There were only two people that went to the man’s funeral. One, a violet-haired boy with glasses, dressed in black. The other was the penguin music teacher from the local Academy – who was probably there more out of pity for his student, than love of the boy’s father. Herr Uhrmacher had been a man that was easy to miss – quiet, plain-looking, and overly interested in books and research. Those that did somehow notice the man often wished they hadn’t – he was eccentric, to say the least. None of the townspeople would ever say they were glad to see him gone, but very few would mourn. They had enough of the man’s ravings about stories and puppets.
The man’s son had not quite yet reached the level of his father, but the townspeople expected him to sooner or later. He already spent much of his free time in the library, so much so that the only students that knew the boy very well were those that worked there. Oddly enough, for a boy that seemed to be so studious, his grades were merely average.
Between the strange qualities of the man, and the strange qualities of his son, Autor, people were sure to talk. So Autor himself wasn’t at all surprised that as he ascended the staircase in the dorms after the funeral that he could hear the other students whispering amongst themselves. He got a few pitying looks from the nicer students, but for the most part they avoided his gaze and quickly walked away when he approached. That didn’t particularly bother Autor – he didn’t want to talk to them, either.
Silently, he went into his room and packed away what little he had taken with him to the school. His uniforms, a plain assortment of other clothing, carefully organized music scores, several books, and one earring that he had found stuck in between two floorboards as a child that he had never had the heart to get rid of. A few more odds and ends, and he had completely cleared the room of any trace that he had ever been there. He walked out the room and back down the stairs, carrying his bags and once again ignoring the whispers.
He didn’t care if he never came back, he decided. He wouldn’t miss the dorms, or anyone here, nor would they miss him. It was only a short walk from the school to his home, anyway. He had never needed to live in a dorm.
As soon as he reached his home, he unpacked his things and looked around. The house felt the same way that it had always felt. “Empty” was one word that came to mind. His father had never been concerned by decorations or knick-knacks. “Sterile” was another word, although the fact that it still felt this way surprised Autor. Had his father been so concerned with cleanliness, even in his illness? Or had someone cleaned the house after his death?
He walked through the few small rooms of the house, telling himself that he was checking to make sure everything was in order. In reality, it was so he could hear his own footsteps – partially to have assurance that this was real and not a dream, and partially so that he could cover up the sound of the large grandfather clock that had been ticking away since he had walked through the door. His first goal was accomplished – this was no dream.
However, his footsteps only proved to make the ticking of the clock seem louder – every step he took seemed to be in time with it.
Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.
His father had been meticulous with making sure that clock was always perfectly on time. He had always been a very timely man. He got up at the same time every morning, had his meals precisely on the same hour every day, and went to bed at the same time every night. Autor, himself, had lived on schedule for as long as he could remember. He had never been late to class, ever.
Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.
Autor decided that his footsteps were only making things worse, and sat down in a plain wood chair at the kitchen table. He carefully adjusted the candle holder until it was exactly at the center of the table.
The house must have been cleaned after his father’s death. He would have never forgotten to do that himself.
Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.
He would have come, if someone had written to him, or even if someone had come to get him. How was he supposed to have known what was happening? The Academy was often very caught-up in its own little world, so he might as well have been in a different town. Oh, they still heard idle town gossip every now and then, but Herr Uhrmacher had always been someone that was easy to miss, so if he hadn’t been noticed for a few days…
Why hadn’t the doctor written him, or sent someone to get him, or something? If he had known the day he left for school would be the last day he would see his father…
Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.
Time marched on, even with his father gone, and it would continue marching on, even after he was gone. Herr Uhrmacher was an easy man to miss, but nobody would miss him. This caused an uneasy thought to appear in Autor’s mind: If nobody missed him, will anyone miss me?
The clock rang the hour. It was dinner time. He was behind; he hadn’t had anything to eat.
“He’s not here to remind me, you see,” he said apologetically to the clock as it finished its chime. “I’m sure I’ll get used to it.”
He frowned, lowering his head and letting his eyes follow along the grain of the table. “I don’t particularly feel like eating, anyway.”
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31_days2007-03-24 10:43 pm
