The Roar of a Ticking Clock
A Short Story Extract
(Trigger warning - contains depictions of panic attacks)
Hazel could recall nothing of the previous hour. Now, she stood cradled in her grandmother’s arms. Her mind lagged behind her body. Moments before she was in a car, wasn’t she? How had she found herself confined within the kitchen's familiar, yet disorienting, cream walls. Hazel scanned the room. The pale green countertop bore its usual display of uneaten fruit. A stack of unwashed dishes by the sink resembled an interpretative art piece. Everything appeared as it should, but Hazel felt like an uninvited guest in her home. Trespassing in her unsettled state.
“Everything will be okay.”
Her grandmother’s voice was gentle, yet it carried an undertone of sorrow. Hazel allowed herself to collapse into the thin arms embracing her. Grief engulfed the pair. Separate pain entwined as one as they clung to each other.
Hazel lifted her head to meet the clock on the opposing wall. Her gaze drifted to each number. The edges of the room blurred. Her focus intensified. All remaining space dissolved into murky clouds in the corners of her eyes. Her chest rose and fell, synced with the invading tick-tock sounds. No inch of the room was left untouched by the clock’s heartbeat.
Time washed away once more. Shadows lurked over the rotting fruit. The pile of dishes had grown higher, moments away from collapse. Her grandmother’s warmth had long departed. A chill ran through Hazel’s body. She was alone – she should have been alone.
The consistent ticking of the clock roared through the kitchen. The sound was her unwelcome companion. Hazel cupped her ears in the palms of her hands, wincing as the noise ripped through her eardrums. Her breathing began to outpace the sharp rhythm of the clock. Shallow gasps. Chest heaved. Each inhale pierced. Tears fell, her cheeks seared, and her vision blurred.
Am I dying?
The thought lingered in Hazel’s mind before being swept away. Staggering forward, Hazel groped blindly for a saviour. Her hand found the kitchen door. Then her legs buckled. Grasping at the wooden frame as she sank, her lungs screamed for relief. As if an anchor, she spiraled into the depths of despair. Sobs wracked her bent frame. Fingertips clutched at her head, certain it may split in two at any moment.
Hazel was unsure if minutes or days had passed when she grew still. Motionless on the kitchen tiles, she trembled at their coolness. The storm within had ebbed. Strained organs returned to their sluggish states of being. Hazel drew her weakened knees toward her chest. Breathing came with ease again. The kitchen had grown calm. Except for the persistent ticking of the clock, counting down moments she no longer wanted to endure.
Originally published as part of the short story “Heart” in SOUP! Literary Magazine, 2024.
Nice writing. I’m been wanting to write some flash fiction as well.