Alarm Clock Red
It's three thirty-three AM and she's stuck in a ratty old motel.
She's clinging to the torn and matted sheets like they keep her alive and she pretends that she's in a faraway kingdom with a handsome prince and a white steed come to take her away from the hell she's found herself locked in before she wastes away into nothing and becomes as torn and matted as the sheets that she believes in at this second. It's three thirty-three AM and she's been broken and shattered into eighty thousand pieces in an excruciating way that she used to think the world was too good for.
It's three thirty-three AM and she's staring at the alarm clock red that shines on the ceiling.
And she listens as the rain drip-drip-drips from the roof to the corner in an old roach motel that packed to the brim with people just like her who have nothing to live for but are too stubborn to die and she's starting to lose her edge and her will and she's starting to realize the meaning of suicide. It's here, staring at the alarm clock glare on the walls and the weepy ceiling, pretending pretending pretending to be a castle in a far-off kingdom with a handsome prince and a white steed, come to take her away. But pretend is for children and she's no child.
It's three thirty-three AM and she's sick of everything around her.
But she's especially sick the shitty people who live their lives trapped in these old roach motel beds, clutching the ragged sheets because there's no tomorrow in hell. And she can hear them and see them and even act like she cares about them but deep down they all know that they're just sticking together because that makes it hurt a bit less, the fact that they all hear the rain dripping on the carpet and pretend that it's a knight in shining armor's footprints.
It's three thirty-three AM and she's never been more ready to die.
She's learning the meaning of stubbornly holding on, if for no other reason than to spite death and to spite God and to spite whoever the hell is watching from above. Because she knows there's someone up there. There's someone and they laugh and they jeer and they point their deity fingers at her pitiful form and don't give a damn about a sick and dying whore in an old roach motel with nothing to live for but an alarm clock glare and a piss off attitude.
It's three thirty-three AM and she reaches out and throws the alarm clock against the wall.
It breaks and the glare is gone and all she's left with is a pitch black room and the dripping of the ceiling into the corner and the sniffling of the hooker in the next room whose client is hitting her, the one who'll she pretend to care about tomorrow.
It's three thirty-three AM and she's slowly falling asleep.