Resounding Knock

A loud, resounding knock came from the front room, repeating and echoing. I rubbed the coarse sleep from my eyes, slowly blinking to adjust to the early morning light. The piercing rays from the sun penetrated deep into my cornea, rendering me momentarily blind. My room was a mess, the entire house was. I peered at my ticking clock; each click of the hands pierced my ears, growing with each tick. The hands felt as though they were reaching into my brain and dissecting the cerebral matter from my head. "5:45 a.m.," I dug the palms of my hands into my eye sockets as I lifted my weary body off the bed.

I gripped the cold and tarnished metal handle and cracked the door just slightly. There stood a tall, lanky man. His face was gaunt and angled, and his once brown hair, the hair I knew him with, now harbored gray streaks. The stubble on his face bore the same. Scars lined his neck and cheeks. I flung the door open. "You…" I took in the rest of him. He wasn't in his old uniform; instead, he wore a slightly baggy, tattered, woolen sweater. A sweater his brother had given to him; a sweater that once beamed a vibrant yellow hue now boasted a faded beige and had a long tear down the middle of it, exposing his white collared shirt underneath. "How are you here?"

"You look ugly. Haven't you fixed your chin yet? You look like a man." His deep voice rattled my ears. He bowed down slightly to meet my face. "Why are you here?"

My face tensed and crinkled. Even after all these years, I could still smell the lingering cigarette smoke on his breath. "You died." I grimaced at the words. They left a sour taste on my tongue. I hadn't thought about his death for years. It took me just as much time to get over it. He had screwed us all over. I vowed never to forgive him.

"I think you’ve got this wrong, dear." He placed his hand on my shoulder. He gazed around the foyer. I could feel his cold, dry hands through the fabric. "You died."

"I am not your dear… don’t you dare come in." I snarled. He slid past me, placing his brown messenger bag on my wobbly coat hanger before strolling into the living room. I waited for him to turn around, but my eyes lingered on the back of his head.

He peered around for a moment before his eyes fixed on my picture wall. "Hasn't changed…" he crossed his arms and tapped his foot, inspecting the faces of each person who hung proudly on the wall. "You changed the pictures? You removed my pictures?" He peered behind himself to lock eyes with me again.

"Your pictures? You—" I rubbed the bridge of my nose and let out a dry laugh, "How are you back?" I refused to break eye contact, convinced that if it was truly him, he wouldn't either.

He sighed and slumped onto my favorite armchair. He traced the patterns of the fabric with his ring finger. He broke eye contact. "God, I leave for a couple of years, and you think I’ve died?" He smirked and leaned forward on the chair, still impatiently tapping his foot. "I should be the one asking you these questions; you're the one in my home, Elle."

"Get the hell out of my house!" I yelled at him. He stood up and pushed me aside, climbing up the stairs that sat behind me. The wood creaked under him as he ascended. We came up to a small corridor, candles flickered in that hallway, and tension hung in the air. His hand rested on the hall table, and his fingers tightened around the small souvenir jar filled with sand I’d gathered over the years. "Why are you here? Are you here to torture me? Just please, I beg of you, leave me alone." I seethed, I begged.

He laughed dryly, reaching out his free hand to grab mine. In a fit of rage, I pushed him away, the force propelling him backward. His arm swung, and the jar flew through the air. It shattered upon impact with the wall next to me, releasing a cacophony of sound as the glass shattered. The jar's contents bloomed in the air as sand made its way into my eyes. The sensation was excruciating, as the fine grains burned into my corneas. I desperately tried to rub the gritty particles from my eyes, my yells of pain and frustration filling the air. I could hear his heavy footsteps, and in my blinded state, I was thrown to the ground, my hands searching the floor for anything I could use to defend myself. Pain rippled through me as my fingers closed on a shard of glass. I cracked open my burning eyes and aimlessly slashed for him. There was a rip quickly followed by his cry of pain. A boot kicked into my chest, and I toppled to the floor again.

Desperation welled up inside me. "Please! I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!" I cried for him. A creaking sound came from above me, and I strained to make out the figure. A large grandfather clock loomed over me, teetering on the edge of toppling. The incessant ticking filled the air. The wood squeaked, and the glass door creaked open. Waves of nauseating pain pulsated through my body as the clock crushed me. Bells chimed, springs unloaded, and cogs whirred as the grandfather clock inflicted its terrible presence. I could taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth, and my vision faded to complete darkness. Tears streamed down my face until everything was consumed by the abyss.

A loud, resounding knock came from my front door. My body shot up, and I rubbed something gritty from my eyes. My chest hurt; actually, everything ached. My head was spinning. I peered over at the clock. I couldn't breathe suddenly, the clock ticked loudly. The hands of it digging into my skull, that horrible sound infesting my ears, ricocheting in my brain. I was convinced no sound could ever sound worse than this. I pushed myself up and walked to the foyer. I creaked open the door and caught eyes with him.

"God, you look ugly," he grimaced at the sight of me.

I flung the door open, "I thought you died?" I stood in front of him agape. He pushed his way in, he stared at my pictures on my wall, he told me how he lived here, that I was insane, that I had died. I stood there in disbelief, watching him move, his hands grabbing things, snooping through my home. I felt so dizzy, everything felt so familiar; so eerily familiar. He trod up the stairs, each step of his heavy boots making the wood creak underneath him. He said words, words that angered me, that boiled my blood, but I couldn't focus on any of them. My mind was jumbled, everything hurt, and every fiber of my being ached.

"You know, what did I really ever do to you?" He pivoted on his foot, stopping me in my tracks and snapping me out of my daze.

I furrowed my eyebrows, "What did you ever do?" I crossed my arms in disbelief, "God, I could stand here for hours! Reciting every single thing you’ve ever done, to me, to your family, to everyone who had the misfortune of meeting you." I spat at him. The grandfather clock ticked right next to me; I recoiled in my skin.

He scowled at my words. His hand inched over to my souvenir sand sitting on top of the hallway table. His free hand reached up to slap me across the face, and I pushed his hand away. I kicked him where I could, and he chucked the jar into the wall. I was blind, pain surged through me. My hands found a small glass shard and slashed at him. The ticking stopped, and the world went black.

A loud, resounding knock came from my front door. I screamed in anger. I could feel the pain still, this time I could remember more clearly, like a repeating dream. Why is this happening to me? What have I done to deserve this? It’s him who’s in the wrong. I stamped to my front door, flinging it open. "Don't you understand what's happening?! Do you remember? Remember!" I gripped his scrawny shoulders and shook him while he pushed me off him.

"Get off me!" He snarled, breaking free from my grip and slipping past me, heading into the lounge room. "Are you haunting me or something? Get out of my house!" His words dripped with anger and confusion.

The realization hit me like a wave of relief – he remembered, too. I wasn't losing my mind. He glanced at the large clock hanging on the wall, its ticking infiltrating my thoughts once more. The haunting, rhythmic sound reminded me that I wasn't insane; he had killed me, not just once, but multiple times.

His face was etched with fury. "Remember what? This is insane! I don't know what you're talking about, Elle!"

I felt my own anger intensify, but I forced myself to take a deep breath, keeping my resentment inside of me. "You ruined our lives," I began, my voice trembling, "You left us to pick up the pieces, and you don't even remember."

His eyes bore into mine, and he clenched his fists, his anger palpable. "You want to talk about all the mistakes I’ve made? Fine, let's talk about it." We argued, our voices raised, each word cutting deeper than the last. The room felt like it was closing in on me, and the relentless ticking of the clock tormented me.

In the midst of it all, something shifted. It was as if a small crack had appeared in the walls he had built around his heart. I saw a glimmer of remorse in his eyes, a hint of the man he used to be.

Tears welled up in my eyes. I took a step toward him, reaching out to touch his arm. "I’m so sorry, Dad."

He looked at me, his anger slowly subsiding, replaced by a mixture of relief and regret. "Elle, I'm so sorry for what I did." The home, once hung in tension and flickering candles, flourished. I felt like I was being bathed in some sort of ethereal light. The front door flung open; I could hear distant voices, but outside was filled with bright light.

I smiled at my father, and he did the same.