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Tick... A bead of sweat creeps down my spine... Tock... Turn my back so she can't see my cryin'... Tick... Fingertips sensitive to the lightest touch... Tock... How can my ego devour itself so much...
Thank you, Heather Anne, for your very generous pick. I'll get this next one started, so the clock begins to tick.
2 months had pasted. My face is dry my stubble is rough and scratches my hands whenever I have my face buried in them. I don't know how I got here. Em's gone. It's not just her that's left.
That week, I knew what needed to be done. Find who took my wife. Find my daughter. Have revenge. The dreams had stopped, instead I had a dream in which all I did was wake up.
At night I wind down and pull my head off. Then I put my head in a box where I keep my special things.