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.
Placing vote on behalf of Beverly Miller Moyle
ReplyDelete