This is for the Write Now Prompt for November 13th at Today’s Author.
There was that ticking behind my eyes. Like a twitch, almost, but more incessant and annoying. Every time my eyes darted across the scene laid out before me, the ticking increased in intensity until I thought I might just have to rip the offending things out of my skull.
Not that it was their fault, mind you. They weren’t the ones lying broken and useless on the table before me, oh no. No, that was something else. Something that, in that moment, seemed far more important.
After all, what was the point of seeing if that damn ticking did not stop?
As if I was on some kind of auto-pilot, my hand moved out to grasp the plastic handle for what must have been the thousandth time (the handle was warm against my palm but not because of any properly laboring electric process). I lifted and the glass canister came with it. Both were raised before my ticking eyes only to see what I already knew to be true:
Empty. Still empty.
I’m not entirely sure what was different about that time, but that time, rather than place the carafe back down in its home, my body chose to take more drastic action on its own. With a spasm-like flick of my bicep and wrist, the glass canister went flying across the room, hit the far wall, cracked, and then thumped to the carpeted ground. There it would lay until much later when the ticking finally stopped and my wrath had subdued.
Looking down at my long pajamas and old slippers, I sighed. Looks like I would have to get dressed. What a bother.