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Tic-Toc Grandfather Clock

 Tic-Toc goes the Grandfather clock.
 If memory served me right, which it rarely did, I believed he always sat in the dark.
 Not once on our visits to Grandfather’s house was there ever a light on. His mansion was ill-lit at all times. It was like our Grandfather craved the darkness, a protective cocoon from the real world. At first, we thought it funny, then weird, then as we grew to adulthood and he equidistantly closer to death, troubling.
 I was close to forty and Grandfather to centennial when his butler called saying Grandfather requested me. Why he wanted me and none of my siblings, I could not be sure, but I had no choice in the matter: Grandfather’s word was final.
 I entered the musty chamber to an, as usual, dark scene. Grandfather sat in the corner in his favourite, leather chair momentarily highlighted by the embers of his glowing pipe.
 He said nothing; I strode closer. When no more than a yard from him, I stopped. There was such a whirring and clicking coming from him that I thought he must have swallowed a typewriter. I held my tongue, as Grandfather did not like to talk, and instead waited for him to begin. But he did not!
 I stood motionless for what seemed like hours, as the ticking and whirring lessened until with a final flourish there was no more sound at all. Risking a lambasting, I asked after his health to no reply. I tried some niceties, but again to no reply. Quite lost for what to do next, I commited the cardinal sin of turning on the oil lamp that always sat by his feet.
 I do not know how to explain what that weak light revealed: cogs, metallic limbs, hands fashioned from mahogany. All was a falsehood except for a visage carved from stone. Grandfather was an abomination, a falsehood, an automaton. And all I could think was what did that make me.
 Tic-Toc goes the Grandfather clock.

 (Image courtesy wallpaperup.com)