The high-pitch wailing of the smoke alarm woke me from the first good night's slumber I'd been in the process of having in a good long while.
It was 3:39AM
The battery in the smoke alarm had, apparently, died, and the smoke alarm, lashing out blindly (deafeningly) for vengeance, blared its squealing peal to wake the dead and dead asleep alike.
I awoke completely stupored, baffled as to the source of what I am kindly describing as noise. The cellphone? No. The alarm clock? No. Auditory hallucination...mmmm...maybe? But, no.
I roused myself as best I could given the circumstances (it normally would take a few hours of wakefulness and a cup or two of coffee before I would willingly step into battle with such a sound), stumbled to the light switch and then stood, neck craned upward, eyelids still drooping heavily, contemplating this well-illuminated rest-ruining screaming plastic banshee.
The smoke alarm was just within the reach of my outstretched arms which I had raised in the hopes of striking at the smoke alarm's battery compartment, its power source, its brain. And strike it I did, with gusto, ripping the rectangular nine-volt battery from its cradle with a gleeful smile on my face, anticipatory joy for the return to slumber I expected.
Erroneously expected, that is. For, as I ripped the battery from this monstrosity of sound, this wailing warning signal, no relief was granted, no, instead, an echo began, released from the alarm's brethren, spread throughout the house, sensing a fellow cacophonous compatriot in dire straights, a call to aid (and ears) was sounded to alert any alarm in the vicinity, or indeed, any sonic sympathizers within range, of the horror ongoing now, at 3:45AM.
The battery, the battery was not enough. No, to slay this siren, now keening its final appeals, there must be another power source found and disabled, or else, its desire for a new battery appeased, before sleep would be granted.
And so I set to work, amid its klaxon clamor, to pry the offender from its ceiling perch, and pry again, the ties that bound the thing to call, its lifeline, the wailer's wire.
Once freed, it died, the soundless source at last, empty, silent, yet whole. A quarter hour more, it would have snapped. Instead, a sort of victory for sleep, interrupted though it was by this nonsense nocturnal notice its signal sounded last at 4:00AM
And heaven help the alarm clock this morning. I'm sleeping with a hammer under the pillow.
-t
4 comments:
my favorite part was calling out by the brethren of the screaming plastic banshee.
Methinks your title is from Shakespeare, though your prose evoke Poe. Aye, there's the rub.
this reminded me of the friend's episode where phoebe can't turn off fire detector.
I was totally going to comment on what Adina said!
Post a Comment