Settling back in her accustomed chair, a slightly constricted feeling in her chest sent a pang of shivers through her body. She’d had such feelings before, chest pains. But why worry? She’d never been a worrier. She’d developed compulsive habits, yes, but never worries about her health. Staring at the silver outline of the window, it seemed to drift almost imperceptibly to one side of her field of vision, until her eyes seemed to catch it up and rest there once more. The ticking of the clock seemed louder, more noticeable. The clock never stopped as she wound it religiously and carefully every single night before she went to bed.

   “A curious feeling,” thought Annie. Rather like the drunken days of her adolescence when whole rooms seemed to spin and knock her to the floor. The ticking grew louder as a vaguely warm sensation clawed at her stomach and she realised the teacup had emptied. Instinctively, she rose from the chair and, suddenly not quite sure where she was, seemed to fall to the ceiling and her feet were suddenly above her head on the floor. The ticking of the clock grew urgent, deafening almost. Now something was definitely wrong! For the first time in her life, Annie was really afraid. The constriction in her chest now seemed to shout, and her lungs seemed to press the air from her body, her breath becoming large gasps for air. The clock chimed quickly and cut through the air like a razor blade as Annie was overcome by a feeling of utter loneliness, so deep that she had never known it before. Nobody would ever know her final moments, nobody there to tell her heart to, no-one to caress her into the abyss which seemed to be consuming her mind. Now, she knew the feeling of total drowning, what it was to die alone, no voice to shout, yet her thoughts really screamed.

   Indeed, a minute speck of consciousness passed away that night, unnoticed in spite of her own realisation that her life meant nothing – absolutely nothing.

   The clock ticked.