Tragedy of the Gimbles

V

Thomas Gimble was insane. He had gone insane a long time ago, although it had taken him some time to realize it. It wasn't his fault. Anybody who had lived the way he had for the past few decades would certainly have lost their mind by now.

Has it been decades? he wondered idly. Or has it been just a year or two? Or maybe a century? He had no way of knowing. The clocks were compulsive liars.

He was currently throwing one of these clocks at the mirror on the wall. It was a digital bedside clock, shaped roughly like a metal brick. Throwing it had been an impulse decision, driven by a combination of boredom and frustration. That, and the fact that the mirror wasn't real.

It shattered as it was hit by the clock, breaking the stony silence of the penthouse suite. It was larger than most suites he had spent his time in, although the lack of doors and windows made it feel far smaller. It consisted of several rooms, all decked with every comfort devised by man. All things considered, it wasn't the worst place to spend an eternity of suffering. Unless one were sane, of course, in which case it wouldn't matter where he was imprisoned.

Shards of glass fell onto the wide dresser underneath the mirror, leaving behind a large hole in the once-flawless reflection. Through the hole, Thomas could see a room. Its walls were bare, the only furniture being a metal table and a pair of desk chairs. Two clipboards lay on the table, notes scribbled on lined paper. Aside from that, the room was empty.

Thomas nodded to himself. He had known it was a one-way mirror, of course. How else could They be watching him? Still, he was somewhat disappointed that he hadn't managed to catch a glimpse of one of Them before They had left the room. It wasn't uncommon for him to lie in bed for a few hours, eyes fixed on that mirror, wondering what They looked like.

They worked for father, that much was obvious. They were the ones responsible for readjusting the clocks, for rearranging things while he wasn't looking. He heard Their footsteps in distant rooms, even felt Them shake him awake when he fell asleep. But no matter how hard he had tried, he had never seen any of Them.

Thomas strode over to the mirror, glass shards cracking under his slippered feet, and peered into the room behind the false mirror. He recognized the clock he had thrown lying on the ground. He grumbled. Despite its lies, the clock was still a comfort to him. Curiously, he inspected the hole it had made. There was no way he could fit through. But if he made it bigger...

Thomas nodded to himself. They can take my sanity, but they won't take my clock from me. Brushing away the thought that he had thrown the clock through the mirror in the first place, Thomas exited the room in search of something heavy.

The doorway he left through had no door to accompany it, although a frame and a pair of hinges indicated that there should have been one. Thomas couldn't remember if there had been a door there once. If there had been, They had likely taken it. The doorway led him into a large parlor, with several couches and armchairs along the walls. They all faced a great television which took up most of one wall.

Thomas rarely used the television anymore. It was full of lies, just like the clocks. Besides, whenever he tried to watch something, They would change the channel on him.

Two large speakers sat on either side of the television, each roughly the size of a small cabinet. Thomas strode over to one, bent over, and unplugged it with little effort. Then, with significantly more effort, he lifted it into his arms.

At that moment, he heard it. The cracking of glass in the room he had just left. Footsteps. They're here. Thomas dropped the speaker, bolting towards the doorway as it crashed to the ground behind him. They waited, he thought frantically as he ran, time seeming to slow around him. They waited for me to pick up something heavy, so I wouldn't have time to reach them! But I can make it. They won't outrun me this time!

He burst into the next room, panting. The glass on the floor was gone. The mirror had been replaced, perfectly reflecting his red, exhausted face. And on the nightstand, beside his king-sized bed, lay the digital clock, right where it had been before he had thrown it. Did I throw it? he wondered. Or did I just imagine that I did? Imagine that he did. Imagine...

Thomas opened his eyes. He was back in the cave, huddled against the wall, weeping softly. All around him were shadows, visions of people and animals he couldn't recognize. They were whispering to him. Always whispering. He couldn't hear what they whispered about, though. "Go away," he muttered pitifully. "Leave me alone."

But they just kept on whispering, their voices grating against his ears, unraveling his mind bit by bit. No matter how much he pleaded, no matter how much he begged, they had never stopped their murmurings. Thomas closed his eyes again, his mind retreating from their horrible voices, falling back downward into his voluntary insanity.

When he opened his eyes, he was back in the penthouse, lying on a king-sized bed instead of a rock floor. He sat up, blinking, trying to remember the dream he had been having. Was it a dream? It must have been. Just another product of my deranged mind.

"Bad dream?" a voice inquired. Thomas closed his eyes, groaning. The voice had come from his bedside clock.

"What does it matter to you?" he grumbled. "Besides, I thought we weren't on speaking terms."

"I'm still mad at you for throwing me," the clock acknowledged, "but the lamp isn't a great conversationalist. Besides, annoying you is one of my favorite pastimes."

"Speaking of," Thomas muttered, rubbing the blurriness out of his eyes, "what time is it, do you think?"

"Three o' clock in the morning," the clock reported dutifully. In response to this, Thomas picked it up. Then, with scarcely a thought, he flung it at the mirror. Its scream mashed with the shattering of glass.

He smiled. "Liar."