in one stride and claw your way under the covers. The clock still blinks under your heavy-lidded gaze. 9:13, 9:13, 9:13, 9:14. Sleep takes your muddy hand in theirs.

You dream that the spider has climbed out of the hole in the ground. It limps slowly through the crack in your front door. It creeps up your bedroom walls. It crosses back over the ceiling, leaving tiny muddy footprints as it goes.

Friday:

You don’t remember the dream when you wake. Warm sun streams through the curtains you can’t remember closing. You sit up. You look to the clock. It tells you, 9:03, 9:03, 9:03. You sit still for a moment, thinking about the spider you buried. The clock blinks. 9:05, 9:05, 9:05. You pull the covers back and stand up. Muddy toes, then muddy heels, touch the bare wood floors. Warm. You close your eyes. When they open, they're already looking towards the clock --" 9:07, 9:07, 9:07. You pull the curtains closed and dried dirt flakes off your hands. You lay back down. You close your weary eyes.