Bronwyn says
I was a clock. This hairy man with red wet eyes put me in a bag and brought me home and put me on his mantle, just above an imitation stone fireplace. His wife saw me and didn’t think anything of it. Just one more little thing around the house. I don’t know how she could have missed what was happening right in front of her. My wooden doors, my two hands, my little the mechanisms whirling, my cherry wooden frame… I could see him looking at all the tiny parts as his wife droned on about the price of gasoline. I never felt so…. Loved. When he was gone, I’d watch his wife read magazines and masturbate. Then he’d come home and go straight for me, smiling and making sure I was wound. After dinner, when she would wash up, he’d take me and then open up my doors and clean me gently. The first time I was frightened. I mean, I wasn’t really
a clock, I thought. What if, opening me up, he’d kill me outright. But, instead of tiny organs, I could see my metal insides in his glasses. It was
uncomfortable, the pipe and brush. I felt like I would burst out laughing or crying. But I couldn’t get caught, so I settled into it, relaxed into it, for
the sake of secrecy. the third day my mind completely changed and even knew this process as relief.
(Pause.)
The hard part was leaving him.