writing_shadows

Tick tock. Tick tock.

The clock taps out the march of time. It's comforting, really, knowing that daylight is coming sooner.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

The beat of the clock matches the beat of the man's dark tinged fingernails, running across his daughter's back.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

Daylight. She thinks of the daylight. She knows her father doesn't like the sun, and so he'll go, leave her, stop touching her.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

His hands are tangled up now, in her night black hair.

He kisses her forehead, with lips as cold as clay, and whispers in her ear.

She doesn't react to his words, but stares up at the ceiling, counting along with the clock until morning.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

The clock taps out the passage of time. In the still of the night the girl hears it again.

She hears that clock every night, feels her father's fingers on her back. And in the silence of the night she hears what he whispered in her ear, echoing through the clatter of the clock on the wall.