A Clock's Life

She's sitting on her bedroom floor, looking up at the pink clock on the wall and wondering if this is the last time she will ever have to see her father. The hands of the clock tick and she looks down at her own. "I am so young. I should not feel this sad. I am so small. I should not feel a weight this massive." She found what little air there was to breathe in that foggy bedroom and she choked it down- awkwardly, inexperienced. Eyes back to the clock. Back down to her pale, snow-bitten palms. Her crying halted when He walked back in. "You are breaking my heart." She didn't say anything. The clock carried on.

"How lucky you must be to be inanimate. To not feel the way I feel.", she thought. She wanted a clock's life. She desired an existence where nothing could hurt her in the way that bruised her each second. "I am so young." He left the room, slamming the door. She remembered the legal office lady's words: "You don't have to see your dad anymore if you don't want to. You just have to tell him." Like it would be so easy to tell him that. She would rather have covered herself in fish oil and swam through shark-infested waters than to look him in the eyes and speak her peace. There was no peace. Only a clock to envy.