The air throbs with silence, broken only by
the methodical ticking of the antique clock on the mantel piece. Its brass
pendulum swings in a hypnotic rhythm, never faltering, never stopping. Like my
heartbeat, as I continue on: to move, to breathe, to live. But this is no life.
I’m a shell of a human, hollowed out by the
death of you. Emptied of all emotion since you left. I feel nothing. Not love,
not pain, not the rain on my skin. My life is on autopilot, completing menial
daily routines until my body gives up and I can be with you once more.
The ticking gets louder, invading my head
with heavy noise, pulsating until I explode. With swift hands I lash out at the
clock, sending it flying from its perch and shattering against the wall. As the
springs, cogs and coils rain down on the carpet I see a yellowed note covered
in a familiar scrawl. And that’s how I discovered your secret.
