My Scar: A Narrative Fiction

Scar

My scar is not an ordinary scar, nothing visible, no wounds healed. My scar is a mental one, one which rests deep in the back of my brain, waiting for the most inopportune time to leap out. My scar is a cuckoo clock. For those unaware, a cuckoo clock is one which has a small fake bird in it, which jumps out and shouts “Cuckoo!” every hour on the hour. When I was a young child, I never held any grudge against the humble cuckoo; they lived in their domain, and I in mine. Yet one day I discovered some old books my brother had collected, by a man named R.L. Stine—The Goosebumps Series. I read one book in particular, “The Cuckoo Clock of Doom”. While seeming juvenile today, as a young boy, the book haunted me. I have since forgotten what the book was about, and I daren 't open its pages—lest I find out, and the wounds reopen. After reading the book, I began having nightmares. Haunting nightmares, that still frighten me to this day. More specifically, one nightmare, which would repeat night after night. I awake, rubbing sleep from my eyes. My location is not my home, yet I have been here before—in another time, another life. The taps of rain from outside shake the windows, resonating over the stagnant air in the small room. It is decorated ornately—not unlike my grandparent 's house—with plush red carpets, and bright white love-seats. The room would be comforting, if not for the one

Yet I never do. I awake before that time comes. Yet each time the dream recurs, once every few months to this day, I draw closer to my breaking point. I wonder, I ponder—I fear—what I might see exiting that clock. That accursed clock. What does it mean for my psyche that my mind would craft such an elaborate scenario to play out each night? Am I delusional, enough that I fear a harmless clock? Or am I rightly justified? Does the clock signify something more—something hiding inside me—inside all of us—something waiting to be let out at the final chime. When the clock strikes