Clocks

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The senseless sound echoes in the heavy silence yet makes no noise at all.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

So strange. Minutes passing marked by this incomprehensible sound.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense. Is the world really still turning?

Tick. Tick. Tick.

A woman walks past with a pram. The cars purr up and down outside. Pointless. Meaningless. Forgotten in a moment.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

So quiet. Apart from the clock. How long it has it been. Four hours? Six? Eternity?

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The television is a welcome distraction. It brings a sense of almost reality back. Though not for long.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The program has ended though there’s no inclination to move. A heavy listlessness pervades the air.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The night brings with it a myriad of memories. A thousand instances of kindness, shared laughs, shared experiences. The tears come then but they are short-lived.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The darkness offers no comfort. Only questions, doubts. It feels unreal. The expectation of the phone ringing and the joke being revealed is strong. Deep down there is the knowledge that is it real; that it has happened.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Admitting it would make it real. If it’s not said then it can’t be true.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The funeral feels real enough and the tears fall readily both then and at the burial.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Time seems to start moving again. Slowly but it’s moving. The original numbness has worn off.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Two years later and life is back to normal, almost. It can never be the same again. A scarred heart is testament to that.