The clock was ticking. An endless, mind-numbing noise as if someone was inside my head, furiously hammering on my skull. I sat with my back against the bedroom door, listening to the sound of the grandfather clock down the hallway, each tick echoing loudly like the constant tapping of a deathwatch beetle. I was wrapped in the sheet once again and the bloodied shirt, my one and only item of clothing, had been discarded, thrown into the bottom of the wardrobe as if hiding it away would stop me from remembering what had happened down in the torture room. It had been three days since I had seen Brandon. Three days since he had clutched at his head and screamed in anguish, tears pouring down his cheeks. Three days since he had towered over me as I had frantically tried to scramble away from him
