Tick. Tick. Tick.
She is staring at the hands on the old brass alarm clock by her bedside, watching the fragile metal arms as they make their jerky circle around the numbered white face. She needs to move. Just get out of bed. Her alarm went off a half hour ago but she is still laying there, her body a dead weight against the mattress, holding her in place. Trapped. She feels trapped in her own skin, imagines her joints are made of metal and rusted to the point of being immobile, her bones are steel, her skin aluminum. She imagines she was made of brass and gears and cogs grinding together, teeth locking into teeth, making her grind her own in frustration.
She can’t move.
She knows it’s all in her head.
It waits outside of her bedroom, just outside of her apartment door, stalks her at work, shadows her in class, follows her to her car in the middle of the night, slinking around after her like a cat in the dark.
It is safer here. She pulls her blankets over her head and squeezes her eyes shut. How late was she going to allow herself to be? This shouldn’t be so hard.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Just get out of bed. Her chest starts to feel tight. Just get out of bed. Tears begin to build behind her eyelids and her mouth feels dry. The bitter taste of bile burns the back of her throat.
She is doing this to herself. She knows it, but she cann’t make it stop. She can’t stop herself from repeating this cycle, this little failure in itself, failure to function, to be human, to be normal.
She throws back the covers with a sudden burst of motion and snatches up the clock, tossing it against the wall in one powerful throw. She pushes down the sickness, her jaw clenches as she forces herself to move, to put all of her strength into overcoming the rust and denseness of her limbs. Her feet swing over the edge of the bed, toes touch the floor, and she draws in a deep steadying breath before standing.