When The Clock Strikes Twelve

The old wooden clock rang twelve times.

Ding. Dong. Ding. Dong.

Tonight marked the anniversary of my mother’s death. A murder committed by her darling daughter. A murder committed by me. Feelings of guilt and regret ran through my veins like every other day of this damned year.

How could someone be so cruel as to murder the person who brought them into this world? Well, let’s just say I had my reasons. How did I get away with it? Ah, you see, my mum being the grade - A douchebag drug addict that she was, had my younger brother and me as her sole company. So, with a little help from the neighbourhood psychopath, I sleekly pulled off the insane crime and buried the body in a nearby forest.

Like every other introverted twenty-two year old on a Saturday night, I was plopped on my couch, scrolling through my Tumblr dashboard. Everything had felt normal until the clock struck midnight, making the hair on my hand stand still with the gore memories of last year’s events. I was reminiscing my mother’s death when, all of a sudden, the lights went out. Mine wasn’t the only house sans electricity, the entire neighbourhood witnessed an unusual blackout. A knot formed in the back of my throat.

Something wasn’t right.

No, it was probably my anxiety scaring me again. I made my way to the kitchen, the light of my phone guiding my path. Maybe some water would help me think straight. However, the second I looked up, my body froze in its place. A bolt of fear zapped through my body. My breathing faltered.

Standing near my coffee machine stood a woman, her pale body glowing like the moon. Her snow white dress was stained with stale blood near her heart, right where my knife had stabbed her. Her eyes, now hollow slits, stared back at me and her dry lips formed a broken smile.

“Come, honey. I made your favourite - vanilla coffee.” Said the woman, her raspy voice sending shivers down my spine.

My phone dropped to the floor with a thud. Its delicate screen broke into hundreds of tiny pieces, some of which dug into my feet, sprouting bright red blood. My mouth opened to scream, but no sound came out. The woman standing in front of me was none other than my dead mother. The clothes she wore were the same a year ago. The blood now a dark shade of brown.

I stumbled backward and shut my eyes, praying that this was all a dream. When I opened them, the lights flickered on. A chilly breeze passed through the room, despite the windows being closed tight. I felt an ice-cold hand graze my right cheek, stroking it lovingly.

Scared stiff, I walked back slowly to my couch and put my headphones on, blasting Adele at the loudest volume possible. I needed to forget about this. The murder. My dead mother. Her ghost. Everything.

Sleepless nights passed. I couldn’t get the incident out of my mind. Especially when on the first of every month, when the clock strikes twelve, I hear a shaky voice whispering, “Come, honey. Come...”

- Rtr Beverly Menezes

Rotaract Club of NM College

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