Entry #A7


Grandfather Clock
by
Cypher Lx

The cushion felt like concrete as she sat, her legs dangling off the edge of the sofa, feet several inches from the oriental carpet. The black velvet dress was scratching against her skin. White ankle socks with lace trim made the black patent leather Mary Janes pinch her toes and rubbed the backs of her ankles raw. The matching ribbon to the dress pulled individual strands of her blonde hair so tight she thought her skull would begin to show. Her tears had dried up hours ago, but she wished for a scissors to make her clothes look as shredded as she felt. The pendulum swung quietly as she watched the minutes tick by at an all too quick pace.

The rest of the house was silent as a tomb save for the light clinking of silverware and bone China coming from the formal dining room and the classical music sounding like a dirge on the record player. She glanced up at the large mirror above the fireplace. Usually reflecting the expanse of the library, it was now shrouded in heavy, dark material. It was the one thing that gave her some comfort. Not only did she not want to see herself, but she also feared what might be staring back at her. Taking deep breaths, her nose was filled with the ever present scents of old books, lingering pipe smoke, and Old Spice. She wanted to scream, knowing that two of those would be lost to her like the perfume of flowers after they had withered and been tossed out.
Clang! The sound nearly made her jump out of her skin. It was the first chime of the Big Ben tune that always marked the top of the hour. Copper mallets like bony knuckles rapping hard against skeletal brass tubes, the song becoming a death knell. The grandfather clock loomed over her like the Grim Reaper. Once an adored object, it now reminded her that she was about to face a horror worse than what she had already endured.

She closed her eyes and imagined that if the clock was laid down, it would look very much like a Maple wood coffin with a glass top, a grotesque display of what it held inside. As the last chime sounded, it echoed ominously. She heard the harsh whisper of satin skirts and the padding of leather soled shoes approach her seat. Opening her eyes she saw her mother standing before her and her father just within the doorway. They wore the same inky color that now decorated everything. The stern expressions on their faces and dead look of their eyes ordered her to behave as the respectful young lady she was forced to dress like. A lifeless porcelain doll who was seen and not heard. Any other behavior would not be tolerated. A pale, cold hand was held out to her.

"It's time," her mother said.

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