If there was an available analog clock in her apartment, it would’ve been hurled through her window pane. In absence of such an object to blame for the incessant noise, she vehemently punched entry through the unpainted drywall. The ticking continued despite her fury. She was alone, wrapped in a knit blanket to cover her scarce underclothes. It was only a week ago that her life ceased in meaning. Her sanity had unraveled with madness biting at the broken seems.
She sat on a couch of exposed springs and nights of dead love. The air was stale but the way his smell lingered overwhelmed her anew. She ate cereal from an empty bowl, drinking the milk long forgotten on the grocery list. She watched his favorite television show, seeing characters through the black screen.
“He’s gone,” she whispered to the dust. The dust answered with the same empty echo as her cold sheets. The walls began chanting his departure and did for what could have been hours or days or weeks. Her eyes glossed over, fixated on some distant memory.
The beating was too loud and constant against her eardrums. Her delirium increased and her insides twisted in rage at the sound. But with each count it grew fainter and realizing this put a smile on her lips. Her bones ached with a chill that vibrated her fingertips. Hollowed out ribs kept her from swallowing oxygen anymore and it lazily crept in her lung when it felt so. She faded the way she fell in love, slowly and at once.
Her pulse finally stopped.