The Clock

The clock strikes two.

Ding...
Ding...

Two rings of a tiny clockwork bell, its chime echoing only slightly in the barren hall. In fifteen minutes the clock will chime once, in thirty, twice. Always a constant, always there to remind you that time is flowing, never stopping. A stallwart of temporal fortitude, reliable and impersonal.

Tick. Tock.

It would never cheat. It would never fight. It would never leave. It would never take the dog. It would never take the records. It would never take the goddamn Christmas tree, an empty space now filled by a few lights on the floor. They lay like discarded clothes, waiting for somebody to put them back on. Waiting in vain.

Tick. Tock.

There is a single present left. Laying amounst the fallen lights and abandoned ornaments, its silver paper reflects the multicolored bulbs like a prism. On its embossed name cover reads a simple note, "With love."

Five minutes.

Images of fire and loss pass through the glass emptiness of a man's eyes. No tears. Nothing left to cry over. The fear, the rage, the moment, they had all passed in the night. Now there is an empty well. Emotions drained and used, leaving only regret, only thirst.

Ten minutes.

Snow and cold air drift in through a broken window. By the morning, there will be a small pile of snow on the floor. Outside, three stories down, there will be a frame hidden in white. Between its wooden arms there will be a picture of happiness. A picture false, but warm. A picture of the past.

Fifteen minutes.

The pendulum reflects a last remorseful glance. A hand opens the front door. A moment's pause, and then, gone. All that is left is time, moving forward, never backward.