By Tipp Hex
Fri, 30 Oct 2015
It was the sound.
The finality of that harsh metalic, 'click'.
Peripheral things stick in my mind.
Inconsequential, yet remembered as other detail fades in fog.
The release of the school bell, not the lesson.
The swish of the cane, not the crime or the pain.
The tinkling of a girls charm-bracelet, not her mocking rejection.
The ringing of a phone, not the message.
The screech of rubber on wet tarmac, not the siren.
The clatter of medical instruments, not the words of a medic.
The rustle of papers, not the written contents.
The closing of the coroners briefcase, not his sympathies.