count the months

the town had a clockface that she'd stare at while passing, it would work on and off, keeping a record of how long it had been working before it broke again. the hands always stopped at 6. the streets were wide and their smiles had a bitterness to them, they smiled because you were smiling, no one ever gave you the time of day, it was expected that you knew it. staring at the clockface she couldnt tell you the time, only the perception of its movement.

"you have beautiful eyes" said the teller, a casual slip that fell out of the clockwork of his jaw. this was weird, but she was so desperate for love she thanked him, thank you for judging me worthy enough to screw, that means alot to me, and it did.

as time fell through, those she loved moved away and she was stuck with the ticks in the grass, she was saddened that they never gave anything back, so she made a habit of eating one a day. she had no other reason to leave the house, as she could see the clock from her window.

when she finally made an effort to leave, those who claimed love dragged at her heels, calling her false names and expecting sympathy, which when given, brutilised her ego to no end. they had always left her to suffer, now she would do the same to them.

her sickly mother couldnt care for herself and hated her ex son, false daughter. she would bleed her tongue quoting the tongue of others, they would bleed it for her, and leave a false silver one inplace. shappened to stab at her own mouth, her pain was her own doing, and when she was young her father said the same. but that which is true is unknowable to her, or anyone now. she would kill herself to stop her from leaving, just like her mother did.

when she did leave she heard nothing for several months, she would come back with silver hair to find that her mothers dog had died 50 years ago, and that both the years and months were marked on his grave, like the measure of time he had been alive was too short because it was, and now they wanted to count the months. she wondered if every month of her life deserved to be on her grave, should it be marked down to the minute? but time died here too, for the clock had stopped when she left and never began again, and nothing happened after she left. those older than her died and the young fled earlier. the weak were the last to leave, rotting at the bottom of stairwells for stray cats to smell.

she travelled here again to sell her dead mothers home, as it had finally been passed down to its youngest heir. when she left she thought of nothing except whether or not the days spent here would be marked on her grave.