An Autobiography Of A Table Clock
Usually, I am not bothered by the material things surrounding me, the purpose of these things are believed to quench the thirst of affection towards such fascinating collection of art. They have no life and neither are they bothered by the dust that sways placidly around them. I, however, do need the service of cleaning my craftsmanship but unfortunately have not received any since the dust clouds have possessed the mantelpiece where I and many other artifacts dwell. I treasure my existence in an iconic 19th century table clock and have kept a valued control of time since my kind master had acquired me as a solemn present for his dear wife who, to always remind her of her sweet husband, had placed me with her own hands on the Victorian mantelpiece in the living room. The birth of my services resumed then.
But there haunts my mistress something who denies the show of the artifacts that earlier mesmerized her and kept her free from the bondage of solitude. She sits on the chair facing the window, peering outside as if searching for her fugitive soul that has escaped the imprisonment of her body. The platter with variant delicacies sits cold untouched by her existence. Night reaches the darkest corner of the living room where candles fail as the front door screeches and allows a figure to enter. There comes my master, this night surprisingly late from work, and hangs his coat. I fail to understand the drift between them both since the arrival of a telegram. From that day the letter rests on the mantelpiece, yet the mystery has not been revealed to me.
“Do you still not wish to speak to me, my love?” my master says and the room lingers with a heavy echo of male voice. Still as the water that surfaces the lake she remains, staring blankly and not a word she spills. For all the silence that occupies, I curse myself for allowing the loud ticks that unwaveringly echo around, notifying the wave of time that is passing.
“I wish to remain undisturbed.” She speaks, impaling me with her long-lost voice that rejuvenates my spirit.
“You should not allow the words of your sister to rupture your conscience.” With quick steps he walks towards her lonely self and drops down on his knees.
“How does one feel when one murders an innocent for the sake of one’s belief? I wish to know.” She says calmly. “Men greed on gold, I have seen now. There was no reason for my sister to remain under constant screams of agonizing pain she was receiving because of your wrongdoings.” She speaks and for the first time in many days I see a ripple in her spirit. Then she falls apart in a mournful sob. Her husband stays kneeling and not a word he produces. My master cannot remain blatant at her sight and so he calms her with his caressing features and lovingly embraces her. All the drama that transpires in front of my sight only wishes me to gaze upon the letter that has brought tumult in their lives.
“NO!” my mistress screams. “Stay away from me. You are a monster. You all are. Leave me be or there will be consequences.” She pushes her husband with such ferocity that he drops on the floor. Aware of the wrath that her wife endures, my master dutifully moves away from her and walks towards the table holding a decanter of alcohol. Domestic quarrels are eminent and one cannot propose to lead a merry life without having a few quarrels of their own. I expect to end this sad spectacle by the morrow when my master once again pursues his wife and successfully wins her back with his charming abilities.
“Will you kill me too, my dear husband?” the voice of my mistress fills me with horror.
“That is preposterous. Please, I beg of you. Say no ill about yourself. As God as my witness, I swear to you, you shall not be touched by any of those goons who got hold of your sister.” He leaves the decanter on the table and tries to walk towards her.
“Stay,” she says sensing his footsteps. Then she gets up from her chair, her eyes moist with remorse. “What was it, husband? Fire or noose? Please tell me.” She finally stares into his eyes. Without waiting for an answer she glides near the mantelpiece, acquires the letter in her hands and re-reads it, expressing the same grief she had acquired on her face when reading it for the first time a few days ago. Glimpses from the letter I see and from the drama that has happened so far, I understand the situation. It seems the local folk mistook her sister as a witch for the amount of practical knowledge she applied in making medicines, which made it a taboo for the 19th century civilization, hence forcing my master to proclaim her death so as to avoid abjection of his post as a baron.
“None of it matters now, my dear. I will avenge your sister. I will prohibit the burning of innocent women that are held on account of witchcraft and magic. I am a baron and the queen ought to take my words seriously. Let me help you.”
“No. I will avenge her.”
For what takes place after that seems the most horrendous incident I have ever witnessed but my vision is as clear as the fire that I had seen inside my mistress’s eyes. She takes me in her hand and plunges me into her husband’s skull, leaving him deranged and illusional. Repeatedly she hammers me on his head until finally I am drenched in his blood. I lie on the floor as my mistress weeps loudly clenching the letter in her hands. Besides me lies the still body of her husband, the one who killed us all.