Review- Clockwork: A Mind Wound Tight 3

Time ran out. Now she returns—eye replaced, heart colder, justice winding.

Clockwork: A Mind Wound Tight

By Ticking Hourglass

--A Reimagining of Clockwork: Your Time Is Up

Part 3: Equilibrium

Natalie started to see things differently after she began carrying around the pocket watch. Not in a supernatural way--but in the way people revealed themselves when they thought no one was watching. In how long someone held eye contact before glancing away. How fake smiles always ended a second too early. The ticking sharpened her focus. Each delicate beat seemed to measure not just time, but truth. The watch had become a fixture--tucked in her coat at school, beneath her pillow at night. Its second hand moved with such flawless rhythm, she could time her breath to it. She kept writing names in her notebook. Not in anger--not yet. At first, it was just observation. Just a way of keeping track--of everyone.

She went through the motions at school, turning in assignments on time. But in her free hours--especially at night--she studied something else entirely: patterns, motives, flaws. Before each session, she'd remove her prosthetic and press the ticking watch into her socket, just behind her eyelid. It wasn't vanity, but focus. With the timepiece nestled where her eye used to be, her thoughts aligned. Sharpened. She'd sit at her desk, lit only by a small lamp, and flip through her notes--the ones she kept hidden--reviewing tabs marked with four names in particular: Adrian, Madison, Her father, Her mother. She drew a circle beside each name. They weren't checkboxes--they were countdowns. One by one, they ticked closer to zero.

Natalie walked up to Madison as she stood by her locker. There was one final adjustment to make before her plan began.

Madison turned, already smirking like the punchline was hers. "Well, if it isn't Little Miss Meltdown."

Natalie didn't flinch. "You always smile when people are looking," she said, voice quiet. "What do you do when no one is watching?"

Madison scoffed. "You really gonna start something now? After that little freakout in English?"

Natalie tilted her head slightly. "You know what I realized? People like you think you're safe behind attention. You feed on it. But it's the quiet ones who know where the cracks are."

Madison's expression tightened. "Are you threatening me?"

"No." Natalie's voice didn't rise. "I'm just... observing." She turned and walked away without another glance. Madison, still scowling, yanked open her locker. Inside was a photo--from the party she thought no one remembered. Her face drained of color.

Natalie didn't hesitate. There was work to be done. She moved on to the copied essay. Natalie didn't need to dig far. The essay Madison had bragged about--"my cleanest A+ yet"--had gone through peer review, by none other than Natalie. Natalie remembered one line: "Grief wears no face, only echoes." Too elegant. Too borrowed. On a library computer, she typed it into a search bar--quotes and all. A forgotten blog from 2011. Exactly the same. She printed both pages, highlighting the overlap. She made no accusation. Just slid the envelope into the vice principal's mail slot. But she wasn't done. She then remembered the resume. The one Madison had uploaded for careers class, left open on her school account once. "Event coordinator, volunteer hours --FoodBank West." Natalie remembered seeing her at the mall that weekend. No apron. No clipboard. Just overpriced makeup and a boy from another school. One phone call confirmed it--FoodBank West had no record of Madison Walker. Natalie compiled the resume, along with fabricated screenshots of Madison's alleged correspondence, and slipped it all into another envelope. She left it for the school counselor before first period. The final page held only a single line: "I would hate for a liar to represent our school."

One day Natalie also couldn't help but notice a face missing from her class, like a missing sound of a ticking second in her watch. Her name was Tessa. She barely spoke, but once gave a well-researched presentation on postwar poetry that Natalie admired. She went and checked the class forum, found an old post Tessa had made asking about MLA citations under her handle grayglass88. No one replied. But further down the thread, a new comment appeared--empath.girl, mocking the very same question without tagging anyone directly. The tone was too familiar. empath.girl had a particular way of typing--exaggerated lowercase, ironic line breaks, asterisks around fake actions. Natalie had seen that voice before. In comments under old student fundraiser posts. In a group chat window glimpsed once over Madison's shoulder. The timing lined up--Madison had posted a photo on her private story the same day empath.girl flamed Tessa in three separate threads. It wasn't proof. But it was enough. Natalie started screenshotting. By the end of the night, she had six different user handles, each active during school hours and always echoing the same voice--same punctuated cruelty, same emojis, same targets. Girls who dressed too plainly. Boys who didn't laugh loud enough. A teacher who limped. And Tessa, most of all. She compiled the handles, traced the timing, documented the echoes of cruelty--the pattern was undeniable. All in a neat packet in a labeled folder reading: Cyber Harassment - Patterns of Concern.

She slipped it into the teacher's mailbox with the same quiet detachment she gave her homework. No note. No explanation. The evidence spoke for itself. The teacher, the counselor, and the vice principal come together and share their findings. Nothing is said publicly, but Madison's name is called over the intercom to the office before second period. Her eyes darted around. Students noticed. There was no dramatic confrontation. Just quiet meetings. A few missing classes. Her behavior shifts. Teachers seem colder. Students begin whispering.

"Did you hear?" some asked.

"Apparently she forged her volunteer hours." others said.

"No, it's about cyberbullying."

"I heard both."

Her early admission letters get reevaluated. A local award nomination gets pulled "pending review." One university goes quiet.

At the end of the day, Madison stood at her locker, eyes red, hands trembling as she pulled down old flyers and took out her belongings. A few students watched from the end of the hall. Whispers floated, then stopped. Her hand shook as she shut the locker door. A sticky note clung just above the locker. No name, just three words: Time's up, sweetheart. ??

She tore it down, but the words stayed with her.

When Natalie got home and checked the mailbox, the college letters had begun to arrive--thick envelopes stuffed with promises she didn't know if she believed. Scholarships. Acceptance. Invitations to escape. But the thought of leaving made her stomach twist--not from fear of change, but from the unfinished work that held her here. She had one summer left. One narrow window. And time was winding down.

Adrian was next. She didn't need to be elaborate--everything was already in motion. There would be no fireworks, no confrontation. Just precision. She had only one adjustment to make, and everything would be perfect. Adrian's routine didn't change. Track practice--Tuesdays and Thursdays. He always stopped by the corner store afterward, grabbing the same energy drink, same protein bar. Always parked his bike in the alley, just out of view of the security camera. Rain rolled in by second period that Thursday--one of those spring downpours that flood gutters and chase people indoors. Practice was cut short. Half the team bailed. But Adrian still made the stop. Natalie was already waiting in her raincoat. The damp hush softened everything.

Natalie had studied his bike enough times to know its every weakness. The chain had always been loose--he never listened when she told him to fix it. She knew exactly which bolt to loosen so it wouldn't fail right away, only gradually. All she needed was ten minutes. Then it would give out. A fluke, they'd say. Just bad luck. When he came back out, he barely glanced at the bike before riding off. He didn't even notice her standing in the shadow of the dumpster. Two blocks down, the chain slipped. The brakes didn't hold. Adrian skidded into the guardrail on a downhill turn. Natalie watched from the sidewalk, hood pulled low. When the ambulance arrived, she turned and walked away. He wouldn't recover in time for recruitment--there went his college scholarship, and all right before graduation. He'd live, of course. But only just enough to know what he'd lost.

--

Madison never visited Adrian in the hospital, but Nalalie did--only once. She walked in without flowers, without a smile, without a word. Just a quiet presence by his bed. The room smelled of antiseptic and rubber gloves, the monitor pulsing in slow, steady rhythm--too slow for a track & field star. Adrian stirred, drugged and sluggish, trying to sit up. His voice cracked when he tried her name, but it barely made it past his lips. Natalie didn't answer. She glanced down instead, eye drifting to the clipboard at the end of his bed. The chart listed everything in dry, clinical detail:

Broken ankle

Partial MCL tear

Broken arm

Facial road rash

Bruised ribs

She blinked once. The ticking from her pocket watch, hidden in her hoodie, filled the silence like a second heartbeat. Her left eye--acrylic green--caught the fluorescent light with a cold glint that made Adrian visibly shiver. She leaned in slightly. Not close enough to comfort, just close enough to remind him she was real.

"Funny how life slows down when something breaks," Natalie said softly. "Maybe it's time you thought about what you've broken too." Then she turned and walked out. Never looked back. The door clicked shut behind her, Adrian blinked up at the ceiling, alone again. Then he noticed the card placed next to his bedside chart. It was a simple folded note. No name. Just two words, in a hand he recognized: Tick Tock.

--

It was the night before Natalie was set to leave for college--for her dormitory. The house was quiet. Boxes stood like silent guards in the hallway, corners neatly taped, labeled in blocky handwriting. Her acceptance letter sat propped on the kitchen counter, as if the house itself needed reminding of her future. Natalie's room was nearly stripped bare--posters gone, desk drawers cleaned out, closet half full--except for the duffel bag at her feet. She reached into a parka, fingers curling around the cold watch inside. At this hour, the ticking of the watch was the only sound to be heard. She pressed it gently into her empty socket--where it fit like it had always belonged. Now she held it there, warm against her skin. The ticking filled the room like breath. She thought of the bruise on her arm that never quite faded. The time he threw an empty beer bottle across the room--not at the wall, but at her. How her mother had said nothing, just quietly turned the channel. She hadn't packed those memories. It was time.

Her father went first. He was asleep in his usual spot--reclined in his cracked leather chair, one leg flopped over the side. The TV played an old war documentary he'd probably seen a dozen times. An empty bottle rested beside him. He snored through his nose in short, erratic bursts. Natalie had spent the past week lacing his drinks with crushed sedatives--borrowed, stolen, scraped from old pill bottles. Just enough to dull his reflexes. Just enough to make sure tonight would be effortless. She never overdid it. Too much, and he might have noticed. But he didn't. He never did. Tonight, she'd given him the last of it--everything she had left for him. A heavier dose, just enough to tip him into a deeper sleep. Just enough to make sure he wouldn't stir.

Natalie stepped close and watched him. The ticking pulsated in her skull. The rage wasn't there--not really. Only memory. The kind that left marks in the shape of fists and broken glass. The kind that shaped silence. She pressed her hand firmly over his mouth and nose. There was no ceremony in it. No words. Just her hand, steady and patient, while his breath fought and failed beneath it. She stood still for a long time afterward, staring at his face, counting in her head: One, two, three... ten, twenty, thirty... a hundred, one-fifty, two hundred... three hundred. Only then did she exhale--slow and precise, like the release of a wound spring. She then waited for any flicker of remorse in herself--there was none.

--

The time was 2:17 a.m. when Natalie went up to her parents' room. The door creaked open without resistance. Her mother laid there curled on her side of the bed, earbuds still in, her phone screen still glowing. The room smelled faintly of wine and stale lotion. A half-empty glass sat on the nightstand, gathering dust. When Natalie approached, her mother stirred--blinking, confused.

"Nat?" her voice rasped. "Is something wrong?" Natalie didn't speak at first. Just watched her. The soft, half-familiar eyes. The absence of guilt. The years of absence, really--watching, always watching, never doing.

"You never stopped him," Natalie said. Her voice was calm. "You never even looked at me."

Her mother sat up. "Wait--what are you talking about, sweetheart, I--"

"You let me drown," Natalie whispered. "And you just kept scrolling." Tears welled up--too fast. Maybe real. Maybe not. Natalie didn't care. Natalie raised a hand and took out the watch from her socket.

"Here," she said, and placed it in her mother's hand. "Do you hear it?" The ticking was soft. Her mother looked down at it, bewildered.

"I don't--"

"It means your time is up."

Natalie opened her palm, revealing the packed capsule--tampered, unmistakably so. Her mother stared. Natalie held it out, steady.

"Take this."

After a long silence, her mother reached out with a trembling hand, took the pill, and swallowed it dry. She lay back down without a word.

Natalie bent down, pressed a kiss to her temple, and whispered,

"Now go to sleep."

There was no fear in her features. Just quiet. Emptiness.

She sat on the edge of the bed beside her mother--still warm, still soft, still barely hers. The watch ticked quietly in her mother's hand, which Natalie clasped gently, resting it atop the quilt.

She reached forward, brushing a strand of hair from her mother's brow. Not with tenderness. Not with forgiveness. But with finality--because no one had ever offered it to her.

A hollow gesture. An echo of what she'd never received.

Then, softly, she began to sing.

The first song came slow, steady--not a lullaby she'd been given, but ones she had written. Ones that knew how to grieve.

And how to end.

Lullabies of Clockwork

--Final Bedtime

Lay down now, the lights are low,

No one left to tell you no.

Close those eyes, don't make a peep,

I've come to sing you down to sleep.

No more noise, no crying fits,

No slurring drunken slits.

No cold goodnights, no empty plates--

It's over now. The silence waits.

I am not angry, not tonight,

Just done pretending wrong is right.

I'll count the seconds, hold my breath,

While time rocks you to gentle death.

So dream of things you never said,

And rest your head in your own bed.

Your time is up, the air grows thin--

Now let the quiet pull you in.

------

--Wind the Clock

Hush now, Mama, don't you cry,

Hands are slow, the gears run dry.

You missed the hours meant for grace,

But still I came to touch your face.

No more shouting down the hall,

No more watching silence fall.

No more rooms you wouldn't leave--

I stayed too long, too scared to grieve.

You wound the clock but lost the key,

And left the ticks and tocks to me.

So I have kept the time for two,

And now it's done--your last one, too.

I will be quiet. I'll be near.

You will not feel the slipping year.

Just drift where sorrow can't unlock--

I'll hold your hand and wind the clock.

------

--The Ticking's Stopped

Sleep, sweet Mama, close your eyes,

No more bottles, no more lies.

The ticking's stopped, the night is deep,

I've come to tuck you into sleep.

No need to cry, no need to fight,

You never came to kiss goodnight.

But here I am, your little girl,

The one you left to face the world.

You took the gift, that one small pill,

To hush the house, to make it still.

And though you never said my name,

I'll sing you out all just the same.

So hush now, hush, no need to weep--

The dark is kind. Now go to sleep.

------

And even after her mother's breath slowed to silence, Natalie kept singing. Not the ones she had prepared--but the ones she had hidden. Soft, strange little things only she knew the words to. She sang until she was sure her mother couldn't hear her anymore... and then a little longer. By 3:45, the final lullaby faded into quiet. And the quiet stayed.

--

Natalie sat on her bed. Silent. Still. Listening to the second hand crawl. At 5:30 a.m., she returned to her parents' room. There lay her mother, just as she'd left her. The phone rested by her side. Natalie picked it up, opened the rideshare app, and entered the dormitory address. A car would arrive in about thirty minutes. She wiped the screen against her sleeve and gently placed it back into her mother's lifeless hand.

She went back into her room to collect her belongings. A backpack slung over one shoulder--light, but essential. A duffel bag stuffed with clothes in uneven folds, zipped shut with a sharp tug. And finally, the wheeled suitcase--bulkier, heavier, the kind of weight that says she wasn't running, but leaving. On her emptied nightstand rested the pocket watch. She had already replaced her prosthetic eye. Natalie picked up the watch and slipped it deep into the lining of her parka.

Last, but not least, she looked back at her bed. Fig was waiting, slouched against the pillow where she'd left him, his neck still crooked, one button eye still catching the low light like it always had. Natalie reached for him gently, almost absently. The patch on his belly had held all these years. So had he. She picked him up, tucking him beneath her arm.

"You get to come with me," she whispered. "You were the only one who ever did."

The time was 5:45 a.m. Natalie glanced around her childhood room, now empty and pale in the morning light. No tears--just silence. Just closure. It was going to be a long road ahead. She went downstairs and walked through the house one last time, letting her fingers skim the walls like she was erasing something invisible. At the door, she paused. Then she locked it behind her. Outside, the sky was warming with the slow bleed of dawn. The street was quiet. She stood at the curb, duffel by her feet, Fig tucked under one arm.

At 6:07 a.m., the car arrived. She took a breath--deep, timed, steady. The ticking stayed muffled in her coat pocket. But she didn't need to hear it anymore. She already knew the rhythm. The street was quiet. No footsteps behind her. She stepped into the car without looking back.