Midnight
Eric Xie
It was seven minutes after midnight. Seven minutes after the knell of bells and the ringing of clocks had ceased to reverberate through the air. Seven minutes after the moment in time that marked the demise of an old day and the revival of a new. I’ve been resting helpless in my bed for a while now, but there’s a chill around that gets under my covers and through my defenses. It is an unnatural chill, for the coming of the new day should be something wonderful, something distinct. Although it happens all the time, it should be as wondrous to everyone as a bird taking off is to a small child. There should be a beauty in the arising of the new day, but instead there is nothing, nothing but the cold.
I drag my blankets off my body. The window is behind me and the faint glimmer of moonlight shimmers through the curtains. For some reason I didn’t feel the icy air grasp my feet as I stepped onto the floor, but it did not matter. Eight minutes ago I would have taken some socks from the drawer and put them on. Maybe as a marking of the end of one thing, or of the beginning of another. Just to feel as if something had happened – it didn’t have to be profound or anything like that, but it at least something could have happened. Because very little ever does, and if something does happen, most of us are usually sleeping through it. I guess it was important to mark it out. Like when a bird falls from the sky and dies in front of you. You’d get a stick or something and make a grave – no-one would know, of course, but at least you did something.
A moment ago, it was exactly nine minutes after midnight. I’m not exactly sure though, since my watch is broken. Nine minutes after a day of the sights, sounds and feelings that people have. Perhaps it was the sight of your daughter drawing a picture of you on the walls that aroused your anger. The look of her startled face, both uncomprehending of your words but understanding that something had gone wrong. Her guiltless reality violently being shaken around like salt in a shaker. The sound of the front door slamming shut as you storm out of the house. The feelings of malice and guilt. The fickleness of it all. It was nine minutes after the events of the previous day had stopped existing except in our minds.
It is ten minutes after midnight. The cold of the bedroom is staring to get to me, and I begin to miss the comparative warmth of my bed. My bed is a place where I am safe, where I can simply pull up the covers and close my eyes knowing that when I wake up the sun will be up and a new morning has arose. A hazy tiredness drags my eyelids down, and the mattress, with its warmth and softness calls out to me like a lonely lover. I am seduced by the thought of sleep, and as I rest, my head begins to fill with the images of dreams I shan’t ever remember.
It is sixteen hours before midnight. During the night, the wind blew on the ground and now you hardly can make out the grave that you made for the bird. The past day’s events are forgotten, just like your dreams. You walk out of your bedroom and see your daughter standing there, frozen, with saliva markings on her dress and a crayon in her hand. Her hair is unkempt, and her eyes innocent with a glimmer of fear. There’s another drawing on the wall, but what do you do? It’s only a couple of hours until midnight comes again.
