https://soundcloud.com/bruce-arbuckle/ten-minutes-later-by-bruce-arbuckle-flash-fiction

Tick…

Tock.

Tick…

Tock.

Tick…

The sound, regular and clock-like, was comforting: something to focus on, while she tried to work out what the hell had just happened.

Tock.

She blinked.

Tick…

And blinked again in an attempt to clear her eyes of the sticky substance that ran into them.

Tock.

The liquid – her blood, she guessed – began to run out of her eyes, up her forehead, and into her hair (making a mockery of the two and a half hours – and several hundred dollars – she had spent, in the hair salon, this afternoon).

Tick…

Her vision began to clear, along with some confusion. She was upside down.

Tock.

She was in her car, held to her seat by the belt.

Tick…

She blinked again, and was able to focus.

Tock.

The time on the dashboard clock was 00.05

Tick…

Ten minutes had elapsed since they had said their goodbyes.

Tock.

Or, rather, since he had said goodbye – even offering her one last goodbye hug forgodzake – and she had screamed: spitting hate and saliva, into his startled face.

Tick…

She remembered slamming the car door so hard she thought the glass would break.

Tock.

She remembered the squeal of her tires and the smell of rubber. The car driven by her anger, by her hate.

Tick…

She remembered glancing at her phone when it beeped.

Tock.

She remembered seeing he had texted, she remembered throwing the phone against the dash,  she remembered trying to retrieve it from the floor. She remembered looking up to see a transmission tower where it shouldn’t be.

Tick…

She realised she didn’t feel hate anymore. Nor anger, nor pain neither.

Tock.

She didn’t feel anything.

Tick…

No feeling in her legs. Nor arms.

Tock.

What was that noise?

Tick…

It reminded her not so much of a clock, now she was properly listening to it. It was too…

Tock.

… irregular. No. It reminded her of the time she’d had a leak in the basement pipe: that drip-dripperty-drip onto the metal shelf beneath.

Tick…

There was a smell. Familiar.

Tock.

Gasoline, she thought. And what was that other noise?

Tick…

A cracking sound, like a whip.

Tock.

No, it was more electrical.

Tick…

She had just enough time before the explosion to wish she had taken the hug, when it was offered at five minutes to midnight.

This story was written to the theme of “Five Minutes To Midnight”. An audio version of this story can be found here