Clock Strikes || ONC 2024

Three

At this point in my life, my panic attacks are like a drop in a bucket. I have many, and often, but I'll never forget the first time because it's the one you never see coming, and it sticks to you like fresh tar on hot pavement.

I was eight years old, sprawled over the front of our couch, eyes glued to the Family Matters reruns playing on TV, when the phone rang. My mother, who had been cooking dinner and sipping a glass of wine, answered it, and her calm hello? Turned into choking cries while the police officer on the other end told her my father had been in a car accident.

When we arrived at the hospital, nausea had already twisted itself into a knot in my belly, and the feeling was growing. Each hallway felt impossibly long, and I just needed to see my father's smile so it would all melt away. Unfortunately, when we finally arrived at his room, his unconscious tube-riddled body tore something in my little brain. New fear unlocked. Seeing him lying there only made the feeling building inside of me worse. My heart was beating so fast that I couldn't remember a time when I wasn't acutely aware of its presence beneath my ribcage. I was convinced it would explode at any moment.

Since then, I have lost count of my panic attacks. When my father recovered, I thought they'd go away, but a year later, my mother's death turned them into a permanent fixture. It's been damn near thirteen years, and if there's any silver lining, it's that I've gotten better at spotting the warning signs, but even then, there's nothing I can do to stop them.

"Max, please?" The professor is saying, motioning his son over to the chair in front of his desk.

I know Max is asking me something, but I can't hear it. I'm sure it's something like, what's wrong with you? Or Chill out! All the things people say when they don't know how to help crazy little Sarah.

My fingers have gone pins and needles, and a sharp pain is stabbing at my chest. I feel my heart drumming erratically, and I try to take a deep breath.

In my head, my father's voice repeats the instructions my child therapist gave him to snap me out of it: "Okay, honey, name five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, and one thing you can taste."

I try. I stare down and count: one: shoes, two: rug... but I'm impatient, and it's not working, so I switch to things I can hear.

I try to focus, but my ears feel like they're full of pressure, and everything has a layer of muffled dullness to it, fuck it. Smell.

I squeeze my eyes shut and draw in as much breath as I can through my nose. The deep, earthy scent of burning wood comes in waves, and I can't figure out why I feel like I should remember this scent. I open my eyes, and I'm abruptly reminded that I am in Max's personal space, who is at this moment attempting, gently, to walk me to a seat. The embarrassment of this knocks my anxiety down a wrung.

When I'm seated, I count five things: books—so many that I should be able to use them as the only thing I count—but I continue. A balcony door, a globe, a chandelier? Who the fuck has one in their office? My eyes try to scan for another object within my peripherals, which makes me vividly aware of the boy crouched down in front of me. Five: Max. His hands are on the arms of my chair, and his eyes are insistent on mine as if he's willing me to snap out of it.

He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. He does this several times before I realize he's trying to help me regulate my breathing. I take his lead and breathe in long inhales and exhales until the pain in my chest has vanished.

"It's okay." Max brushes the hair out of my face that has stuck to my clammy skin. "I get them sometimes, too."

"Is it?" I say out loud without realizing it. It's a valid question, though. Today was supposed to be amazing. This interview was gonna be the launching point of my professional career. I walked into that foyer expecting to hear things no one had heard before, and now I've watched the blood of the aforementioned visionary wind back into his body as if he weren't dead fifteen minutes ago. "I'm sorry, Professor Anthrop. I just... I just don't think the interview is a good idea today. Maybe we should reschedule?"

"She's in shock. Have Beth bring her something to drink. Me too, if you don't mind terribly, Son." The professor croaks most of the words out as if he hasn't spoken in years.

"I sent her home, all things considered."  Max shrugs. "It seemed easier than having her relive everything again. I'll get the drinks."

When Max leaves, I feel the unease creeping back up. I want to go with him. I don't want to stay here in front of a reanimated corpse.

"Forgive him; he's inherited a softer sensibility from his mother." The professor says, checking his wristwatch and sighing. "We have thirty minutes"

"Until?"

"Until I die again." He watches me for a moment as if memorizing my face. "You're her spitting image; no one could doubt you are Celeste's daughter."

I nod. But I have nothing to say. I don't remember her well, and also, what a hell of a thing to say after he's announced he'd be dead again in thirty minutes.

"Pardon my language, professor, but what the fuck is happening?" I ask, digging my nails into the arms of my chair like I'm on a flight that has just hit turbulence.

"Well, Miss Wright, I accepted your invitation for an interview because I was hoping you could tell me."

My eyes go wide, but I stay silent. I know myself too well. Anything that comes out of my mouth right now will be gibberish or something reminiscent of homicidal road rage.

I close my eyes and flinch as a chill runs through my body. I have been in situations like this before, where the fear was too much for me to handle, and my alternative was to lie to myself. So, I do. I tell myself that I wanted this interview, and here it is. Ask the questions the readers are going to want to know.

When my eyes open, Max is placing a bottle of water in front of me. I take a sip, cross my legs, straighten my back, and train my eyes on Professor Anthrop. "Max said something about the clock in the sitting room. Can you tell me about that?"

A slight smile touches the professor's lips, but I don't allow myself a pat on the back. I'm determined to keep my wits about me.

"Originally, it belonged to your mother. It's a rather unique piece; the wood and metal used to craft it were salvaged from the Herringbone Cave. Surely you remember that much?"

"You may be mistaken, Professor Anthrop. I would remember such a clock if it had been in my house."

"It was kept in her office, her office on these premises." He says.

I pause. Scanning my memories for any recollection of this place, but I have none. Though it's possible, I may not remember, considering my therapist is convinced I've blocked out most of the memories surrounding my mother.

"Let's say that's all true. I'm still stumped as to why you moved it into that sitting room before my arrival today. Can you explain?"

"Because, Miss Wright, it stopped working the day your mother died. Yet last month, the day I received your inquiry for an interview, I heard its chimes flood the hall downstairs, falling silent only once it announced the hour as 8 a.m."