All day long, every day, for thirty-five years the grandfather clock would stand in the corner of the room, ticking away.
Minute after minute, hour after hour.
Ticking. Incessantly, chipping away at every moment, like a piece of apple caught between his teeth, driving him mad.
He thought he could drown it out with drinks, sex, even kids. And, for a time, on occasion, it would work. The sounds of life filled the house and, for one mad minute, he thought it’d worked.
But beneath it all was always that constant ticking. Muted, but ever present.
Even when he took the knife to them, splitting them open, spraying their life’s blood across the room in a frenzied rage and revelling in their agonised screams…
The ticking of the clock
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