Some days suck...

How it Ended

I’d like to say it ended like an Edgar Allan Poe story. The entire requisite build up of fear to terror, the knife point dimpling thin white skin with its first pressure, then the pop as it pushes in. The bright gush of blood escaping almost joyfully through the vent, eagerly exploring new surfaces, the pocked dry wood of the desk, the curved lip of its edge, the blue wool of the rug drinking in the red. White wool would have been much more satisfying.

The appropriate wind howling beyond the windows, trees tossing in dismay while the clock that is always on the wall steps center stage and raises its voice and volume in the only monologue it will ever have. Less of a tick or tock than a repetitive clunk.

Poe might have preferred a thunk to resonate with the sound of a lifeless hand falling onto wood, or the measured tread of the footsteps exiting the room.

But alas, Poe is long departed. The wind’s voice muffles the clock’s, and the only liquids escaping are my tears that there is no end.