Tick, tick, tick

He sits in the centre of the kitchen, staring at the formica clock above the door, the bright white light of the flourescent tube casting harsh shadows on the wall, turning his skin a pale grey-yellow, a pallor of death.

Tick, tick, tick

The second hand twitches round, like a nervous tic, pausing for just too long on each stroke, as if time itself might stop at any moment, freezing the universe in an infinity of uncertainty. Straining at the springs and gears, the fingers move painfully slowly, like a small deformed spider twisting around the centre of a flat plate.

Tick, tick, tick

He sits, knowing that soon the hands will align, spell out the time of reckoning, a judgement of life or death. He runs the stiletto over the strop again, testing it against the soft, defenceless skin of his fingertips. Sharp enough to cut skin, to slice the air, to carve out time.

Tick, tick, tick