The hollow sound of the clock permeates the silence.
Empty brown eyes stare at the clock's second-hand, always ticking, ticking towards the next second, the next minute, the next hour; ticking, ticking, ticking. The eyes wander down to the sickly green carpet, shaky hands pulling at the tassels slight uncertainty filling the blankness.

Tick, tick, tick.
Moving the hands placing them on the lap, wringing them, staring at the clock.

Tick, tick, tick.
Blank white walls, disturbed by lighter shades of wall, where pictures of family and friends once hung. No reason to leave pictures of the dead as constant reminders, smiles only ghosts of happiness, forever plastered on their faces.

Tick, tick, tick.
Cold resolve, the gun is raised to the head; brown eyes close, tears of joy and sadness slip out, a whispered "I'm sorry." and then nothing, but the cold ticking of the clock.