The Clock

Tim slowly descended past his breaking point. The old cuckoo clock from his grandmother’s house ticked off each passing second, with every click reverberating like a gunshot. He stared at the ceiling, knowing that eventually they would have to return. He had heard nothing from the hall outside of his door in over a day. The lights had come on automatically at 6AM like they did each day, but had flickered throughout the morning. He knew, or at least he had convinced himself, that soon they would go off and he would end the day in total darkness.

Tim rose from his cot and began pacing the short side of the room. It was only 12 steps and he knew them well. Tim had only been allowed to bring one book and one remembrance item with him. He had been told anything more was definitely not allowed. At the time, bringing the longest book he could find, “The Count of Monte Cristo,” had seemed like a great idea. He now realized just how much he hated the story. In fourteen months, he had not gotten past the 30th page. Each time he tried, his hands began to shake and he could not keep reading.

The lights finally died out late in the evening. His food had not arrived in over 30 hours. As the hunger and darkness began to gnaw at him he grudgingly began to acknowledge the cold. It had started soon after the lights flickered out the last time. The heaters were no longer running.

A sound somewhat between a sob and a chuckle escaped into the darkness. The realization dawned on Tim that he had just been granted a reprieve. He would not longer have to serve his life sentence, handed down on earth, to be served in the mines of Saturn. Soon the sob faded away as the welcoming, cold darkness allowed only the ticking of the clock to mark the cell’s rebirth as a tomb.