The room was silent, except for the sound of ticking. Martin wished it would stop. It only served to remind him how much time he had lost, and how precious little he had left.
He picked up the ornate silver pen on his desk and let it rest on his finger tips. It had been a gift from an old friend whose face he could no longer remember. Martin’s name was etched onto the lid. Someone truly special must have given it to him, but whoever it was had been swallowed up by time.
Memories no longer existed in Martin’s mind. All he had were objects. Gifts and souvenirs that served as empty reminders of a forgotten past. And then there was the damned ticking.
It had been years since Martin owned a clock or a timepiece of any kind. His walls and his wrist were bare, yet the ticking persisted. It would drive him to madness soon, if it hadn’t already. He couldn’t recall a day without the ticking, or even any time that he had spent outside the room. Was it his sanctuary, or his prison? There was hardly a difference between the two anymore.
Growing ever restless, Martin opened up the notebook sitting in front of him and began to write, letting the weight of the pen guide his fingers across the page. The sound of metal scratching against paper was a welcome respite from the ticking. He savored the sound, reveled in it.
After what could have been hours or mere minutes, Martin put the pen down and leaned back in his chair. It was done. His mind would not survive the room, he knew that much. But whatever thoughts he had, whatever fleeting memories blinked dimly in the darkening expanses of his mind, would live on. He could ensure that much at least.
Sighing with relief, Martin closed his eyes.
The ticking stopped.