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Sheets rustled, feet hit the floor. The darkness crept into the room, chased back only by the moonlight peering in the window.
The feet flex, scrunch, move. Two steps forward, one step back. Uncertain, wondering, the opposite of hope.
But eventually, the feet cave. They cross the floor, unheeding of the cold floorboards underneath, to a small box, displayed quietly on a shelf crammed full with memories and moments.
The box is nothing special. It is small and rough and wooden. A small crank juts out of its side, cheap enough and thin enough that the hands - friends of the feet - could easily snap it off.
They do not do this. Instead, they twist the crank, gentle as can be, until they hit some invisible barrier, are forced to stop.
They release the crank and the box's lid opens with a jerky movement that looks almost painful.
Music begins to play.
It is a familiar melody, one that the ears - distant relatives of the hands - have heard many times before. Its meaning has shifted, changed, warped into something dark and awful. But there is meaning behind it all the same, and that is why the feet cannot seem to stay away, the hands cannot seem to break the crank.
The shadows watch silently as tears fall to the floor. It is a long way for the tears to fall, small and new to the world as they are. They smash against the floor, the daring ones throwing fragments of their bodies as far as they can, the majority staying huddled together, shocked into stillness.
They are joined by more and more, some of their journeys cut short by the roughness of the hands, swiping across cheekbones, neighbors of the ears. And yet they come, desperate to throw themselves to the ground far below, fully aware of their fate and ready to embrace it with open arms.
The melody stops. The box closes with another painful, jerking movement.
The tears stop next. Their compatriots lie on the floor, broken and still.
The feet go back to the bed. The hands ease everyone in and pull the sheets up. The darkness creeps a little closer. It is satisfied for the night.
*
There is a trickier part of the body, one that the others don't like very much but one they are rather forced to get along with if they want to do much of anything. It's not that this part is very terrible or very cruel or even very annoying, although it certainly has its moments. Rather, it's just that workers are not in the business of liking their bosses.
The feet and the hands and the ears and all the rest are no exceptions. They all dislike the brain with a sort of quiet contempt.
Especially right now. Because something terrible has happened and the brain has gone a little mad.
It has been a while since the terrible thing happened, and the passage of time is the main reason that all the other parts are so very irritated with the brain. It's been months. They have things to do. But no. The brain has to keep them at home, surround them with shadows, listen to that damn melody over and over and over again.
The hands remember when they first got the box, new but just as rough and strange. A project, one of passion and dedication, passed from another set of hands to them. This other set of hands, they knew quite well. Better than any other pair in the world, in fact. They held and caressed and loved one another, and when the other pair of hands went away, the hands were quite sad. They sided with the brain in sitting in the shadows. But that was just at first. Now they are ready. Ready to find another pair of hands, ready to break the crank from the stupid music box.
The ears remember when they first got the box, too. How they listened to the melody over and over because it was pleasant and easy and just right for them. The melody was not hated by them then. So when the hands lost their soulmates and the brain went into mourning, the ears agreed. But then the brain started telling them to play the melody. Over and over and over again. And when they feet had carried them somewhere else, safely away from the box and its treachery, the brain continued to play the memory, from some haunting inner box. So now the ears are thoroughly fed up. They are ready to hear new music, new melodies to love and listen to.
But the brain is not ready. And if the brain isn't ready, none of them can be.
So they stay in the shadows and listen to the melody and throw teardrops on the ground.
~*~
About the author:
I have been writing fiction for nearly a decade now and love exploring with different styles and genres. This contest really pushed me out of my comfort zone as a writer!
