The Ticking of the Clock

The Ticking of Clock

There are no clocks in Hell, only an eternal ticking.- Bridaine

He walked inside, a man's man, home from a hard day of labor, in no mood for sass or foolishness, brutal discipline at the ready, silence dominating, save the ticking of the clock. According to their training, his family sat still, remaining obedient. And as the pendulum moved within the table clock's dark cherry body, his fingers running over the oily, smooth surface, the tick-tock sound echoing throughout the cabin, he needed only a nod to impart his command.

At the dinner table, the wife ignored his entrance, her head drooping and likely cowering, oblivious to everything in her midst, affection beaten from her long ago. A full complement of fine china sat before her, a layer of dust covering it, and she laughed while the deranged shadow of some 60's era game show played through her mind, her delusional part that of a cheery contestant. Not that she would have known if it was, but the command was not for her.

Nor was it for his eldest son sitting at the other end of the table, sawing his arm with a serrated steak knife. Blood rolled to the stained tablecloth below, his eyes twitching with every stroke, lips quivering with each chunk of flesh ripped free.

His daughter, such a beautiful young girl, the body of a woman blossoming around her adolescent mind, reacted with haste: Rising from the couch, she hurried to the kitchen, returning with an ice-cold bottle of beer, walking past the little boy huddled in the corner as he played with his only toy - - a ragged beanbag - - over and over again, tossing it high, catching it midair.

The man smiled with lust and lunacy. Pointing to the couch, he took the bottle and settled down, sinking close to his daughter. After quenching thirst with a hoggish pull, he put the bottle down and turned to the young girl. Her hair was so soft, long and light brown, smelling of lilac and femininity, and he ran his fingers through it.

The ticking of the clock remained constant but perhaps grew louder and more imposing with every turn of the interlocking mechanisms that made up its inner workings It grated on nerves, invading the deepest recesses of the mind, soothing and disturbing all at once...

A gleeful gasp from the contestant... A deep cut into a previous scar... A gentle roll of diminished blue eyes while the man moved fingers from silky soft hair to cool, creamy skin... Their minds numbing to oblivion's black well while the little boy tossed the beanbag high in the air... Higher and higher into the air each time...

When he plucked it from its fall, a cascading rush of noise broke the silence - and the man's concentration.

"Be silent, boy, or I will butcher you and feed you to them for supper."

The ticking of the clock was more piercing now, its rhythm irresistible and completely invasive. Light from oil lamps shimmered off of the face of the clock, the arms unnaturally moving counter-clockwise and then back again...

The little boy squeezed the beanbag close... The contestant shaking her head in disbelief - - she won, she won!... The knife now cleaved past skin and meat and sinew and buried into bone... The man moving fingers to where they didn't belong...

Violent, volatile threats became forgotten, and the little boy rose. After careful, guileful observation, defiance flavored his look and he returned the bean bag to the air, throwing it high and plucking it boldly from gravity's effect. With the staccato rhythm of neglected success brought him to smile and protrude his jaw forward with contempt, and the little boy let fly the bag once more.