THE CLOCK
(This was inspired by @wilwheaton's retelling of his first time seeing Goncharov. I wanted to take another look at such a pivotal part of the movie from a new perspective, hope you enjoy!)
It was always present. The same face always watching. It never looked the same, sometimes it looked Roman, German, it could look old, delicate, worn. It could be well decorated, or have pieces missing. They all looked different, but it was always the same face watching. No one usually paid any attention to it, it just sat there, watching all. The only time people noticed the face is in the silence that falls after the ringing of a gunshot, the final breath taken after a scream. In the silence that follows they suddenly are aware of the silence and subtle ‘Tick- tock- tick- tock-’ reminding them of the moments that have passed after taking a life. Some people stare at the face, counting the seconds to see if anyone comes running if anyone knew what had just happened. Others look at their hands in horror, looking at the blood as it dries with every click.
There are a few people who do pay attention to the presence in the room, they’d use it to cover their crimes. Turn the hands back to give an alibi with someone, wait for that loud tone to tell the hour, only to complete their task.
But for the most part, the face passes unseen. The observer with hollow eyes. It has seen it all, life, death, time. The one true witness to crime that can never speak out, not that it could anyways. The one that doesn’t need to be silenced.
But something changed for one face in particular. Small, but round, old, yet still pristine and delicate. It hadn’t played a note in years, it was so loved by the owner of the house that the only place it would ever be found would be on the shelf above the fire.
There, it was warm, and it looked happy. The delicate opal plate always looked as if it were smiling, the long hand pointing almost to the XII, the short hand perfectly balanced on the VI. It had been that way for years.
It had seen joys, the birth of the master of the house, all the birthday parties. It had seen death. The death of the father, the mother, and the child of the master of the house. In every instance, it would get to gaze at the master of the house as he stood, gazing at the delicate features as he mourned the loss of those he loved.
He may have one left, his beloved wife. But she was nothing more than a facade, a separate mask for the public. Arguments were always happening between the master and his wife. It was always the master’s fault, but never would that be said outside of the house.
It was a day like this that the opal dial got the chance to see into the master’s eyes. If it could, it would know that the master of the house was restless.
“Bruno.”
The master turned away from the face, blocking the view of the silent intruder.
“I know what time it is.” the master said softly. “I only ask that you make sure the money goes to those who need it.”
“That won’t be your concern any longer.”
The gunshot rings out, the only sound from the tinkling of glass. The opal face was shattered, the minute hand hanging loosely, blood staining the beautiful pale plate that shattered in many pieces. The blood flowed through the cracks, showing how broken the face was.
For the first time in 15 years, the clock played a tune. The intruder had left before it could play, but it still happened. Slow, and eerie.
Bong.
Bong.
Bong.
Like the master of the house, it could not complete the task it was given. The 6 notes would never be played. The final gear fell to the floor with a clatter, landing only inches from the master's face. His eyes now locked in the never ending gaze with the clock he so dearly loved.
