Three Count (Snippet)

I came up 190 words shy of my wordcount goal last weekend.  I had just ended a big scene and didn't want to start another just before bed for fear that I wouldn't be able to sleep till I'd finished it.  Unsatisfied with my explanation, my girlfriend (and fellow writer) told me to "write something else."  I said I couldn't fit a story into 190 words.  She disagreed.  So, on a dare, I tried it.  

And here it is.  Thrice:
 
That's the rain, that is, high up on the wall there.  It happens a lot here; twice as much in the winters.  Nothing to fret about, mate.  They patched up the ceiling just last month, they did.  Hardly leaks at all anymore.

Don't trouble yourself with the sounds out there now, mate.  You ought to be more concerned with the world in here; this room with the high walls you can't climb and the door you can't open.  These are your sounds now, mate.  The hollow footsteps in the halls at night, the light scritch-scritch of the rats behind the walls.  And me, mate.

Seems like you need a friend, see?  Someone who knows his way round the place, knows how to hide the pills you shouldn't take and knows when the guards come by at night to have their fun.  Good things to have, friends.  Just one problem, mate:  it's awful crowded up in here.  The others aren't so kind, you see.  You hide from them now, but they'll whisper to you when it's dark. 

But don't worry, mate, you'll always have me with you.  Me, and the rain.

- - -

The view from atop the Tower of Knowledge was one of particular brilliance at this hour of the morning.  The light of day pierced the veil of the paper forest and draped all the room in a pleasant, sandy hue.  In the distance, the shadows of the Forbidden Mountains sank into quiet obscurity, forgotten in the warmth and boldness of the sun.  Yet all this beauty was lost on the prisoner within.

Timber's eyes, slow to open, soon gazed about the waking room.  All this was his to roam, and yet a prisoner he remained; never to feel the green grass, never to feel the hear the crunch of the snow beneath his feet;   trapped forever to watch from this tower and wonder at a world that might have been his. 

Leaving his high perch in an effort to assert his limited will on such a confined state of being, Timber descended the tower and scratched at the door to his master's study to demand the day's stipend of dry giblets and stale water.  Winter was upon them, and the housecat had no intention of waiting it out without protest.

- - -

"I don't care what it's called, it smells like rubbish," Bristol said, wrinkling her nose at the serving dish.

"Oh, hush," said her cousin, opening the oven to gauge the roast inside. "It's not like it'll kill you to try something new for the holidays, no?"  Satisfied, she shut the oven door and removed her oven mitts, taking up a separate serving tray as the doorbell rang again.  "Not another one..."

"I'll get it, Paris," Bristol answered with a lilt as she set the tray of cheese and sauces aside, happy for the excuse to be rid of it.  Not bothering with the peephole after so many guests had arrived, she pulled the door open with her arms flung wide to welcome the newcomer, hoping in her heart that it was Vladimir come round to pay them a surprise visit.

But the man standing in the doorway was not Vlad at all.  The tall, dark-haired man in the clean, pressed suit smiled at the woman greeting him so warmly.  "Gute nacht," he said.  "My name is Frankfurt."

"Bloody hell," she said, unable to stop herself.  "There goes the whole party..."