The Countdown

Prologue~ Fourth Grade was the End of The World

I had a normal childhood. I did the same things as everyone else. Went to school, played sports, made friends. I never had a clue about my Clock. I never noticed how somber my parents were on my birthday, their smiles never quite reaching their eyes. I was almost ten, and the prospect of reaching double digits prompted me to pompously parade about like I'd been picked to be line leader.

My teacher, Mrs.Sharp, and I were very close. The amiable woman was like a grandmother to me. When she would smile the corners of her eyes would crinkle up, making her look all the kinder. Although many of my classmates didn't appreciate her name-appropriate firm teaching method, I would often strive to be a sort of teacher's pet. She was a sweet lady towards all but the troublemakers, on whom she'd rain all short of malevolent disparage. I worked hard to be an excellent student. Mrs.Sharp's warm brown eyes always smiled down on me.

But a few weeks after I turned nine, I noticed her slowly become more and more depressed. This was odd for her. She was a stout woman with a big smile and a happy demeanor. So, being worried, I asked what was wrong. Perhaps I could find it in my power to offer her any semblance succor.

She seemed to possess a great antipathy towards telling me. So, even though I knew my parents would advocate against it, I pushed for an answer. She finally efficazied my curiosity, surrendering the answers I'd so militantly insisted upon.

"My Clock, Jamie," she said sadly. "I only have one more week to live."

This left me with more unanswered questions. I tried to get more out of her but she thought she'd said too much already. That night I raced home and bombarded my parents with questions. Most importantly, what was The Clock?

Although my parents clearly didn't want to sully my chaste naïveté, they knew they couldn't keep me in the dark much longer. I would only go searching for answers online. So in bitter acquiescence, they told me. They told me about what The Clock was and what it was for. I sat in silence, unable to process most of their words. It didn't make sense to my nine year old mind.

They then hesitated, looked at each other, then Dad spoke reticently, "Your Clock runs out a day after your fifteenth birthday."

I sat there gaping at them. One day after my fifteenth birthday? That couldn't be possible.

My mom began to cry. This bothered me most. My mom never cried. The only time I could remember tears in her typically strong willed eyes was at Grandma's funeral, or when we'd watched that old movie where the dog died. The film was on an odd disk, an antique Dad had found in Grandma's home. I'd never heard of a DVD, but the story brought on waterworks for me as well, not just Mom. So why was she crying now?

"Son, " Dad said with a pained expression in his eyes, a gaze that mirrored by own patrimonial eyes. That look made me wonder if he too might cry. I'd never seen Dad shed a tear. "When your Clock runs out, you die."

I was completely appalled.

"Well, why doesn't anyone stop their Clock?" I demanded desperately. "Or why don't they just add more time?" I was standing now, shouting at the top of my lungs. How could a Clock kill? How could it determine a lifespan? I didn't understand how people could vindicate a Clock determining lifespan. I had a sick feeling in my gut.

"Jamie, I wish it were that simple, but it just doesn't work like that." That was all Mom could manage before deteriorating into sobs again.

"No one has ever stopped or added more time or done anything to a Clock before because no one knows what it does," Dad continued.

"But then why don't-" I started, but Dad cut off my little tirade at its first breath.

"James Timothy Everhart," Dad said in a defeated but stern voice, "You are nine years old and this is not a topic I feel a nine year old should be thinking about. I will hear no more of it."

Dad had used the middle name, an inveterable sign of a subject closed. I knew there was no point in arguing. I slumped my shoulders and sat back down, defeated.

Dinner continued in silence, although no one had much appetite, until I worked up the nerve to excuse myself and headed up to bed. I was exhausted, though I doubted sleep would come.

That night I laid awake going over the day's events, pausing when I got to the part about dying on my fifteenth birthday. I still felt like it was just a dream. No, a nightmare was more like it. But it wasn't, it was real. It couldn't be. Of all things Dad had said that sounded absurd and unimaginable he was right about one thing, a nine year old shouldn't have to think about such things as death.

I understood the concept, didn't I?
Hadn't Mom explained all about the enigma when we went to Gran's funeral? Still, death had never seemed more prominent and it loomed over me like a dark cloud, a duress I couldn't hope to escape.

As sleep engulfed me, I was struck with a moment of sagacity. I was only nine years old. That meant I had six years left to live. Six years left to devise a plot. I decided then and there I refused to die at fifteen. I decided to do something no one had ever tried before.

I was going to stop my Clock.