.-..-. -... .-.. .- -.-. -.- .... . .- .-. .-..-. --..-- / - .-- --- / ... - . .--. ... / ..-. .-. --- -- / .... . .-.. .-..

Project Nemesis
"Hamlet, Sr" [Incomplete]

The clock ticked slowly on the wall as Glen Thames sat deathly calm in the dark. The subtle clicks of the cheap, suspiciously durable device was the only thing you could see in the deep abyss of the evening cloaked living room. Every once in a while, an echo would whisper from behind him- a phantom's crawling trill trying to lick the hairs on the back of his neck in haunted terror. But the man didn't budge. It sounded like a young girl's giggling; it served only to furrow his brow in more intense anger.
        Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
        Through the black, by the magic words cast by the rhythmic pounding clock, the light of memories took hold. The little girl's muted voice gave shape, even though his demons tried to hold her back. Or usher her in rushed excitement. The murmurs of the child were a portal. A moment of joy, linking- maybe even despite- the tragic past and foreseeable future. A portal between, but in itself neither, the acrimony of the present and/nor what lay beyond. Should he step through?
        He felt the dryness of his mouth. And odd twitch in his fingers; he wanted to snap for the cigarettes he once held in his back pocket, before he sword off the deathly habit... for her.
        He slipped, the unmade decision mocking his fall, as he unwillingly collided with the past.
        Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
        It was black, then, too. Although it was midsummer's brightest day. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. He stood in the corner of the lightless room, staring. As he did now- As he did then, as he would then- One with the shadow. Eternal. Hidden. Sightless. Perhaps able to escape even time itself, in this safety of matrimony between pause and invisibility.
        But he knew in his blood it was wrong.
        Only moments before, it seemed, his sister Melody cradled her eight year-old daughter blithely, and with unconcern in her voice perhaps she intended as reassurance smiled, "We'll be back soon. I'll even bring you back a gift from Paris, if you behave for Uncle Glen, eh?"
        The car-door closed. Her husband, that bastard Clement Liotau- but if his daughter didn't adore her daddy- Over his shoulder he gave the little girl the most sincere, loving smile a man ever gave his daughter. Then he looked back to the road, and the car slid on crickling gravel towards the highway. Melody didn't even look back.
        Now, Valérie sat like an ebony doll, plopped upright on the guest bedroom mattress' sheets, staring. His eyes were equally distant. He knew Valérie knew. Somehow, that little girl knew. They were going to Paris. They weren't coming back.
        They're not coming back.
        Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Soundless, Glen translated to her; tick, tick. He sat and as space between ticks passed, the cushion of the bed rippled under his displacing presence, yet somehow weightless. Valérie didn't even acknowledge him.
        Tick, tick, tick.
        On the other side of his recollection, Glen's present conscience tried to reason with the girl. After all, his older brothers Laurent and Henri both skipped town on their childrens' mothers. Cherise, their eldest sibling, was the best mother she could be to them all, but even she disappeared soon after she met Reggi, who swooped her off to Hollywood. Mamma Jackie, the respectable Jacquiline Thames, was long since widowed to a world war veteran who wouldn't be coming home, if he ever existed in the first place. Glen couldn't speak for Clement, but he suspected that the man's family (coon ass yokels, the whole lot of them) were no better.
        It was a cruel irony, his future self consoled his past between the mirrored ticks, that two wonderful, noble families had such a bred necessity to be everything except what values were endemic to family most. Excepting himself, and his beloved Margery, who both desperately pined for children. And the child they lost in child birth, to the complications that would take dear Marge as well. So ironic, in the use of mere mortals who don't expect the lame clichés of treacherous gods, using the fates of men like puppet strings in their poorly written, bored tragedies.
        Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
        No.
        Tipp. Tipp. Tipp. Tipp.
        Tears, shining like stars through dark skies under two blue moons, , glittered into splashes on the white sheets and the knuckles clenched to stillness in Valérie's lap.
        Maybe he knew then, Glen supposed, that no words could ever really be heard- be worth hearing. Sitting beside her, staring straight ahead into the same nothing, Glen lifted his right arm and scooped Valérie close, his other arm too weak to complete the awkward, sideways hug. Valérie, similarly disenfranchised of her strength, closed her eyes, leaning into his skewed chest. The silent rain of their tears dripped in unison through the settling embrace to the lick of the apathetic commentary of the clock.
        Tick, tick, tick, tick.
        Glen leaned back and sighed, his face wet as his eyes relived the moment. "I tried doing right by you girl. Truly." His voice creaked slightly, "Where'd I go wrong?"
        Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
        "Why did you go wrong?"
        Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.