The Clock

Jacqueline

The day the armed men came knocking on Jacqueline's door, hat in their hands and a grim expression on their faces, she had opened the door. She saw their uniforms, the same colour and badges her father wore before he'd left and assumed he was somewhere, probably standing behind them. Why wouldn't he have been there? She had looked around them but couldn't see much.

"May we speak with your mére, si-vous plaît," the officer with the balding head asked.

Jacqueline wanted to ask for her father in return but before she could, her mom appeared. Her face was sort of stunned, staring at the men—at least that's what Jacqueline had remembered. "Jackie," her mom said, a slight strain in her voice that even at her very young age made Jacqueline uneasy. "Go see how your petit frére is doing."

Though she wanted to protest, Jacqueline knew it would get know where. Instead, she walked around the corner to where she couldn't be seen but could still hear and peak over to see what was happening. There was whispering. There were long pauses. Deep, shuddering breaths. Then a sound that wasn't foreign to Jacqueline but usually less loud; a sound usually muffled by pillows in the night; the sound of her mother crying.

As soon as Jacqueline heard the door open and saw the uniformed men leave she had walked towards her crying parent, cautious and filled with concern. "Maman, what's wrong?"

And she looked at Jacqueline, broken and vulnerable. Suddenly Jacqueline was being pulled tightly into her mom's arms. "Oh Jackie, Papa is gone. Gone." Though she did not fully understand what was happening at the time, Jacqueline had started crying as well.

1241:08:01

For one whole hour, Jacqueline's Clock was stuck on that time. One full hour of stillness. One full hour since her One had passed. And all she could think of was the day her Papa had died. The immediate tears that fell from her mother's face; the depressing mood that stayed in her house for weeks. Yet, right now, all Jacqueline felt was numbness.

The love of her life was dead, and Jacqueline felt nothing. How should one even feel? She thought maybe she should be crying, but she couldn't will herself to. She'd never even met her would-be Beloved; couldn't tell you whether they were male or female if you paid her too.

Two hours later and still, Jacqueline sat on her bed, feeling empty. She still hadn't told anyone. She couldn't fall asleep, even though it was 2 am and she had an 8 am class in the morning.

How did it happen?

For the last thirty minutes she'd been wondering. She wasn't married to her soulmate and therefore would never be told. She'd never suddenly find herself being sat down by strangers and having the heroic (or tragic) death of them explained to her. She'd never have the closure of knowing that it was a quick, painless death or even if it was a slow, horrible one.

Three hours later and she was filled with questions about who her one true love could have been. The kind of question she could never really answer. The colour of their eyes, which she had always pictured as hazel—her favourite eye colour—could have been green or blue or something as common as dark brown. They could have been kind hearted just as easily as they could have been cruel and horrid. Were they a criminal? An angel in disguise? How torturous it was to have no idea; to be constantly plagued by the possibilities, the unknown.

Jacqueline's mind began wandering to the what ifs, the could bes; the things she would be deprived of her entire life: that night before meeting the one, where she wouldn't be able to fall asleep from the anxiousness and giddiness. She wouldn't experience that moment where nothing matters, nothing at all, but meeting the very person they were meant to spend the rest of their life with. She thought of how, even if she did meet somebody else, even if she did fall in love, they would only ever be second to the person she should have spent her life with.

And what if she didn't find anyone? Would she be forced to spend the rest of her life alone, bitter and forever grieving her loss? Silently fighting through whatever growing darkness of depression and sorrow like her mom's brother Michel, until finally taking her own life?

Her breathing became short, fast. She gasped for oxygen, for anything to help her survive as the panic and dread grew greater and greater. Her eyes began to water, the first tear gathering, swelling larger and larger until it finally fell from her eyes, trickling down her cheek slowly. From that single tear, that single drop, came a storm; a fury of tears, dripping down to her duvet.

It wouldn't stop. She couldn't stop it. Six hours without a single tear and suddenly she was a mess, sobbing uncontrollably. Jacqueline threw herself onto her pillow, hoping to muffle her desperate cry. She didn't—couldn't—wake her mère or frère. She couldn't possibly explain to them what had happened. But her cries were practically screams by now and her mother came rushing in.

"Ma cocotte,my hen, what is wrong?" she asked, sitting next to her sobbing daughter, stroking her hair gently. "Oh, ma bebe, why do you cry? Come tell maman."

Jacqueline could not form any words. She thrusted her arm towards her mother, the tattoo still clear and unsmeared despite the wet, salty tears. Her mother looked at the arm, confused.

1241:08:01

It took her a minute before she realized that The Clock did not move. It was stuck, unmoving even when three minutes passed. "Oh, ma petite coeur, my little heart." Jacqueline's mother wrapped her arms around her sobbing daughter, tears starting to form in her own eyes. She couldn't possibly fathom anything that could ease such pain, settling with simply sitting with her daughter, comforting Jacqueline with her presence.