You hear the sound of a clock ticking, your head throbs with the painful sting of a migraine. Not that you could handle bright lights normally, you’ve always been a little sensitive to brightness. That’s why you never get up before the afternoon. Rise with the moon, go to be with the sun, early to bed and you’ll miss all the fun. That’s your philosophy. Your “mornings” are filled with a gritty afternoon stank, the sticky heat of dusk, and the sour taste of liquor numbing the inside of your mouth. There is no sparkles or sunshine in your life, there is no smiles or fun times, the only thing that keeps you from blowing your brains out is the company of your Crew.
Early to bed, and you’ll miss all the fun?
Hah. Hah. Hah… “Fun” yeah, yeah fucking right.
You’re really thinking about doing it, too, ending all this shit. What’s the point of going on if all you have to look forward to is the bottom of the bottle, the sting of smoke sitting in your lungs, and the touch of a new dame every night.
But no one could ever replace her.
Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.
The sound of the clock is getting louder and louder, and you toss and turn in your restless dreams, face twisted up in pain. You always have shitty dreams, but you can never, for the life of you, remember them. Finally, you wake with a start, sweat beaded across your forehead, eyes wide with a look of defenseless horror.
You calm down, you chill out, calm the fuck down, but all you can hear is that fucking clock. You try and throw the covers off to get up and figure out where that noise is coming from, but when you try and move, it’s like the bed is trying to pull you down. You look down, see the glint, a look of fury crawling across your face. There’s a knife, a fucking good-sized one too, stabbed right through the mattress, a few inches barely below your… goods.
You don’t even have to guess how that got there, and you don’t even care as you tug that thing out, clenching in your fist. You know, you already know, you could have seen the thing for a half-a-second and you would have already known.
Snow, that goddamn, no-good, lousy son of a bitch.
And that’s being kind.
But your attention is once again brought back to the sound of a clock. How could that even be? Where would there be a clock in YOUR bedroom, let alone in your clubhouse. That’s when you see it.
A big. fucking. green. clock. Just standing there, right in front of your bed. You know exactly what it is. It’s not just any clock, it’s one of English’s clocks. And it was “lovingly” delivered right in your bedroom by that bitch. You’re not sure if you’re able to contain your anger, and you know for damn sure you aren’t when you chuck the nearest bottle of whatever that’s sitting on your bedside table. It smashes, but doesn’t break the clock, because that ticking is still stabbing you in the temples with each passing second. With an aggrivated scream, you send that knife flying, hitting the face of the clock dead on, hearing the satisfying and unique noise of blade piercing gears.
Tick. Tock. Tick…
It stops. And all you can do is flop back on your bed. You manage not to see the tag that’s hanging on the side of the clock, the distinct handwriting so familiarly scrawled.
Reaching over, you pick up one of the many unthrown bottles sitting on the bedside, placing it to your lips. You don’t even know what you took a swig of, or care for that matter. All you know is today, while normally a joyful occasion, has started off with a fucking headache.
[Forever and always, Happy Birthday Slick. Love, Snowman.]