Stories, Poems, and Dreams

Thirteen O'clock A.M.

The boy with the yellow eyes sat on his couch in the dark, staring at the clock on the wall.

It was one of those nights again. The kind where he grew weary, but never rested. Grew tired, but never slept.

These nights were happening more and more frequently.

The steady ticking of the small clock grew loud and grew quiet in contrast to his thoughts. Being pulled into and out of his own waking mind, he struggled to find any peace.

He knew where he was going, he wouldn't have to struggle much longer.

The fishtank in the corner of the room cast a faint light, barely illuminating his surroundings. The couch he sat on was soft, and the rug felt rough beneath his feet. He could have leaned back and closed his eyes, resting his head on the throw pillows behind him.

But he wouldn't be resting his mind. And he knew that.

So he stayed awake. Hunched over, head resting on his clasped hands, brow furrowed, deep in thought. Keeping his eyes on the clock on the other side of the room.

Just a few more minutes now. Not too much longer for any normal person. But the voices in his head made them feel like eternity, and reassured him - he was anything BUT normal.

But eventually, it started.

The first thing the boy always noticed was the utter silence. Every noise - the trickling from the fishtank, whatever sounds were echoing in the night, even the ticking of the clock that he had grown so accustomed to.

The silence was always just the beginning.

The boy refocused his attention on the clock.

5... 4... 3... 2...

1.

The boy blinked as the hands reached twelve. Midnight.

The next thing to stop was any trace of movement. The pattern of light the fishtank had given off froze. The hands of the clock stopped moving. And slowly, very slowly, his surroundings began to change - starting with the clock that he still hadn't taken his eyes off of.

The numbers slowly began to drip, as if they were melting off the face of the clock. Slowly but surely, everything was washed away, until the only things left on the clock's face were its hands, and the number 12. And then, even the 12, began to change, the two slowly morphing into a three.

Thirteen o'clock A.M.

The boy faintly smiled.

The clock disappeared, washed away the same way the numbers on its face had been. The rest of the room followed suit with increasing speed, dissolving into beautiful clouds of color and light, as if the whole world was nothing more than ink and watercolor.

But soon enough, the lights ebbed away. The color faded. All that remained was the boy, sitting on his couch, in a black void.

Things differed at this point, from night to night.

Some nights the boy laughed. The void would change to a blue color, the same as the sky. His couch would set down in a beautiful meadow, with many multicolored flowers. He would use his imagination to sprout a set of dragon wings, and he'd take to the sky, smiling and laughing, as happy and content as he could ever be. Sometimes, he would stay up there the entirety of his stay. Sometimes, he would come down and lay in the grass, smelling the flowers. Some nights, he just wanted to soar.

Some nights, he uttered a low growl from deep within his chest. The void would change to an orange color, the same as fire. The couch would set down in a hellscape, a sword lying on the charred ground at his feet. He would pick up his sword, and use his imagination to conjure foes to do battle with. Some of them he ripped and tore his way through by the dozen. Some of them required effort and skill to dispatch. Some nights, he just wanted to watch the world burn.

Some nights, he sobbed. The void would change to a dull grey, the same as clouds on a storm day. The soft shushing of rain would envelope him, but the rain was never cold. The couch would set down on a street corner. In the distance there would be a lamp post, flickering gently. He would walk to that lamp post, sit underneath it, and mutter conversations he made up in his head. Sometimes, he spoke to the newest girl to break his heart. Sometimes, he spoke to the latest to pass away. Some nights, he just wanted to talk to himself.

Some nights, he lost control. He would scream, as long and as loud as he could, and never hear an echo back. The void would change to a violent shade of red, the same as fresh blood. The couch would set him down in a field, surrounded by trees, the sky tinted red. He would rise from the couch, and be greeted by a hooded figure. Sometimes, the figure tortured and tormented him with pain beyond belief. Sometimes, the figure killed him outright. Some nights, his imagination used HIM.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he simply sat. Adrift. He did not cry, or laugh, or growl, or scream. He simply existed. Because, in his hurry to get somewhere, he had forgotten to appreciate the journey.

And here, sitting in this black void filled with nothing at all, he found what he had been looking for.

Silence.

The voices that had once been screaming, all vying for his attention, slumbered as peacefully as a bear in winter. His mind was calm. His mind was finally HIS again. And as he came to this realization, he noticed one tiny pinpoint of light coming from the void. Then, as he drifted, another. And another, and another. The void filled with stars, galaxies that hadn't yet been seen swam before his eyes, as for once he simply sat and admired them.

Some say the boy with yellow eyes is still there, lost, adrift amongst the stars in his own mind.

But the boy I once was,
is not the same man
I am today.