MicroHorror

From when she was little, as far back as she could remember, time picking up speed. Looking forward to Christmases, distance between them getting shorter–as she grew, counting months, weeks, days towards this time of year, and birthdays, even after time of month caught up with her–unawares. Counting. Her mother saying the girl was wishing her life away. Time racing, passing by quicker and quicker; even when the girl started to become alarmed at its rapidity.

Eagerly anticipated milestones rushing towards. Another term and she’d be in the second, third, fourth year at school. Couldn’t wait to lose her virginity, to catch up with the other girls her age, whose boasts were idle. Dying to leave school, planning and scheming way to top. When she was at work, counted the hours towards weekends and holidays, and nights out–and then, anxious to get back to the grind.

Budding sexuality: an old letch of a man, down dark alley, deflowering her, and setting her on the road to many other–notches on bedposts–sexual experiences. Ticking all the boxes–that was what her life was about.

Trapped a man into marriage, when time–was right–passing faster days and nights. Next on her list, was to have a child: something to look forward to.

In another dead end job, kept staring at the clock, counting minutes away to her dinner, willing time to elapse. Lapses of concentration got her fired, given the sack. Lay awake at night, mind and time racing towards light, looking forward to bed the following night only to lie wide awake again–wide open.

Her heart starting to pick up speed. Pounding in her chest, as she paced up and down in the rain, unable to sit still. Panic attacks. Pulse rapid, was sent to a hospital for the mind–heavily tranquilized: no help. Pretended to take the pills, palmed them into the pocket of her dressing gown. Her heart hammering–afraid– nails in her coffin. Taking all the tablets at once–but sick–went on to live–on suicide watch–overwound, stopped. And nothing dramatic happening. Her heart simply giving out.

Alone in dense, silent darkness enveloped and filled up with–but not totally in the dark. Anticipated being born again, to parents who would not treat her well. Would put her through hell, so that in the end, she’d be glad to die at the age of five. What next? Whatever next?

And inside the body bag, once again the watch ticking–time bomb waiting–to go off.