11:59
Microfiction
11:59 p.m. Anytime the clock would flip. Get to a.m. Exactly 12 a.m. To the next day: a Monday. But saved. Screen turned off. Black phone dissolved into the dark room. Sleep. I whispered. Sleep. I hissed. He was awake. Eyes open or closed? He couldn’t tell. Changed sides. Once. Twice. Thrice? He couldn’t tell. It was too dark. And he was awake. Counted to a hundred. Controlled his breath. Contracted his muscles to relax. No use. He was awake. Sleep. I whispered. Sleep or it’d be morning. I hissed. Is it morning? He wondered. No. Still too dark. Close to morning? Maybe. I replied. Changed sides. Again. Towards me. I moved. But it was too dark. Light. He thought. Phone. He thought. But time would pass. Pass like insomnia. Insomnia would win. Keep him awake. For the hours the phone would display. No. He thought. Really? I exhaled in his ears. His mouth opened. Slightly. Slowly. The daylight creaked. The room was lit. In parts. On the left. And a part of the right. A corner was dark. Too dark. He sat up. On his bed. He moved. Grabbed his bedsheet. Something. He saw. It’s watching you. I whispered. The darkness. The empty. What was beyond it? The old wall? The other room? Or had it swallowed them? Like the light. That moved. And he moved. Moved the bedsheet with him. But he missed. Something. I hissed. Me. On the other side. Where his eyes would never see.