The clock stared back at me, silently watching me. A little girl, just twelve. I stared at the long smooth box in front of me, as the hair on my back stood on end. It resembled a box of choclolates, I laughed bitterly at the thought, for I could feel the death, taste it even, as it overcame my body. I didn't want this, nor did I need to feel the pain. Cold, so cold was the body of the man I called father, so stiff like the dead hand of the reaper was his skin. For he was gone, take so fast, not even a cry could escape my lips. My father, lie in front of me. In the smooth wooden box, resembling a box of chocolates. One bite could take your breath away.