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As the sunlight hit his eyes, Malcolm glanced at the clock on the other side of the room. Three-fifteen. He blinked and looked at it again. Three-fifteen. He never slept that late- the nightmares wouldn't allow it- and judging by the light, it wasn't three-fifteen in the morning. Clock must have stopped, he deduced. He padded over to the coffee maker and poured himself a cup. At least the timer on that worked. He walked back to the clock on the wall and could see the second hand just hovering between the nine and the ten on the dial. He'd have to change the batteries right away, otherwise, Jessica would chalk it up to “Malcolm's not taking care of himself” on her next surprise visit. She'd given him a grandfather clock once. It lasted one night before the obnoxiously loud chime on the thing startled him awake. He'd dropped it off at her home the next day. If she liked it so much, she could keep it. She settled on this model, which he'd liked. The tick, tick, tick, was like a metronome that he could focus on and temporarily drive away the other thoughts. Without it, the apartment felt eerie and his darker thoughts began to creep in. He kept glancing at the clock.
Three-fifteen, three-fifteen, three-fifteen.
He couldn't stand it, got up, and rummaged through his kitchen drawer full of takeout menus before his hand finally settled on the desired object. A single double-A battery. He took a deep breath, clutching it in his hand. It was going to be a good day.
Three-fifteen, three-fifteen, three-fifteen.
He couldn't stand it, got up, and rummaged through his kitchen drawer full of takeout menus before his hand finally settled on the desired object. A single double-A battery. He took a deep breath, clutching it in his hand. It was going to be a good day.
