"Hours and then minutes and, son, if you follow that tiny hand running all the way round and round you'll see the seconds of your life pass you by. Don't forget that while it may always tell the right time, the time is never right."
And so the father closes the fob watch and hands it down to his son and only heir before closing his eyes. The rise and fall of his chest slower than the seconds tick-tick-ticking from the shell of the fob. His son watching and counting as the breathes tick slower and slower and then... gone.
Like the ghillie suit of such well done camouflage they spent a week looking for it when the boy put it down to take a few minutes to pass through the berries he found while walking back one day. There, the callback, by the side of the trees with the buzzing of flies, a little sore and a self-taught reminder to test strange foods and such on other people first.
That's why they have servants. And also why they have an estate where the plots and lands go for acres without documentation.
Between death and mere catalepsis, it was hard to tell what was going on from the glass enclosure. Wisps of smoke and dry whispers stealing the room and bringing it back to the tarn. Molecule by molecule, the drops into drips before the nothing of an empty stainless steel gurney.
Spittles of residue, of memory slicks, dusting off the edges.
They never did find that suit. And they can never have that week back. When it's gone, it's time to walk away.
Written on Monday, 7 February 2011