Tick tock…

Time stops stretching, leaning against the dark wooden grandfather clock. All blinds shut and locked.

Fever claws running down her spine, cold sweats washing the last remnants of life off her back. Crouching, patiently peeling off the masks, not too sure what her face even looks like anymore.

It could be a sad sight, if she had a match to light in the darkness.

No soul to lick the thick walls of her lair. No love tainting the blood-scented air…

She picks sweet souvenirs one by one from a rattan basket, blowing them out of the keyhole. Setting them free, from her turmoiled existence. Sorrow-winged butterflies screaming her distress in the sundying evening.

Tick tock…

The second hand slows down. Her heartbeats lack an echo. She listens closely as the rhytmic thumping dims out.

The void opens before her, and she wiggles her toes over the edge.

She knows. The wrapping coldness is familiar. So is the loneliness. Falling is easy.

Tick… Tock…