The Ticking Clock

I used to always hate short stories, because they were never cut and dry and there was always knots left untied and that bugged me so much.  In english class last year however, we had to write a short story and the following is what I wrote.  It was actually really awesome to write and now I appreciate them a lot more and I have started writing more of them.  Enjoy!

Jackie sits down at the old wooden table in her dark kitchen.  She traces the many ruts and scrapes covering the table, going this way and that, following no particular pattern.  No one is sleeping in the next room or waiting for her outside.  Instead, Jackie sits in unwanted solitude, crying out to the stars, the owls, the ticking clock and the rat that lives under the front porch.

            She again contemplates calling every resource she has already exhausted, hoping maybe by some luck of the draw a friend will be there to sympathize or tell her she is not in too deep.  Jackie cannot even remember who she is, let alone who she was.  Was Jackie even her real name?

“I think it would be fun to reinvent myself.”  She told her grandmother; at the mere age of thirteen when everywhere she looked she was faced with the distorted image of ‘perfect’.  At the time, all she heard her grandma say was “Create who you want to be.”  Now, when she thinks harder picturing herself in that quiet hospital room; so pleased her grandmother was agreeing, she realizes there was something more to that reply.  A “but…”  An answer she now needs, willingly listening, but too late.

                Behind, Jackie, the clock seems to tick louder, moving one hand closer to the end of a minute, an hour, a day.  When she looks out the bay window in front of her, only one small star is in sight, flickering as if at any moment it might completely disappear.  

 A single tear glistens on her cheek.  Jackie wipes it away quickly, daring not to give herself away, even if no one can see her.   Picking up the telephone, she dials a number she has memorized, but gets the busy tone.  The next number has no reply.  And the next and the next, until all the numbers in her memory are worn out.

She walks out into the night air.  It is frigid, so she wraps her sweater closer to her body.  She listens for a siren, a coyote’s howl, conversation of a neighbour, anything to help her prove to herself she is not alone in the world.  Nothing makes a sound.  Complete silence surrounds her; so loudly she shivers and cringes as it deafens her ears.  Even the scuffle of the rodent that is always under her steps, is not to be heard.

Quickly, she escapes inside, locking herself in the smallest room, where without planning it, Jackie comes face to face with her worst fear.  It stares back at her, red faced and ugly.  Its hair stands tussled, on end: the sign of a lazy master.  Afraid, her first instinct is to look away, but a few seconds later when she looks back up; it is still staring at her.  Jackie takes a step closer, and it does too, copying her every move.  Through the crack under the door, the smug ticking from the clock grows continuously louder; more pronounced stirring up crazy thoughts in her head.  Her lips open to speak, but no words come out.  The thing staring at her is terrifying.  Its big eyes are so empty, lonely and lost.  Her breathing becomes heavier; suddenly the room is much tinier, the sound of the clock louder still and the face in front of her taunting her, it seems.  Jackie screams, throwing the closest object, an empty wine bottle, at the figure in front of her.  It shatters, but her biggest fear is still there, now fragmented into pieces, distorting the image.  She slams her eyes shut, plugging her ears and trying with all her might to push everything away, back to when she was thirteen.  Back to beside her grandmother’s sick bed, where she hears those wise words, “Create who you want to be, but never be afraid or ashamed of yourself.”

Jackie looks around her, finally landing on the broken pieces of glass, each one portraying a different person she was trying to be.  Once they had fit together, but how easily it had all been smashed.  No way in the world, would she ever be able to tell which pieces were truly herself and which ones were simply taken from someone else’s life; someone who seemed to have the perfect life.  She shook her head, ashamed of who she had let herself become.  The pieces were finally laid out before her, but the clock was barely ticking, slowly winding down, and all the past had been wasted.  She looked out the tiny bathroom window: the single star was gone.  On the floor, surrounded by pieces that made no sense, she sat.  With every bit of pressure the glass cracked just a little more, and with each crack she felt herself, too, collapsing and breaking down, no longer willing to work together.  The last thing Jackie heard was the final tick of the clock.  The last thing she saw was a reflection of her regretful eyes in a broken fragment of mirror.