The ticking of the clock

The ticking of the clock is louder than it ought to be in a home much like this one. In the meanwhile, I am waiting for her at the kitchen table, where I am using my thumb to trace the grain of the wood. It is the third time this week that she has been tardy. There is always an excuse for my sister, Mara, whether it be traffic, a short-notice errand, or the fact that her dog ate her phone. In response to that last one, I can't help but chuckle as I picture her golden dog, Max, chewing on electrical boards. Coffee that has been burned and rain from the previous day combine to create a musty odor that clings to the drapes in the room. From the outside, the streetlamp is flickering, and the shadows that are thrown through the window are jagged.

I get a notification on my phone from Mara's text message: "Be there in ten minutes." Guaranteed. Eyes roll when I do so. In Mara time, ten minutes is equivalent to twenty, and maybe thirty. I could leave, but I refuse to do so. Since my mother passed away, she is the only member of my family who is still alive, and these weekly meals are the only thing we have left—our thread, which is frayed but holding. When I take a drink of the iced tea, the bitterness causes my tongue to curl, and I look at the picture that is hanging on the refrigerator. It shows my mother and I as children, laughing and gap-toothed. The days were less complicated.

At 9:17, the door opens with a weak squeak. As she enters, Mara's hair is wild and her coat is soaking. "Sorry, I'm sorry," she mumbles softly as she drops her purse. With his tail wagging like a metronome, Max sneaks up behind her and approaches. My night has been so incredible that you won't believe it.

Leaning back, I say, "Try me," and I do so. The aroma of her is reminiscent of damp soil and something more pungent, maybe metallic. While she pours wine, her hands twitch and she spills a small bit of it. When Max is surrounding her legs, he whimpers.

In an overly loud voice, she begins by saying, "Work was chaos." When that happened, the vehicle refused to start, and, God, I had to get here as soon as possible. My eyes are avoided as she gulps down her beverage. Upon closer inspection, I see a fresh and red cut on her face. I give a little nod and ask, "Are you okay?"

She makes a brittle sound as she laughs and touches it. "Oh, you're right. During my stroll with Max, Branch caught me. "I am clumsy." She recoils in response to Max's poke on her knee. Unusual. He serves both her shadow and her solace. Is she feeling tense?

Dinner is a peaceful meal. Her eyes flit to the window as she bites into her meal and picks at it. Max is seen lying near the entrance with his ears perked up, as if he is anticipating something. I make little chat with her about the weather and her profession, but her responses are abrupt and inattentive. The ticking of the clock continues, a pulse amid the stillness.

"I want to urinate," she mutters as she dashes up the stairs. Max continues to follow, but he pauses halfway through and looks back at me. The faint light causes his eyes to sparkle, and they do not blink. I am shivering. What's wrong with this? I take my phone and skim through her messages once again. Be there at ten o'clock. Guaranteed. This message was sent at 8:50. Five minutes away is where she lives.

An above thump may be heard. Too much for Mara to bear. My cardiac rate quickens. I stealthily make my way upstairs, Max following me in silence. This bathroom door is slightly ajar. Not a Mara. There was only a tall, bearded guy who was holding a knife and smiled at me. It is in a gravelly voice that he replies, "She warned me that you are nosy."

I am unable to move. Who is Mara, exactly?

As he moves closer, he lets out a giggle. She has been dead for the last hour. I'm simply using her reputation as a face."

Not at him, but at me, Max rushes with his fangs bared and his eyes human. These are Mara's eyes. While I am falling, the room begins to spin, and the knowledge begins to creep in: my sister is not late. She is the snare.