Lost Time

Stacey’s face slowly melted as if it were molten glass. Her skin dripped like wax, each drop coinciding with the pounding in her head. Stacey arduously turned towards her reflection, wading through dark molasses. What stared back seemed subhuman. Roman numerals outlined where her head should have been, circling three iron whiskers. The thinnest of the three appeared broken, spinning at an unmatched pace while the rest of her trudged to keep up. The metallic arm continued whirling around tirelessly as she began to dissolve into nothingness.

Stacey opened her eyes and began rubbing away the crustiness under her lashes. She peered across her bed and noticed the time. 5:33 AM; two minutes before her alarm clock would announce the day. She sighed, reaching over to grab her dream journal, a simple, black leather book, and scribbled down the night’s musings. Unaware that she had already awoken, the clock cried as she placed the precious book neatly back. Several months ago, her therapist had recommended she record her dreams for inspiration when she struggled to find content for her work. As a forty-two-year-old woman, she decided her new dream would be a later in life success story, the kind where she becomes a best seller and the world kicks itself for not finding her sooner. Her work, however, continued to lack something. Over the years, she attributed it to a lack of opportunity.

Her job was managing a local music shop; one a visitor might pass by commenting on the nature of the small building but never entering. Locals mostly used the front porch to drop off unwanted instruments played by once-interested musicians. Either way, Stacey had little to no interest in music. By her fifth year working there, she had begun to abhor the peeling paint and dusty strings. Every day she turned over the sign that indicated they were open, promptly sat behind the counter, picked up her leather book, and scanned its pages for an idea. Today was like any other day.

Empty.

In the middle of staring at a blank page, with her pen in hand, the clock once again indicated that it required her attention--12:00 PM; exactly the beginning of her lunch break. Frustrated, she closed her book and headed towards the door to lock it, when two men began unloading an upright piano.

For a minute, she mulled over how to address them—really whether she should acknowledge them at all. Before she could move away from the door, one man’s eyes met hers. Startled out of her solitary contemplation, she hung up a sign and pointed, “Out to Lunch”, indicating that she was unable to assist them. The man’s eyes narrowed as he could clearly see she was not “out” anywhere. He shrugged after a pause and his eyes returned to their normal shape. Not intending to wait, he directed the other man to leave the piano near the steps.

Incredulous at how quickly she lost control of the situation, she fought the panicky realization that she could not move the piano on her own. Her stubbornness upheld until their departure, and she was left with a gurgling in her stomach.

She ate her lunch while glaring down at the piano, which now inhabited beyond the front window. Scoffing at how disrespectful the man had been, a bite dropped from her mouth, adding to her embarrassment.

When she finished eating, refreshed determination fueled her forward. She was hellbent on showing that man she could rid herself of the piano.

With one push, reality pushed back.

Stacey glanced left and right for someone to save her, but she was alone.

In her exasperation, she pounded the piano’s keys and heard nothing. Surprised at the silence, shock turned to anger. She was aggravated about obtaining a broken object.

A realization then formed around its uselessness. She was released from ensuring that it entered the shop in one piece.

She returned to her chair, gathered her pen and journal, and gleefully listed the ways she could destroy 800 pounds of wood and metal. Burning it was too conspicuous. She also flirted with the idea of using a hatchet, but eventually defaulted to what she could find in the store: a car-jack the owner sometimes used for lifting heavier items.

Dragging the car-jack to the front of the piano, she planned to tip it over and allow gravity to do her dirty work. After two minutes of fiddling, she was pumping the lever. With the sound of wood cracking, the bottom front of the piano ripped open as she covered her face. Begrudgingly, she peeled her hands away from their protective arrangement. Upon looking to see how much damage she had succeeded in causing, five pieces of paper poked out from the fresh cavity beside the foot pedals. Tucked in the piano’s interior, the secret stationery, now no longer hidden, read “THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA—SAVINGS BOND—ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS”.

Greed colored her face as she snatched the rust speckled papers, believing they must be worth a fortune. She returned to the coverage of the shop, leaving the damaged piano and car-jack near the steps. It was 1:57 PM; plenty of time to get to the bank. Collecting her belongings, she left the shop in a hurry, neglecting to display the “Closed” sign.

Fortunately, the bank was not far, and to her pleasure, she arrived to find no line, just wood linoleum and scattered furniture. Parading herself up to the only accessible counter, she slid the papers delicately towards the teller so as not to tear them. With the warmest smile she could muster, she told him she would like to cash the bonds. The teller’s eyes widened to see papers older than the day he was born and excused himself to fetch the manager. When the manager arrived, Stacey flashed another smile, once more asking for the money owed to her. He politely informed her that it would take a few minutes to assess the value that she would be receiving, to which Stacey replied, “Take all the time you need.”

Stacey pulled out her book and hugged it to her chest. She thought of the ways she could spend her newfound wealth, no longer needing to waste away in that shop. She wanted to travel and fill its pages about her experiences. That man leaving the piano was possibly the best thing to have happened to her. She felt all those years waiting would finally be worth it.

The corners of Stacey’s mouth curved upward as she saw the manager return. This time, her smile was genuine. The manager congratulated her, stating that the bonds would in fact render her twenty thousand dollars, to which her smile slightly faltered as she had been expecting more. She asked if the manager was mistaken, but he assured her that the amount was correct. She sighed and convinced herself it would be sufficient to get her started, and thus, held out her palm as if waiting for the money to be handed over. It was then that the manager admitted their location did not have the full sum at the moment, and she would need to wait at least a few days for the funds to arrive. He suggested she opt for having the money wired to her account, to which she agreed and signed some papers.

Stacey headed home with a sense of weightlessness and began packing. What possessions she had and wanted to take overfilled the largest bag she could find. She noted that her first purchase would need to be a suitcase.

With a yawn, Stacey glanced at the clock. The time was 10:48 PM; over an hour past her usual bedtime. Excavating her pajamas from the bag, she promptly carried out her nightly routine and crashed on top of her sheets, exhausted from the excitement of the day and looking forward to resigning tomorrow...

Stacey found herself swimming in black liquid, each stroke bringing her closer to shore. When she reached a place where she could stand, she looked down to see her clock-like face, the alloyed hands ticking away. As the third hand began picking up speed, she reached up and plucked it from her face with ease. While in her grasp, the hand she once feared now looked fragile. Pinching the metal between her fingers, the slightest friction resulted in a dust-like residue. She knew she could snap it if she wished. Before she could, a piercing sound cut through her ear like lightning across the sky.

Stacey awoke to the ringing of her phone. The clock read 2:30 AM. Groaning, she turned over while clutching her pillow to deafen the noise, but the phone kept ringing. Unable to endure its desperate tones, Stacey finally answered. It was the police.

Stacey stared blankly at the burning building, her arms crossed as a small crowd formed, curious about the commotion. Some local teens admitted that they caused the fire, although it was accidental. They confessed that they discovered the shop to be unlocked, snuck in, and regrettably, set it ablaze. They also disclosed that they stole the car-jack stranded outside and returned it. One thing unaccounted for was the mysterious piano left on the sidewalk, which, other than a considerable hole, seemed unscathed. In light of the information provided to the police, it was evident that Stacey had not locked the shop, and was therefore ordered to help compensate the owner for their losses.

Heartbroken, Stacey could not fall back asleep that night.

A few days later, she glanced at the clock with dark circles under her eyes. It read 9:55 AM; five minutes until she had to transfer fifteen thousand dollars over to her previous employer. Somberly, with a lawyer and the shop’s owner present, she signed off on more papers.

Sobbing after they left, Stacey held onto her black, leather book along with the knowledge that she only had five thousand dollars remaining, hardly enough to fund her escape. Clenching her fists, she bent the book and bowed her head, resting on her wrists. The luck that had fallen on her by discovering the bonds, continued its swift trajectory, slipping through her fingers. In her gut, she knew there would not be another chance. She closed her eyes, defeated, and sank into a deep sleep.

Staring at the glass casing on the clock, Stacey held her gaze through its reflective surface. What she felt confronting this cold, cog run device was emptiness. No matter how many minutes ticked by, she was frozen, hollow... Resentment bubbled from her chest, searching for release from the threat of dormancy. Urging her desire for self-preservation to persist, Stacey suddenly thrust her arm forward, shattering the machination. Wiping the sable tinted sap from her palm, Stacey picked up her shard-covered book from the damp ground, decisively turned around, and walked away.

Stacey opened her eyes, immediately drawn to the clock. She observed the red dotted numbers leering back at her before she continued to look beyond the time, her sight snaking down the machine’s tail. She reached over, grasped the cord, and ripped the plug from its life source, definitively silencing any future cries the clock might crow. With her overfilled bag in one hand, Stacey tucked her ink-colored journal under her arm and headed for the door. She was resolved in pursuing a new dream: travel as far as the five thousand dollars would take her. To make up for lost time, she promised to seize every second forward, never again waiting for opportunities to find her.

In the pages of her memories, Stacey would carry those wasted years, but they no longer flooded her dreams. Her later in life success would come to fruition; not in riches nor fame, but in shedding self-inflicted shackles built over a lifetime.