Into Time

Chapter 11

The clock was broken and she knew it. It was her favorite clock, and she knew it was broken beyond repair. It was an old clock, a wooden one with figures that were chipped and broken, but still resembling castles at the sides, and a single weathered ballerina that was supposed to dance whenever that clock chimed, along with a tinkling lullaby, but there was only an odd clicking noise when the ballerina was supposed to dance, and aloud metallic belch instead of a pretty lullaby. But it was her favorite clock, and Ofelia lay in bed late that morning, wondering what sort of a tantrum would get her busy father to fix it. 2

At last, as the screaming silence of the early morning faded into the bliss calm of evolving day, the girl slowly emerged from underneath the warmth of her silky covers; her soft hands delicately wrapping around her thin shoulders, as she trembled from the blast of cold in the room. Her long black hair fell to her stringy sides, the thick waterfall crumbling down like a messy fountain and dancing at her hips. She flit her grassy eyes to the pitiful clock in its darkened corner, and glared at the shadows that seemed to engulf it like a hungry veil of death. She padded softly from the room, not bothering to take a hand from her shoulder to shut the wooden door. 3

She found her father sitting at his oak desk and leaning over a pile of papers, all covered top to bottom in murderous formulas and numbers. His glasses were to the point of falling at the tip of his long nose, and a single bead of crystalline sweat trailed down from his matted black hair. He looked up briskly as Ofelia walked in, as if his small ears had grown accustomed to the softness of his child’s step. He smiled absent- mindedly at her, and continued his work after gazing at a few twirls of her unbrushed ebony hair. But she was not put down; years of spoiling from her gentle father stopped her from leaving him alone whenever she needed something.4

"Daddy," Her voice was as soft as her step, and as smooth and velvety as her hair when it shined after a good combing. "Daddy, my clock is broken." 5

She waited patiently for him to look up, and her wait was rewarded. "Hmm... which one dear?"6

"The one that lay in the attic for two hundred years, like you said," He smiled at that, "It’s broken, and it’s my favorite clock. Can you fix it?"7

"Well, dear..."8

"Now." She took hold of his right arm, letting the pen fall from its comfortable place in his blackened fingers, and held it tightly as she gazed into his gentle eyes.9

"Not now, Ofelia. I have to work. And since when did you have a favorite clock?"10

"Since it broke... Daddy, please!"11

"Ofelia, darling..."12

"Daddy... Oh fine..." She let go her grip, and turned away slowly. This dramatic tragedy had been performed more than once, and had always worked on her soft hearted father. The point was to turn in a melancholy semi circle, and let the light shine softly on your pale face, and illuminate a fake tear squeezed from the pouches of your practiced eyes. This time was no exception. 13

Her father stood with a ragged sigh from his polished desk, and turned off the beaming light with his stubby fingers. He leaned down to reach his daughters miniature height, and wiped the laughing tear from her drooping face. Then he took her by the hand, and let her lead him to her little room.14

The room in fact was not little. It was everything a girl could dream for, with polished walls of flying roses, and a pink bed with a majestic set of sleeping linen and a pillow of goosefeathers that bothered the girl anyway because they always poked her fragile face. Her desk was of white maple, polished and gleaming, with matted books that were well taken care of and read more than once, since they had been read in the moments of boredom the girl experienced daily. A feathered jewelry box lay on the top of the desk, with only a pair of moon shaped earrings, and marble necklace the shape of a clock, which had belonged to her deceased mother. A childish attempt to copy the Mona Lisa was taped firmly on the wall above her bedpost, and the wooden clock lay in its deserted corner by her elaborate dresser. 15

Her father leaned down and scooped the clock into his experienced hands, pushing the bridge of his glasses farther up his nose with a thumb, and studying the broken mechanics with his blue eyes. Ofelia never took her eyes off of this examination, as if she did not trust her father to handle her acclaimed clock with care.16

The ending:17

The dream was already terrible. 18

The air is cold and eerie, the wind whistles angrily between tree branches. My feet pound on the cracked sidewalk as I try to find a way out of the graveyard. But the path is endless, and the gravestones just kept going and going. 19

I stop for a minute, looking around. The sky is dark purple, bleached with a creamy tinge. Yellow streaks surround the moon as it slowly grows larger with the night. 20

The lugubrious atmosphere seems to weigh me down. My body feels heavy and my head throbs. By a voice in my head tells me to move on, never to stop.21

So I run again. And I keep running until I reach a wall. A wall of brick surrounded by decrepit dead vines, like corpses strewn all over the floor. And in the corner of this wall, stands a woman.22

She is beautiful. Her skin is pearly white, with smooth long hands, housed in long sleeves of black velvet. The sleeves stop at the top of her arms, and then comes her long silky dress, a black, netty texture, with black crystal droplets sewed along the hem. Her neck holds a long silver chain of pure black crystal, and her face shines like a miniature copy of the moon. Her eyes are like bright rivers, a shining blue, and her lips are a rich shade of red, they almost look like they are neatly bleeding. Her hair is black, as is the rest of her, a rippling mass, like a dark waterfall. And it is covered with a black veil.23

She is wearing thick ebony boots, and in her perfect hand, she holds a thin stick, carrying a half shaped blue mask with a golden lining of glitter. The eyes are cut out to fit hers in, and the mask gives an overall eerie look about it. 24

The woman herself looks out place, and eerie as well, yet she is so beautiful and pure that I cannot take my gaze off of her. 25

She smiles at me. A beautiful, dark smile. And she beckons with her free hand for me to come to her. I am scared, but at the same time, I am almost hypnotized by her beauty and darkness, and slowly, my feet follow her pearly finger, each step coming toward her.26

As I come up to her, her eyes follow my face, and my eyes slowly float up to meet hers. She smiles wider, and she fits the mask comfortably on her face before stretching her arms toward me. 27

And I stay still. She grips my shoulder, painfully, her black nails digging into my skin. I want to scream, to run, but I can't, and sensing my fear, she says,28

"It’s alright Small One. It’s only for the best."29

"The best?" My tongue slides over my cracked lips, and I start to tremble, as fear slides slowly down my spine.30

"Of course. You are the chosen one. Why do you think you are part of this dream? Not every child sees me."31

"Why do I? Why not others?"32

The woman smiles at me as if saying, 'I've been meaning for you to ask me that.33

"You'll find out soon." 34

"How? How can you tell me?" 35

She walks behind me, and whispers down my neck, her cold breath tickling my skin. 36

"By doing this." And she pushes me to the ground, with all the strength in that fragile body.