Routine
“Remember to come back in three months to get it wound up again” The man handed the box containing two large ornate wood music boxes. The parents smiled and nodded as they strode back to their car. As they left the craftsman took off his hat, wiped his brow and gave them a wave. “Let the music keep you whole”
Miles and Mary finished cleaning up the kitchen as their daughter Daisy ran around the living room fighting off dragons and trolls that were invading her imaginary kingdom. Miles peered out the window over the sink into the forest that lined the neighborhoods back yards. The wind was picking up, creating a torrent of branches dancing wildly in the small outside light form their porch.
“Might be a storm tonight” Miles said wiping the last of the plates and putting it on the drying rack.
“I didn’t see anything on the news, but you know how it is. Weather channel can’t seem to get it right.” Mary pushed in each chair into the dining room table and made sure everything was re-aligned an d centered. When she had finished she smiled and moved into the living room. “Okay Daisy, time for bed, let’s get ready.”
Daisy smiled, slew her last troll and bolted for the stairs.
Miles turned off the rest of the lights and they both ascended to their rooms.
Daisy slipped under the covers of her small bed and peered at her window on the other side of the room. The wind was picking up and just as she could hear the torrent, the music box started playing.
“Good night sweetie, see you in the morning” Her mom kissed her forehead and turned off the small light on the nightstand. Her dad followed with a hug and kiss, then closed the door to the room slightly.
They both moved into the master bedroom where the music box filled the room with a light lullaby. It seemed like background noise, they hardly noticed it anymore. As if the music had become part of the house in a way. They breathed air, they listen to the music at night. Miles braced himself against their bedroom wall and looked out towards their backyard. Trees were now whipping wildly and rain battered down on the window.
“Here it comes” he smiled and slipped into bed. “Better to be in here then out there”
“Agreed” Mary stretched and slid next to him. They both closed their eyes and soon sleep overcame them.
There was no crescendo, no build up. Screams, an unholy symphony of endless screaming, crying, begging, mourning ripped into them. Miles stumbled out of bed covering his ears while Mary joined in the chorus of screaming.
The music box had stopped.
The whole room was cold, darker then it should be. The screaming came not from a single point, but from all dimensions. The sound of damned vibrated straight into the bones and carried their torment straight to the soul. Miles grabbed his chest in pain, but slid closer and closer to the music box as he could. The sensation of pain, sadness and despair effected all senses. He could taste the bleakness, see the hopelessness, feel the brutal violation of self, smell the burning of human emotions crisped on the fires of something ungodly. Then the sound, which his ears could perceive at one level and then his body on another. If all the human suffering, every cry for life, every angry scream that broke vocal cords till they bled filtered through him.
He reached the music box, unconsciously, he felt through the burning sensations and wound it. Wound it and wound it. Then as everything culminated he let go of the key, and the lullaby filled the room. Immediately the assault stopped. In an instant the room returned to normal as if nothing had happened. The music box ticked, now manually winding down, missing its master craftsman. Mary sobbed on the floor next to the bed, Miles laid paralyzed, overwhelmed. Until one thought crossed his mind.
Daisy.
If their music box stopped.
So did hers.
His body creaked and protested as he rose to his feet. His wife rose as well, her face ghostly white, the same thought. He grabbed the music box from the small table and they ran through the door into the hall way and to the her room.
“Daisy!” he burst into their room.
The lullaby played from the music box that he held in his right hand. He gripped it so tight that it might break. His eyes wide, face contorted in a silent scream.
Mary screamed. A scream so terrible it could be included in the unholy chorus.
He set the music box next to the silent one and stepped back. It ticked mechanically, the key winding down, counting the seconds till it needed to be wound again.
They had forgotten.
One time.
Thats all it took.
They had broke the routine.
I was laying awake one night, as i do often, looking at the ceiling and hearing the air purifier that is in our room hum away. I then thought what would happen if that slow hum went away and was replaced by the absolute wailing for a hundreds of people. A violent assault on the ears, one of those sounds that brings you to your knees because it is so horrible, something you try to shake away from you ears, but it surrounds, consumes. Like village on fire and everyone screaming to be saved as you stand on the outside. Then the flash of a family getting a music device serviced, the world has accepted its fate to keep the sound at bay with these devices. It has become routine, and with routine comes slip ups from stagnation. Context, the makers of the music boxes have to service them to keep them running continuously with out being wound up. If one is not serviced, it will not run with out being manually cranked every minute or so.
When terror becomes routine, one mishap leads to devastation.
Be mindful of everyday moments of terror. Maybe keep them out of the shadows, so you see their teeth.
Cheers~