No, the clock has not suffered enough.

Inga jumped down from the bed and picked up the clock. The coldness of the floor stung her feet, but she was counting on what she was boiling and stirring inside her to warm her up.

BANG! She threw the clock against the wall this time.

Fuck you, clock. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. Now this pathetic piece of junk had a purpose. To be destroyed. Obliterated. Beyond repair.

There was a second thought to it at all times. At first, it did not feel right at all. Why bother unleashing and amping up wrath against an inanimate object? But now it felt quite appropriate. She did not ask to be here. She deserved answers, and she was not getting any. Attracting attention could be a good way to find out what was going on, and the anger that went into each throw kept her warm despite how cold this floor was.

Fuck you, tiles. Six so far. Soon, none shall remain. Because the clock was showing no sign of breaking. Hardy black polymere of some sort that was under the plastic showed that it had no intention of breaking open ever.