The Ticking Clock in the Dusty Room

Inspired by the photo prompt at Magpie Tales

Lying in a hollow room, the musty smell of years gone by creeps over the pealing walls.  Dust, layered deep into the floor curls like a fires plume with each breath.  Ever inch of this place oozes a sense of death, except for the calm, rhythmic ticking of the old grandfather clock.

Muted, wooded thuds as it beats the drums to the gates of hell, or whatever this place might be.  Reaching upwards, the blood starts pounding in his head, incredible pain, almost overwhelming him.  Flickering vision, eyes as though they might burst from his head.  Desperately fighting the swelling sickness, he tries again to reach for the chair.

The rough, silken dusted surface tries to escape from his weak fingers, but he manages to hold on.  The whole room swimming as though is were a virtual reality booth.  Through the dust caked on his face he tastes dampness, instinctively recoiling - his hand returns a terrible shade of red.

Memories fuzzy, like a lost little fly, floating from flower to dinner to why.  An evening of laughter at a beautiful old theatre... was that tonight?  Or a millennia ago?  "Dong!"  His nonsensical thoughts interrupted by chimes, of the familiar friend in the corner of the room.  Nestled within stacks of yellowed papers.

He hauls his trembling frame on to the chair, surveying the bleak, desolate room.  Evidence lying in the carpeted mist, two footsteps in... dragging something heavy.  A terrified giggle escapes.  Involuntarily breaking the grandfather's rhythm, the hypnotic trace momentarily silent..

Then all of sudden, shimmering light floods the room, blinding his bleary eyes and with the bright dust cloud explosion.  Aghast, he looks at the shadow, a familiar shape outlining the door.  Him.  Again.  "Why?" A mumble was all he could muster.  "Why did you have to do this?"

The laughter was so familiar, so purely evil yet so much his own.  "You know why.  You were weak.  So much potential and you failed to seize it!"  The shadow approached his slumped body, barely able to remain on the chair.  The dark, leather jacket that he wore filled his lungs with a scent he knew so well.

It was futile, to fight against him.  It only made him stronger, a victory battle was what he truly craved.  Tracing the letters out in the thick dusty table in front of him, he looked at the shadow and caught his breath. "Go ahead." he sighed, heavy in his heart.

The shadow looked at him without emotion, without anger, pain or remorse.  Sensing something he had never noticed before, not ever having the need to care to look for it.  It had taken this weak, dirty figure in front of him, with the familiar face and familiar hands, reaching out to him now in his hour of need to realise.

The shadow slowly lowered his arms.  Scooping the battered body of the other in them and bracing to take the strain, chair breathing a sigh of relief.  Looking down, he relinquished as he carried out the poor soul, "I see you at last.  I see who you are.  We are one.  Connected.  The same... I'm... Sorry".