It scares her when the light shifts. Scares her beyond reasons she can even understand let alone explain. The shifting of sunlight across dry grass, a constant slow trickle like liquid gold. She watches it cross the backs of her hands like the grass and wonders if it ever stops. Wonders what happens when it does. It’s not the changes that scare her so much as what they mean. It’s the slow procession of her never ending spiral toward hell. She doesn’t want to end up there like the rest of them but she knows as it gets colder and as it gets darker her fate closes in further.
It’s the tick tick tick of the clock on the wall that makes her drown it. A grandfather clock lies on the bottom of the riverbed, attracting fish and plants and her roaming ever-terrified eyes. There are only so many times the hands can turn before they become something scarier. Only so many times she can justify why the water doesn’t flood the face and kill time.
It can’t be her fault when the hands keep turning.