Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach.
CLOCKWORK
by Undercooked
The clock ticks.
The clock ticks.
The clock ticks.
It pulsates like a short breath taken every second.
Her own breathing chops to meet its pace.
The clock ticks.
The clock ticks.
The clock ticks.
And the hands move, and the springs coil, and the wheels roll.
And she feels crushed underneath the obedient clockwork.
For she is clockwork herself.
She hates the clock not only because it is time itself passing her by...
...but also because she is more like the clock than she cares to think about.
The clock ticks and ticks and ticks and ticks and ticks...
It is most infuriating because it will not stop.
She will not stop, either.
Clockwork will not stop, will not falter, will not breathe a single breath out of time.
Sometime in the night the clock stops ticking.
Silence.
And the silence is more maddening because the time is passing, but there is nothing to mark the grave of each second.
As the flowers of minutes wilt, there is no chronicle.
As the hours are hung with the rope of change, everyone knows, but no-one cares.
They sleep.
She does not sleep.
Sometimes in the morning, there are men on ladders fixing the clock.
But she knows that that is a prime example of futility.
Because time that is lost cannot be fixed.
Clockwork people know that the best.