the clock - a snippet
I was raised in a quaint neighborhood, just outside the city. We weren’t wealthy, no, but we had enough. My father returned home from the press everyday half past five––home, where my mother and I would anxiously wait in the living room for him. It was the same chain of events every time––the “Halle, go to your room” arguments ensuing the second the door slammed behind him. But one night, my father came home furious and drunk. “I’m leaving,” he slurred as he threw my mother aside, rushing to their bedroom. “I’m sick of you! I’m sick of all your shit!” “Charles,” she cried. Her dress was wrinkled as she stood, and her bubblegum lips were smudged onto her cheek. “Charles, please. He still has two years left of high school! How will I raise him alone?” “I’m sick of him, too!” I watched him as he shoved button-ups into a trunk, unable to move from my parents’ doorway. “He ruined us.” She clutched at his arm, trying to pull him out of this frenzy. “Charles, where will you go? You’re being so rash, please, just—” “Let me go!” He struck her, and I watched her collapse to the ground with a whimper. Her sobs filled the room, yet I could still hear soft ticks in my right ear. A clock, yes, it was the ticking of a clock. “Don’t touch her!” My voice was shrill, and I lunged towards him, hatred occupying every last inch of my body. I’ve never hated a man more in my life. My hands were fists, colliding with his face and body. But his hands were fists too, and one blow sent me crashing into the wall. All I could feel was the warm sting of trickling blood while glass crunched below my head. I could still hear the ticking over the sounds of clasps closing and my mother wailing my name.
