Clock

"You know," Bad began as I attended to Love, "I think you should stay back for a bit before heading back to the monastery."

"Why the fuck should I wait?!" I exclaimed, making Love jump. "Look what he did to her!"

"Do you have any idea what you're about to face up there?!" He shouted back, clearly annoyed with me. "Look dude, I know you're sick and tired of us going 'you're not ready yet.' Well, trust me for once and just listen!"

"Why should I?!"

"Look what he did to Good. Good for Christ's sake. If he can do that to Good, what do you think he'll be able to do to you?!"

I groaned. He was right. I needed to stop and think. But you can't let him slide after what he did to Love. I thought. Just imagine what he would do to the others...

"How about this:" Bad started, ushering me off to the side, out of earshot of Love, "just take a break and have a drink, and we'll figure out what to do later, once we have a better idea of what we should do."

"Wait until we figure out something to do?" I repeated. "Why don't we just go do?!"

"You're not listening." He sighed. "Just take a break and have a drink. Don't you think you deserve at least a break after all of that happened?

"I guess." I replied halfheartedly.

"Good..." Bad trailed off, almost seeming to hide a distant smirk. "How about you go find Host. I'm betting he'd be willing to hook you up."

"I will." I replied once more. I felt foggy. I wasn't all there. Something wasn't right. Bad pushed me off down the street and I kept walking. I put my hands in my pockets and didn't stop until I had hit Host's house. The tree's in front, as well as all of the cars and yard ornaments were covered in toilet paper. Neon flyers were scattered over the street and sidewalks. Broken glass covered the walkway.

"It's been a while," Host hollered as he opened up the door to greet me, "how about a drink?"

"That's exactly why I came here." I replied with a smile. He led me into the kitchen and pulled out a stool for me at the counter. The house was a mess, even more so than back at the party. But it looked different through the dust and garbage. There were walls were there hadn't been before. And furniture had shifted around the room.

"Everything alright?" Host asked while he rattled the cocktail shaker.

"Has the house changed at all since the party?" I asked him. He stopped short and looked surprised.

"No?" He answered, his brow furrowed. "Why would it have?"

"I swear that there are new walls than there were before." I continued, looking out into the living room.

"Well I don't know what to tell ya'." I grinned, pouring the brown liquid into two frosted glasses. He pushed one across the counter, where it stopped near the back of my resting hand. I noticed a clock that sat on the wall of the hallway that connected the kitchen with the other rooms of the house. I ticked loudly in a syncopated manner.

"Yeah," Host said as he leaned against the counter with his glass firmly grasped, "I need to get that thing fixed. It's actually been doing that since the party, I guess someone decided to elbow it or some shit."

I remained silent while I reached around and grabbed onto the glass.

"Cheers," Host held up his glass, "to good health?"

"I guess." I mumbled, holding up mine and clinking it with his. It tasted like mud, but it burned like an inferno. I winced and shut my eyes, painfully squeezing them shut. When I opened them, the orientation of the house had changed once more. The hallway with the clock now sat in front of me, instead of to the left.

"Dude!" I shouted. "Stop messing with me! What the hell did you put in this drink?!"

"What are you talking about man?!" He hollered back, taking another sip. "It's just whiskey and some mixer!"

But without drinking any more, the room started to move. Host wobbled back and forth, unaware to anything happening. And then I shut my eyes.

*   *   *   *   *

I was sitting at a desk, looking at a monitor that showed me a blank document. A sight that I was so familiar to looking at. The room was gray. Light bounced through the closed shades and cast shadows on the floor. A fan on the ceiling dragged itself in a circle. An empty, dusty bookshelf sat decrepit in the corner, and a large are rug covered the center of the floor.

I felt normal. Whatever was in the drink had subsided, and I was once again conscious of the page that sat in front of me. But I couldn't think of anything. I got up and left the room, walking to the kitchen. It was just as dark and dingy as the office. Empty bottles of alcohol were everywhere. There were some bottles neatly organized on the counter, and others were thrown haphazardly onto the floor. One jetted out of the dry wall, and another sat half shattered in front of the dishwasher.

I was not in control anymore. I reached into the cupboard and grabbed another bottle. It was vodka. The same kind that Would drank. I pulled myself back up, and a figure in all black stood in the doorway.

"What do you want Misery?" I asked him.

"Just coming to see how you are doing." He replied, almost happy. He took the bag from his back and pulled another bottle of vodka out, placing it on the counter. "Thought you were out."

"I'm fine." I grumbled, taking the first bottle back to the office. He followed me and looked over my shoulder as I drank. I slugged down a quarter of the bottle before I had realized it.

"Yeah," he growled, "I thought you were out."

"Would you let me concentrate?!" I shouted. But it wasn't me speaking to him. I was stuck in a body, stuck in a fight with him. I could only taste the burn of the vodka. I looked back at the page, and two paragraphs had appeared. But I had been stopped again by a noise. A ticking noise. Out of rhythm. I turned around, and Misery had vanished. There was Host's clock, mounted on the wall behind me. I took another swig as I peered at the clock. It would stick every once and a while, deconstructing its own rhythm, before going back and maintaining it for a while. And then it would disrupt. And then maintain.

The page had more fine-print paragraphs when I turned back. The more I drank, the more showed up.

"Shame." Misery snarled behind me. "You used to be so good at that."

"What are you talking about?"

"You used to be able to write." He mocked. "Until you discovered this shit."

"I don't need you."

"Yes you do." He laughed. I'm the only thing keeping you around..."

I glared at him with a halted breath.

"Not this again?" He sighed. "You didn't forget again, did you?"

I continued to sit with the bottle grasped in my palm.

"They're all gone." He exclaimed, motioning his hand out the door. "Good, Bad, Host; they all gave up on you. Oh and don't even get me started on Love!"

I didn't move.

"Remember when she used to be around?" He longed, leaning against the far wall. "Cute girl she was. She would have given everything for you. But every time she tried, you just plugged your ears and turned the other way."

Silence.

"You did that to all of them. You put them down and picked up the bottle. You retreated to your own sanctuary, and locked everything out unless it was a keyboard or another bottle. They wouldn't stand for it. I did."

I drank more.

"It's a shame when you were able to write without the alcohol." He repeated. "Oh what am I kidding. You were ever that good anyway! Now it's just fun to see you fall into this spiral that you've manifested; all by yourself."

There was a quarter of the bottle left.

"Now you depend on it." He gleamed. "I'm so glad I get to be the one to see you like this."

The bottle was empty. The liter and a half bottle. Gone. I turned back, and the page count had gone from two, to three-hundred and twenty. I looked back at Misery, and he had vanished. The clock kept ticking. But it never skipped a beat.

*   *   *   *   *

Host was asleep on the couch, still in the suit vest and slack that he was wearing when I came over. The house was back to normal. I shuffled over to a chair opposite Host, and collapsed into it. I heaved, and I cried into the arm of the chair. I heard the clock ticking down the hallway, the pendulum sticking for a few moments, and then carrying on its staccato rhythm.