Dante Vs. The World I

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Clocked.

The keys slipped out of my fingers and rang out against the hardwood floor, I supposed that’s where they would stay. I kept walking as I shrugged of my coat. The door was open, I didn’t notice. My alarm clock is the pillow, it doesn’t care much.

Now, my eyes burn at around eleven o’clock every morning. It drives my discipline and my sanity. I can’t hear the screams at eleven. I don’t own any clocks, but the knuckles in my face let me know that special time is here. Rags intertwined with fingers, soaked in whatever the special is that day, make sure I don’t forget.

A distinct lack of any victory fills the air. When both of us are worn out, the screams died. As I lie on the ground, I see him. His black suit blended into the background, but his face burned into my eyes. He was tall but still didn’t stand as high as the bombs he dropped. He called them knives to carve his world from hell.  His eyes locked with mine as he smirked slightly, which hurt more than seeing him at all.

Three O’clock didn’t do much to shake him from my eyes. But that’s all I lasted.

Maybe later.

 

Later