The Book With No Name

Chapter 1

When my alarm clock went off this morning, I thought today would be just another forgettable day. Too bad it wasn't my alarm clock.

I awoke in a sort of trance, swiping my hand instinctively to the nightstand and hitting snooze. Some might say—ironically—my morning ritual is unconventional, but I follow it meticulously to the T. Any deviation must not be tolerated.

After silencing the noise, albeit temporarily, I slipped out of bed in my thin sleepwear.

The narrow cot is exactly 12 inches from the dresser, set measured with a tape measure and scanned with laser precision, along with the rest of my meager possessions.

Everything is systemized.

The rough wool blanket and bleached sheet are folded into geometric squares on top of the white cube chest at the foot of the mat.

To continue and dress one's self: turn around. Two paces to the dresser. Remove undershirt. Long johns. Skivvies. Fold into neat stack and place into top-middle drawer center column, second row up of square grid. Open left drawer in above row and remove clean underwear. Place on edge of dresser.

I was tying the laces of my long work boots when the alarm sound faded into my consciousness. I scrunched my face in confusion and disgust as the sound interrupted my flawless and thorough routine. I laced and tied my other boot and stood erect as my unforgiving gaze fell on the offending device. It shouldn't ring again until I was done brushing my teeth at twenty-past.

The black numbers puzzled me in my state as a few mental plugs still in the sleep outlet were pulled out.

0146

Dumbfounded, I stepped forward and lifted the wireless object and cupped it in my hands. The sharp edges and icy faces of my time-keeping friend melted in my hand into a rounder, moldable shape that was warm to the touch.

0147

How can that be? I squeezed the doughy mass in one hand and it squished between my fingers. I don't have to get up for two hours. No, three. Two and a half.

The voluminous sounds once again broke my thoughts, calling my attention like an whining child telling on their playmate.

I placed the mangled instrument back on the stand. The noise wasn't coming from my alarm clock.

I scanned the ceiling for the source of the sound.

I saw nothing, but I didn't need to.

The sound changed from a buzzing alarm to an ear-piercing shriek. I crumpled to the ground with my arms around my head and my knees to my chest, eyes shut tight. The sound surrounded me. I lay helplessly on the floor of my room as the villain stuck it's claws into my skull and torso, inflating my chest with fear and my mind with torment. I jammed my fingers into my ears to escape my tormentor.

My eardrums bled, the warm red liquid flowing down my ear canals and caressing my finger tips, lacing them with misery.

When silence arrived to calm me like a mother to a fearful child, I didn't recognize it at first. I pulled my fingers out of my ears at the sound of my name, only to hug my knees. I moved upright when my name was called again, but only to begin rocking myself. When my name was called a third time, I looked at my fingers.

No blood. Only my imagination. And earwax.

Except the dripping from my left ear, accompanied by stinging and a red substance under my left finger nail.

Now I was bleeding. I had cut myself.

I was so transfixed on my fingertip, I didn't know the world continued without me. The silence that ensued after the siren was comparable to that after an explosion.