All around, you see clocks. Each displays a different number. Everyone's clock shows how many days, hours, minutes, and seconds they have left to live. Each clock is displayed like a sort of hologram above a person's head. You too have a clock, but you can't see it. No one can see their own clock.
It's more of a countdown.
Some people choose to act like the countdowns do not exist; others live by them. Some lives are devoted to finding the number that quickly decreases above their head. It is an unspoken law to never tell someone how close they are, but sometimes subtle hints are thrown about.
Your grandfather of 92 years lay in his old tattered bed. Dim light seeps through the curtains and spreads across the thick comforter atop your kin. You are standing next to his bed and seeing his countdown. Tears fill your eyes and you look at his clock and back to him. Sure it happens to everyone, but knowing when you are going to lose someone is sometimes even harder to take than actually losing them. As his clock reaches one minute, you tell him how much you love him.
Some people don't get that privilege.
Thirty seconds. You recall when seconds used to feel like an eternity, but now they were all too fast. Fifteen. Suddenly you feel like you should have spent more time with him. Done more things with him. Ten. Maybe if there was a way to stop it? There has to be! Eight. You frantically look around the room for something - anything. Six. You look back to your elder. The usually silent ticks now chime like bells in your ears. Five. You kneel down next to him. Four. Tears flow like waterfalls. Three. You watch the light in his eyes slowly fade. Two. Your mother stands next to you (in even worse shape). One. No. This cannot be the end.
It's done. It's over.
This was six years ago. The memory floats around as if it weres yesterday. You are now sitting on a park bench. Across from you is a playground and a few trees scattered about. You glance up and then back down at your sketchbook, finishing up the drawing of an old oak. As you close your book and get ready to leave, you see three young boys playing on the playground. Of course they were too young to read numbers or even letters. Most children that age have many numbers on their clock. The concept of these countdowns hadn't even been explained to them yet, but one of them had abnormally small numbers. You look closely and see that his countdown reads:
31 minutes : 17 seconds
You look around for his mother and see a lady in her late twenties sitting at a picnic table with two others. She seemed to be crying, the other two trying to comfort her. You try to wrap your mind around the thought of losing a child, but you simply can't. The children slid down slides, and climbed up ladders laughing and giggling. What would the other children feel? Would they understand?
As you are paused in the middle of the sidewalk, someone accidentally bumps your shoulder. You spin around to see a young male slightly taller than you, with a look of regret on his face. His expression quickly changes into a look of... fear? You see his eyes move up a bit. This startles you. He looks above your head. As his gaze locks with yours, his expression softens.
"I'm really sorry about that, and umm... I hope I didn't hurt you or anything." He says.
"Oh, no no. I'm fine." You give a small smile.
He nods and pauses as if he was about to say something, but moves on and starts jogging again.
Ok?
You sigh and walk to your car. You go back to asking yourself questions. How do some people ignore the clocks when everyday they surround you? You set your things in the passenger seat and put on your seatbelt.
Then a thought comes to mind.
As you put your key into the ignition, you ask yourself why. Why do they exist? Why are these clocks, or countdowns even here? They certainly aren't natural, but you've never known one to be wrong. As you speed away from the park, your thoughts take over. You remember the boy looking up above your head. What does your clock say? How much time do you have left?
You turn into your driveway and park your car. You get all of your things and head inside, placing them on the kitchen counter. You make yourself a simple sandwich and start coloring your oak from earlier. That's the last thing you remember before drifting off.
As you wake up, you stretch and yawn. You turn on the TV for some background noise as you clean up the table a bit. It is littered with random art supplies, a camera, your keys and a phone. Sharpened and unsharpened pencils lay strewn about and paints of many colors lay in their pallets. You smile at your finished drawing. Others like it hang on your walls. Once you finish, you grab some clothes and take a quick shower, getting dressed and drying your hair. As you exit the bathroom what you hear from the TV interests you.
"Yesterday evening, a boy only 5 years old, fell off of a ladder at the local park. The police were called right away and he was rushed to the hospital. Sadly, he suffered a cracked skull, and died early this morning."
You sit down on the couch eagerly and think. His clock was right too. You felt deeply saddened by just the thought of the boy's mother. How could you live knowing that you would live longer than your own child? Your mind automatically tries to find a more joyous subject and that leads you to your drawing. You decide that you really have nothing to do now, so you get in your car and drive to the store, the drawing laying in the seat next to you. You pick out a small black frame and check out. You place your drawing in the frame and head home.
Home.
A strange noise fills your ears...
Tick
What is that?
Quiet clicks grow louder.
Tock
Is something wrong with your car?
Tick Tock
As the light turns green you press the gas.
Tick Tock Tick
Everything goes black.
"This evening a young woman, presumably heading home, was hit by an oncoming truck....."
