Grandfather Clock

A Story by Kate

I often stare at the clock for long periods of time, trying to work out why it’s here, what made them think its grandeur would have any place in this god-forsaken house.

I hate this place. I hate the repetition that is my life, the same scenes replaying themselves day in, day out. I hate them for trampling on every bright spark that comes our way, until it’s as broken and black as they are. I hate him for working his way into our sphere of upset, only to burst out of it as soon as he got too close to making a difference. And if I’m honest, I hate myself for not doing anything about it, for simply letting it all slide over me until I reach a point where it just doesn’t matter anymore. None of this matters. Nothing matters at all.

The ticking of the Grandfather clock is the loudest sound in the house, until the shouting starts. The clock stands out conspicuously against the disarray which surrounds it, looking down at the trash with a concealed look of superiority on its discoloured face. I often stare at the clock for long periods of time, trying to work out why it’s here, what made them think its grandeur would have any place in this god-forsaken house. Occasionally, rough breathing or a cough would momentarily blanket the sound of ticking and spur the curses and profanities to begin.