The Tick of a Pocket Watch

By Oliva Thompson, age 14

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Constant ticking. Counting down the time until my death.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

It’s maddening. Every moment of every day. Just tick, tick, tick. I want to just discard it, but I can’t. Every time I try, I stop at the last minute. I wish I could go back in time, erase the knowledge of what this pocket watch means, about who gave it to me. What happened after. This stupid watch ticking away, a metronome in my life, reminding me of everything I’ve lost.

I think that’s why I can’t get rid off it. Because if I do, then what if I forget? What if I forget what about her, about what I did? I need to remember. I need to live with the guilt and hurt of her loss.

I see a flash of her eyes, bright green and full of life, when I look at it. A snippet of her voice, a spark of her laugh, a glimpse of her hair. It makes me want to cry and smile at the same time. It makes me want her in my arms.

My dreams remember her differently. Her eyes dulled, her body lifeless and pale against the dark red of her blood. The ticking of her clock in her drawer silenced. Her dark hair tangled, her ring he only thing still gleaming. A silver knife in my hand, tears rolling down my cheeks, not knowing what’s happened. The ticking of my pocket watch getting louder, the only thing I can hear. Me burying her in the forest, under our tree.

In some ways, I want the ticking to stop. It would give me a chance to see her again. But it would also mean that I would stop paying for my crimes. That my punishment would be over.

She never wanted me to find it. She wanted it to stay a secret, so I could live my life like it would never end. But it plagued her, the sound of my eventual demise. She could live with hers; she had always known how short life was but hearing the ticking away of her lover’s life was something she couldn’t do. The only reason I found out was because I found her crying over the watch, and I hugged her and comforted her and told her over and over again that I could handle it that she let it out. I took her hand and took hers from her and put it in my pocket telling her, “Now I share your burden.”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The ticking brings me back out of my thoughts. It’s going faster and louder; I hear a gunshot and the ticking starts fading. I barely notice the pain in my chest, only thinking one thought, “I can’t wait to see you love.”

The ticking stops.

I’m free.