1152

[ This is a work of fiction. All characters and places in this work are fictional. The stunts performed were done in a controlled environment under strict supervision. No living animals were harmed in the writing of this work. The author does not condone acting out this work, in whole or in part, in real life: Any reader/non-reader that does so, is doing so at his/her/its own risk and the author shall not be responsible/accountable for any untoward occurrence arising from such a misconceived endeavor. ]

Counting the seconds since he had taken his last breath, he looked up through the hole in the ceiling, at the sun. 323, 324, 325… It would be visible for exactly 827 more seconds. 826, 825, 824, 823… The exercise served no purpose, but he had done it daily for years. Excluding those days when there was no sun, of course. He wondered why he did it, of all the possible reasons. But the wondering interfered with his counting, so he focused again. 788, 787, 786…

       

       A little more than thirteen minutes later, he exhaled. It seemed pointless. Yet, at times, it seemed the only thing that made any sense. For 19 minutes and 12 seconds every 24 hours, he sat still, holding his breath, watching the sun for the only time it was available to him. Everything else could wait. Including the teardrop he had so carefully stopped in its tracks as it prepared to roll off his left eye. He didn’t want the drop to interfere with his time in the sun.

       

       It had been so long, he didn’t even remember why he was here. Had he been brought here forcefully, or was he a volunteer? It didn’t even matter anymore. The only face he ever saw was his own, that too on a puddle of water that formed when it rained through the hole in the ceiling. And that face looked nothing like the sun that he missed when it rained liked that. The sun was warm, bright and vibrant. It did not have bloodshot eyes and a nose even a prizefighter would be ashamed of. And, most of all, it lacked a hideous grin that could never be fixed.

       

       But, now, the sun was gone. It would only come back tomorrow. The twenty three hours and forty minutes until then had to be spent. Much as he would have liked to, he couldn’t just sleep till then. He might wake up too early and be too anxious by the time it came back to hold his breath. Or he might wake up too late and miss the sun altogether. And while there was a genuine possibility that he might never wake up at all, that was not something he could bank on.

       

       He looked at the wall behind him. At the seven bricks he had marked. Five of them had 453 dots on them, the other two had 452. If he cared, it was a Sunday. But, the sun had already ended on his day. He picked up a piece of burnt bread that remained from his last meal and marked a dot on the sixth brick. Then, he flung the piece of bread upwards. It went through the hole in the ceiling and moved towards the left, then out of sight. The north wind. It meant a chance of rain.

       

       Too bad, he thought. Although, it might finish raining before the twenty three and a half hours was over. But, he would still have to see that hideous face. And each time he saw it, he realized that the face had looked more ready to fall off the bone that it clung to. How he wished it would fall off once and for all, so he could look at something better. His broken bones and rotting flesh would probably be much better to stare at.

       

       As soon as the thought struck him, it went away. It had been 900 seconds since the sun left. A quarter of an hour; but he rarely counted in hours. An hour was too long to count the time the sun appeared and too short to count when the sun would reappear. He counted time in seconds and days. At first, he had tried to count weeks, which had led to his brick calendar. It was awful, because counting in weeks led to counting in months, seasons and years.

       

       Months meant remembering birthdays and holidays. He wished he had never been born. Holidays didn’t exist in his life. Seasons made him wonder about the migrating birds. If that raven had not built its nest on the hole in his ceiling 643 days ago, he would not even know that birds still existed. He would also not know that raw raven tasted better than burnt bread, but that was another matter. Years were the most terrible. Every time 52 weeks and one day- or occasionally fifty two weeks and two days- went by, it would mean that he had gone around the sun, his only friend and ally, in a complete circle. And yet, his friend only visited him for 1152 seconds a day, if at all.

       

       His friend had visited him and gone. It would not come back for at least another twenty three hours, possibly forty seven or even seventy one. That would be waiting too long. And maybe he would have to see that hideous face again; over and over again while he waited for his friend. What if he tore that face off? No, it would be even more visible when he held it in his hand than when it was reflected in a pool of water. How could he get away from that monstrosity?

       

       With a sudden rage, he smashed the hideous face on the wall. Something warm trickled down the left side of the face, along the eye that had been trying to drop a tear. He had forgotten to let the drop fall. He did not normally forget. Well, it did not forget to drop now.

       

       The transparent drop fell, accompanied by hundreds of other drops. These drops were probably red, but there wasn’t enough light to be sure. In fact, there might not be enough light to be sure for two days, maybe even three or four.

       

       Another bout of rage. This time, he smashed not the face, but the skull that held it in place. Then, he smashed a hand that had placed itself on the part of the skull that had been smashed on the wall. A brick fell off.

       

       Suddenly, he saw his friend. It was outside, waiting. He pushed with all his might. A few more bricks fell off, enabling a hideous face, a head and a neck that was attached to see daylight. Real daylight, not the type that appeared through a hole in the ceiling. It was pure, it was bright, it was warm. And it had been 3170 days.

       

       936, 937, 938… His friend was getting better by the second. It was majestic. The light and colors took over his eyes. The warmth took over his body. Then, he saw the drops of red fall off his face and onto the green grass below. Green and grass, words he had forgotten the meaning of, until now. He pushed through the wall one last time. Freedom!

       

       And as his body fell through the wall, he looked at the sun. No more waiting. His body fell onto a puddle of red on a floor of green. Then, it went cold, as a pair of eyes on a hideous face looked upon a friend for the last time. 1153.