The ClockHer clock, at one time, was beautiful. It kept time well. From the very moment it had been crafted for her- the careful measure of seconds all recorded by the mechanized ticking...she never needed to know the time, she just needed to feel it, to know it was there. It brought her comfort.More Like This
When she had children, the clock had been moved out of the reach of tiny grabbing hands and placed on a pedestal that would prevent it from ending its purpose any faster than it already was. Any false move, and it might fall, and break.
When she was hit, and she saw the red against the carpet, she knew it was just a matter of time. She didn't need to know the exact minute, she could feel it, the clock falling next to her, the glass scattering into a million pieces, the hands disfigured, and the cogs horribly jammed and scraping together.
When she had to leave everything behind, all she had was the clock, in a cardboard box, with as many pieces as the box could hold, and as many as she could