Wound Up

Mine. Everything about it is singularly and wholly mine. Every defect in the gilded edges, every nick in the wood; I claim it from bottom to top, open to closed, alive to silent. The girl in the pink tutu is especially mine. I christened her Clara because she needed a name, and because she reminded me of her.

My friend and I no longer speak, our relationship left on a shelf for display and reminiscence. It, like the music box my mother gave me on my fifth birthday, has not been touched in years. The box can be left undisturbed, next to my clock whose rhythm never falters. Our relationship too, can be suspended. I have found steady people with whom I can pass my time, and with whose songs beat with mine.

I grew accustomed to her song, and rest assured that it is still quite mine. It still plays in my memory, having graced my ears perhaps a time too many.

We met as children, and fit together like my pudgy hand fit around the notched handle. Clara and I wound each other up. For years we chased each other around, creating together. We fought imaginary enemies, solved brilliant mysteries, and broke hearts of our own creation. The tension built, one passionate click of the gears at a time. We continued to wind for years.

Enemies, mysteries, and hearts became real, but they remained our toys. When I carried her through her front door unconscious, her heart barely beating, I realized we were no longer playing games. I watched her father cry that night. My hand had grown too big for her handle.

Clara's waltz was crystal, purity spun from her gears and emanated through the air. I was enraptured in every story she told, and every aspect of her being was beautiful to me. From her golden hair to green eyes she was mine, and I resigned to spend my every moment with her listening to her song. Before her wind was over, she wore on me. One note hit too hard, the next too soft. In seconds rather than minutes the discord caused her beautiful cadence, to become cacophony.

It dawned on me too late that a song was a compilation of individual notes, not a singular careless thing. A song is precise machine. One mistake is a perversion, and many mistakes can turn the most beautiful lullaby into bleating babel. Too many lies and broken promises had marred our composition. I could not trust Clara to be anything but careless. She once disappeared for a month only to return with an inexplicable web of blue bruises covering her torso and legs. The next time she left she returned with a boy, and I didn't see her for a while.

I loved to watch her twirl, and often gave into fantasies that I was down there with her. She seemed so perfect to my naive eye.

Occasionally when I'm trying to sleep, or focusing especially hard on my work, she will let out a singular note. The note resonates, before drifting away into nothing, leaving it's long collected hood of dust undisturbed. In its absence it leaves so much of it's familiar song unsung.

I do consider winding it.

She is my music box, ornate and beautiful. She is dinged around the edges, her clasps don't fasten, and she screamed when I forced her open, only to find that all but one of her mirrors had shattered. In the sole panel I saw the image of my blank brown eye. All it saw was me. I pushed my thumbs into the space  where my iris bore into itself. Warm blood welled between the cracks. I was alone.