Tick
by Graham Messe

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. He sat motionless and calm. His breathing was slow and measured. His thoughts were clear and concise. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Taking a long, deep breath, he surveyed his surrounding: years of newspaper articles, betting stubs, a deck of cards (missing the ace of clubs), a razor, which, as one could tell by looking at him, had not been used in several days, rum bottles, gin bottles, beer bottles, several half-smoked cigarettes, torn books, the phone numbers of god-knows-who on scraps of paper from god-knows-what and a pressed suit. He reached for the razor and inadvertently cut himself. The blood flowed freely from his hand. He wrapped his hand and prepared to shave. He never missed a spot when he shaved; always perfect and clean. He was careful and methodical, and when he finished, one would have thought that he had never had facial hair at all. Tick. Tick. Tick. Replacing the razor on his desk, and rewrapping his hand he walked slowly towards his suit. The pants were pressed to a point where the crease would hold for hours and his shirt was a brilliant white. It fit perfectly. Tick. Tick. After dressing himself, he put on his tie (in a perfect knot), his jacket (perfect) and shoes in which he could see his clean-shaven face. He combed his hair, took a shot of whiskey and stood. His hand bled, and the bright red was striking against his otherwise immaculate appearance. Tick. There was a rap on the door. He took another shot. A rough voice rang clearly through the locked door. "Mr. Calhoun, this is the police, we would like a word with you." He took another shot, and walked toward the door. Tick. His watch stopped.