The Red Clock

Aritra Ghoshal

 “Lavanya, where did you keep my denim trouser?” yelled Jayesh with his “Mein Kampfed” chauvinism. There’s no reply. “Lavanya! can’t you hear me? I said where’s my trouser?” Huh, there’s nothing but silence. Tik – tik – tik – tik – tik – tik. “Bloody bitch! why the f**k aren’t you responding?” Out of rage, the hot blooded man with his cold heartedness grabbed his belt that had a carving of Memento Mori and vehemently rushed down the stairs to the kitchen only to see that there’s n o t h i n g. All the utensils went out of his sight. There was nothing left, else than an empty bottle of milk. He rushed out of the kitchen and what he saw was n o t h i n g. All the precious and worthless things of his house went out of sight. He rushed to the bedroom and saw there’s no bed, no dressing table, no Lavanya but just a big N O T H I N G. The “Mein Kampfed” chauvinist within Jayesh suddenly started to pale and for the first time in the last 10 years, he feared about something. Knowing not what to do, he searched for his phone which wasn’t there. But from past till present one thing remained unnoticed from his sight. It was a red red clock on the wall, passionately ticking on its rhythm and grinning at its owner who lost all his senses by that time.

 About the Author:

Leave a Reply