The Beating Clock

I grew more agitated and frantic with each passing moment. My skin felt as though it was crawling and I wanted to jump off my bed and hurtle myself at the wall, the window, the door. There was a monster within me.

You may think me to be mad. I am not mad. Perhaps I have been ill. But the illness only caused my senses to become stronger, more powerful. My hearing in particular became more powerful. But I am not mad! A madman cannot be so calculated, so careful.

I do not know what caused me to do what I did. I did not hate the clock. I even loved the clock; it had been a gift from my grandmother and was tremendously precious—and valuable—to my family and myself. It hung in the hallway on the outer wall of my room and its rhythmic ticking was heard clearly through the wall to my room. It was the lasting memory of my grandmother which hung in our home.

I do not know at all why I did what I did. I think it may have been the tick-tock. It sounded like a soft, supple heartbeat. It was almost as though time had taken a life of its own and was breathing, breathing, breathing a hot and stilted breath until it would become heavy and dull and breathe no more. Then everything would grow grey and misty and I would be left in the dusk, withered and pale and alone.

When I lay in bed and heard that awful, soft, supple heartbeat of the tick-tocking clock a prickle went down my arms, then legs, and then my entire body convulsed with a prickly, agitated feeling of needing to bolt, to jump up and dash before the rhythm of that heartbeat consumed me entirely. I had to stop that awful, awful, pulsing breathing, cut it short before it died away and faded into the dusk. I had to stop that tick-tocking clock!

So you think I am mad. Oh, but you should have seen me. With calm, cool fingers I led myself along the wall in the darkness towards the shelf where my flashlight lay. With steady fingers I turned on the small light and shone its beam into the black hallway. I trod carefully, my bare feet avoiding all the floorboards which I knew creaked. And in the silence, never had my hearing, my senses, my mind, been so powerful.

The horrible, supple heartbeat sounded even stronger in the dark hallway. Its every beat echoed on the walls, the floor, against my own heart. My heart pounded and blood rushed through my body. I became excited, and the flashlight I held trembled, its light jumping around the walls, the floor, the ceiling.

I approached the clock. I dropped the flashlight at my feet, and with a silent cry I tore the clock off the wall, dashing down the stairs with it. I held it tightly, yet far from my chest, lest its heartbeat consume my own.

Upon reaching the kitchen I threw it to the floor, stomping wildly upon it with a cry of “Stop! Stop! Stop!” Its glass shattered and smashed into one million little, little pieces, yet I could not rest. I took those hands, the rhythm of that heartbeat, and cut them up with a knife until they were but little pieces, unrecognisable. There was blood; red, oozing blood all over the floor, and with a shriek of terror I swooped at the shattered clock once again. The life was draining out of it, and I could not rest until it was entirely done. Done, so that the clock would beat no more!

You think me to be mad. You should have seen how carefully I removed all the evidence. I swept all the tiny, tiny pieces into a large black sack. Even the frame I lowered carefully into the sack, along with the tiny pieces left of those horrible hands. I wiped up the blood, which had mingled with the blood from the soles of my slashed, bare feet, and tied up the bag with a tight knot. Then I hid the entire sack behind the washing machine.

As I turned to go back to sleep I heard someone in the hallway. It was my mother, clad in a robe and slippers and looking bewildered. In an easy, calm manner I asked her what she doing awake, if she would perhaps like a tea. Her eyes roamed the hallway and rested on the empty spot on the wall.

Calmly, I made her believe my story. I had taken the clock downstairs for a change of battery. I couldn’t find a correct battery, and so now it was lying on the table in the kitchen, waiting to be fixed. It would be fine, it would be fixed, her mother’s legacy would grace our wall again. The more I spoke, the more I wished she would go back to bed already. My head hurt, and suddenly I could hear a soft, subtle heartbeat in my ears. It was growing stronger and more powerful, and a prickly feeling began going down my arms. My bandaged legs twitched and grew cold.

She believed perhaps, but wanted to ensure the clock was okay. We slowly descended the stairs.

The kitchen table was empty. The heartbeat was now consuming me, pounding in my ears whilst blood rushed to my head. I felt dizzy, and the room began to spin. She looked around the brightly lit kitchen and followed a faint blood smudge to the washing machine. Whilst I could only look on, dumb and mute, she pulled out a black sack.

The heartbeat had gone out of control now, it was thumping against the beating of my own heart, causing it to clang loud and hollow against my chest. It was like a metal bell, strong and wild and loud. Could she hear it? How could she not?

Louder, louder, more powerful. I could no longer bear the sound.

She could hear the beating, too. I knew. She was looking at me, fingering the knot. Now it was all just play. She heard it! I was sure!

She was about the open the tight knot when, with a cry of terror, I lunged at the bag and shouted: “Yes! Yes, I have killed the clock! Look at the broken shards! But why, why does its heart not stop beating?! Why does it not stop!”