A Year of Stories (Collection Three)

Click, Clack

The clouds are lighter than they were then.

Not by much, just a shade, pencil lead rather than octopus ink.

The noise, that noise, is the same – the crash, followed by whispered expectation – the dull drum beat of tears falling from the wound in the sky, water on concrete and glass.

You're different now too – harder, colder – concrete, not glass.

A year ago you couldn't have even looked at the street sign, six months and you would have died rather than walk in, but now your boots click, clack across the marble floor.

It smells like it did then, like orange slices, like alcohol, like the ragged edge of putrefaction.

People recognize you. You don't know how or why, but they do. You can tell because they treat you like a wraith, like a ghost come in from the storm – you glide across the marble, barely touching the floor – click clack.

You think that she would be proud if she saw you here today, but you know that she's not, that she can't be, and that pride is hollow.

Your name is scratched in lead, then a buzz, then a crash, then an open door.

The hallway is white and clean and cold and bright, all orange slices and alcohol.

Click, clack.

You know your way, even though you've only been here once, the path is burned into you – written on your heart with octopus ink.

Click, clack.

Six months ago you would have been dead by now, a year and you would have never made it through the door, but here you stand – concrete, not glass, only yards away from where it all began...where it all ended.

Click, clack.

Then you feel it, the crash, but not from outside, no, it's your octopus ink heart. You can hear her crying, a hollow sound like your pride, orange slices and alcohol, the ragged edge of putrefaction.

You shatter, glass not concrete.

Then you turn.

Then you run.

Water pours from the wound in the sky.

Click, clack.