The Clock Stopped

Tick, tock, tick, tock. And then, silence. Today the clock stopped. It seems silly that such an inconsequential thing can feel like the end of the world. Especially after everything I’ve been through.

Mom was lost to cancer twelve years ago. I guess in the end she had it easy. Dad took his own life mere weeks later. The selfish bastard. I feel horrible saying it but it’s true. Then the virus came. I got my immunity from somewhere and it just might have been Dad. We'll never know and I guess that’s the source of my anger towards him. I miss when thoughts of him were pleasant, or even sad and terribly painful. Now all I feel is anger when I think that maybe he would have been some company over the past ten years. A hand to hold while my sister Vera was taken violently in the clutches of the virus. Or some time later when my brother Ben put a bullet between Vera's eyes, partly in self preservation and partly to put her out of her misery. There was no hope of a cure, a quick death was the best we could hope for. We all knew that. Ben caught the virus only days later. He took his own life to save me the hardship of doing it for him and just like that I was all alone. The crying and moaning faded day by day, as the virus claimed its victims.

The day came when I woke to silence. Far off in the distance a bird screeched. I hadn’t left the house since I buried Ben in the backyard. It was time for a walk. I survived, there had to be others. Right? Not on my street. Not on my block. I took the car after that. House by house only the stench of death and disease greeted me. I idled slowly down street by lifeless street, until the horrible realization hit that my entire city had died. I found nothing different in the suburbs and neighboring towns. and when the panic subsided and I somehow came to terms with my situation, I went home.

The clock on the kitchen wall ticked rhythmically, like the beat of a tiny heart. It was something to ground my thoughts; a sorry, but much appreciated excuse for a friend of sorts. Keeping it alive became my mission. The stack of batteries in the corner of the cupboard grew with every supply run. Soon the cupboard was strictly a clock battery residence. And then, I ran out of places to look for batteries. No matter, I had enough to last for years.

The years passed slowly. Our once luxurious mansion fell into ruin. The pearl white columns on the front porch turned a dull grey, speckled with lichen and dirt. When the roof above my bedroom sprung a leak, I boarded off that side of the house and moved to the kitchen. I’m not handy. The clock ticked on, a remnant of days past, telling time a trivial pursuit. But I do it anyway because I can. Because it reminds me of life before. Because it makes life feel real and keeps the days from slipping away into an eternal abyss of boredom and sadness. That’s what the clock means to me. And that’s why after all that has befallen me, the death of the clock feels like such a major blow. I still have a cupboard full of batteries. But time, in her cruel irony, has taken from me my only means of keeping track of her. The life has drained from the batteries, the clocks tiny beating heart can no longer be sustained. And now I am truly alone. I can’t shake the feeling any more that I, Sophia Thompson, am the last of my kind.