It was a lethargic, moonless almost completely dark, cold night. The world was as if it is going through a slow motion film like when a bullet dodges into its protagonist. The wind was causing hallucination. It whirls with many different colors giving nausea. Her palms were cold and sweaty. The curtain swayed almost reaching her, and the wind that touched her cheeks, gone down through her spine. Chills. Her eyes were set on the ceiling, observing nothing. It turns to looked at now the almost unconcealed window which promises nothing but the silhouettes of the trees dancing. There is no more giving her more fear than her imagination.
The phantoms of her head that murders any child. Her body was no longer attached to the soul. It journeys where it longs to be, leaving the body in solitude. The clock was ticking, grabbing her attention. The sound for her was very disturbing. It destroys silence that she yearns. Anger tickles her feet, she stood up and grabbed a gun and thrown it off to the clock and it shattered. And after that, like a fragile piece of paper, she immediately fell into her bed, again. She closed her eyes. She lied down on her side. But there was again, ticking of the clock. She frowned. It echoes. One. Two. Three. Open. She opened her eyes, and with her were another pair of eyes.
The clock with her gun, shot her in the head. Passionately. Ending her sorrows.