Skyepie

Tick-tock. The sound was getting on his nerves. It was a steady rhythm that somehow beat out of sync with his own heart and breathing. Who in this day and age still used something as antique as a wind up clock anyway? Tick-tock. The answer was simple: The old fart lying before him. Wind the clock, wind the clock. That's all he said lately, staring intently at the polished wooden face with its gilt covered numbers whenever he managed to open his eyes. Tick-tock. At least the doctors had finally given up. "Let him live out his last days in his own bed." He could not even begin to describe the last months of commuting to and fro the hospita