Story I am working on. Part 1.

A clock.

I'm almost sure that is what the sound is. I hear it from the other room, beyond the locked door. I have been hearing it for a long time. At least a few weeks, although I am unsure exactly how long. Maybe it has been months? I hear the clock, but I do not count the time. In my first few days I tried but it proved to be useless.

To say I am bored would be an understatement, although I guess I manage. I eat, I sleep. I read or write. There is never any more to my day. Until recently I would not even be allowed to write. They used to only bring books with my food. So many books... On so many different subjects. One day, in place of the book of the week was a pencil with some papers. I guess they feel I earned it, and they somewhat trust me now.

I did not really know what to do with it at first. I mean i know what to do with it, it just took me a while to decide what to use it for. At first I would draw random pictures, but soon ran out of ideas. There isn't much around me to draw and my imagination is not extensive enough. Then I tried to write down my memories. I soon found that I do not have much of those left. Has it been longer than I thought?

So here I am. Recording not distant memories but current and vibrant thoughts. That is another thing I do, more often that any of my other activities. I think. There is a lot to think about. Even when the body rests, the mind has the choice of pulling off the covers. My mind is always racing, changing channels from one station to another.

There is so much to think about. The books they brought me are very extensive in their subjects and each contains a plethora of information. The books spark my mind. I start off in the morning with one thought and by my next meal I am already pondering something completely different, with many thoughts in between. It is similar to the kids game of telephone. The sentence starts off one way and by the time it reaches the last child on the telephone line, the resulting sentence is completely unrecognizable from the original. It changes so much that the only connection between the two phrases is the kids in between, just like the only connection between my thoughts is that they are all mine.

I have a vague dream sometimes of kids, living in the same house as me. I think it might be a memory more than a dream, a memory that only comes at night. I know I did not have any kids, I am sure I would have remembered that. Nor did I have younger siblings. They might be distant family. I do not remember much at all and that scares me.