Time hung heavily, the weight of each passing moment the weight of glacial aeons, eternal. She sighed, collapsed, broken on the divan – the world passed her by, drowning in the eddies she created in the rivers of causality. Off-kilter metronomes sounded, burning incandescent against her consciousness, calling out the passing seconds with varying degrees of fidelity. She was late, she was early.
She was always dead on time.
Death sunk further into the soft cushions, breathing – pointlessly, she was an eternal, constant, universal idea. Anthropomorphised. She didn’t need to breathe.
Her cell phone rang, echoing out, interrupting her reverie.
She reached out and turned her hourglass over.
Back on the clock.
She reached for her scythe – it was old-fashioned, if that meant anything when one existed outside of time, yet it carried with it a solemn violence.
You couldn’t argue with the hurricane song of its blade, although many had tried.
The phone rang, again and again.
Someone would suffer for this.
They always did.
Written for this week’s io9 writing prompt. Comments and criticism always welcome!