Tick, Tock

"Tick, tick, tick," I count down the moments, my hands unyielding in their circuit.

Angry words slice through the air. I can feel the tension rising between the two figures below me. One is pacing back and forth, his voice growing louder with each step.

"Goddammit, you should have known better!" he yells, his fists clenched at his sides. "How could you be so stupid?"

The other figure stands still, his fingers nervously fidgeting with the brim of his cap. He remains silent as the first continues to berate him.

"I trusted you," he says, his voice heavy with disappointment. "I really thought you knew what you were doing. And now look at us. Stuck in this situation because you’re an idiot."

I watch them from my perch behind the clock’s face. I can sense the unease between them and it only serves to heighten my own anxiety.

The man pacing back and forth suddenly stops and turns to face the other. His anger seems to dissolve in an instant and is replaced by a look of desperation.

"We can find a way out of this," he says, his voice pleading.

"We will," responds his partner with determination. "But we need to calm down and think."

They continue to discuss their predicament, their voices lowering as they come up with a plan. I strain my ears to catch every word, hoping they have a solution that will get us all out of this alive.

As they talk, my mind races with thoughts of its own. How did I end up here? How did I get caught up in all of this? What even IS all of this?

There's no time to dwell on my emotions or wonder about the circumstances. The situation is critical and I must concentrate on finding my own solution.

Suddenly, one of them looks up at the clock and our eyes almost meet before I quickly hide myself in darkness once again.

The tension in the room is palpable as they continue to discuss their plan. I can hear their hushed voices, their words laced with urgency and determination.

My pendulum swings back and forth, keeping time with the rising tempo of their conversation. It's almost hypnotic, the way it sways in the dim light. Despite attempts to maintain calm, I can sense a brewing storm beneath the surface. Emotions are running rampant and I can feel my own heart racing in my chest.

"Enough!" The shout is a gunshot in the silence. Time itself seems to hold its breath.

A hand darts out, swift with desperation, fingers wrapped around a knife's handle. The flash of silver catches my gaze, and for an instant, it is all I see.

"Please," a plea barely escapes.

But it's too late. Silver arcs through the air, swift and final. A body falls, thumps against the wooden floor. Lifeless eyes stare up at me, and I am powerless to do anything but mark the passage of seconds.

"Tick, tick, tick," I mourn, the only witness in a room where time has come to a brutal pause.

Panic grips the room. Breath heavy, heart a beat too fast, he moves. Blood—a dark, sticky presence—coats the floor where life once stood.

"Clean," he mutters, a voice to himself. A mantra to stave off madness, perhaps. Fabric grasps, wipes. Each motion erases a story that cannot be untold. My hands continue their dance, helpless to aid or hinder.

I observe. The weapon, once glinting, now disappears within layers of cloth. Wrapped. Hidden. As though it could erase the deed.

"Think! Think goddammit," he whispers, a hissed command to self. Every action is deliberate. Urgent. He scrubs the life away.

"Tick," I mark time. "Tock," I count moments creeping by. What does an accomplice feel? Guilt by association? I am but wood and gears, yet in this second, I yearn for agency.

"Cleaner," he demands of himself. The room transforms, order from chaos, but nothing can hide the specter of death.

"Tick," I lament. "Tock," I grieve. He does not see me, not really. Does he know I bear witness? That even as he toils, a part of this tragedy clings to me like the varnish on my frame?

He pauses, a glance to the door. Escape beckons. But still I stand, sentinel to the sin. My doors remain closed, my call silent. For now.

"Tick." The room's air is thick with silence. "Tock." Each click a moment closer to inevitability. I am a silent observer, bound in wood, yet I am tense. My gears coil tighter, a spring waiting to release.

"Tick." The murderer's fingers flutter like pale moths against the dark backdrop of sin. "Tock." He stuffs his guilt into a duffel bag, movements sharp and decisive. It is a dance of desperation, a choreography of escape.

"Tick." I count seconds, the rhythm of fate. "Tock." His breaths are shallow drafts pulling at the stillness.

"Tick." Anticipation hums through me, a vibration along my pendulum. "Tock." He stands, a fleeting shadow against the wall, eyes darting to corners bathed in gloom.

"Tick." The weight of truth presses against my wooden chest. "Tock." He is close now, so close to the door, to freedom.

"Tick." I am more than timekeeper; I am bearer of consequence. "Tock." He reaches for the doorknob, grips tight, knuckles white as bone.

"Tick." I am ready to sing the hour, to shatter the hush. "Tock." Footsteps echo, a drumbeat to his retreat.

"Tick." Heartbeats away from revelation. "Tock." My doors stay shut, my song unsung. For now.

The hand closes around the doorknob. My doors burst open. "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" My call slices through the silence, sharp and insistent.

I watch. The murderer freezes, a statue mid-escape. His eyes wide, reflecting the shadow of his sin. He didn't plan for this—for me. I am but an object, yet now, an accuser.

Outside, the world is oblivious. Yet, not all. A face appears at a window across the way—a neighbor, eyes drawn by my proclamation. Our gazes connect through glass and space, an unspoken understanding passing between us.

The murderer's eyes flicker to the window, to the witness outside. Guilt spills from him like ink in water. The neighbor sees it too, the truth written clear upon the murderer's face.

We are bound by this shared secret, this moment. A clock, a killer, a neighbor. My hands continue their march, relentless, as time resumes its flow.

I am witness. The murderer, a shadow now, hesitates. A heartbeat skips. His plan crumbles like dry leaves underfoot.

"Run," I think. "The game has changed."

And he does. He turns, a swirl of fabric and fear, and flees. Not the calculated steps of before, but the frantic dash of prey. The streets outside swallow him whole, bustling with life unaware of the darkness that just slipped through.

"Where to?" I ponder. Desperation has no destination.

His figure diminishes, one with the city's pulse. A face in the crowd, but not just any face—a face now etched in memory. The neighbor's eyes, wide with the gravity of the accidental vigil, have seen too much.

"Remember," I silently implore.

My doors close with a soft click. The echo of my call fades into nothingness. Silence is a shroud that falls over the room again. But silence lies; it is the veil over truth's sharp edges.

"Still." The air hums with what's left unsaid, unseen.

"Wait." The clock hands align like the stars to a fateful constellation, marking this moment.

"Watch." I return to my watchful quiet, an unassuming guardian of time—and now, of secrets too. My wooden walls, once just a case, now feel like the bars of a cage that holds a story waiting to be told.

"Time will tell," I muse. And until then, I am the keeper of the weight, the silent sentinel over a truth that cannot remain hidden forever.

I bask in the afterglow of alarm, feeling my wooden chest heave with a life I'm not supposed to possess. Time ticks on, indifferent, but I am changed. Once an observer, now an instigator. My call—a mere echo of mechanics—has set forth waves that will crash upon lives, reshaping them like a relentless tide.

The quiet is dense, filled with the weight of a secret I cradle within my varnished walls. No longer just a keeper of hours, I am a harbinger of truth. The rhythm of my pendulum holds a new cadence; it swings with the gravitas of knowledge that cannot be unwound.

A shiver runs through my gears as I contemplate the ripple I've caused. It's a subtle shift, yet potent enough to dislodge the future. A cascade of events unfolds in my imagination, each tick a harbinger of change for the guilty and innocent alike.

I stand watch, the air thick with the scent of inevitability. Justice has not yet swept through this room, its blade sharp and ready to cut through the fabric of deceit. But I sense its approach, a distant thunder on the horizon, rolling closer with the unstoppable march of time.