Ticking Clock

Prologue

We are all limited in our time on Earth. We have always known that. Of course, we have also known when life would end. Your best friend? You can see the timer above their head, ticking away. Your parents, too. Everyone can see your little clock above your head. Except you. No one has the courage to tell you when you are going to die. No one tells you when to prepare for your last day. We can't change the clocks. No one has ever changed the clocks.

Chapter 1

••••••••••••••••••••••

The impact of the car against my body instantly crushes me. I cannot breathe. I cannot see. I've lost all ability. I wake up breathing heavily as a stare over at my alarm. 5:45. I will have to be awake in 15 minutes anyway. I walk over to the mirror on the wall above my dresser. The emmptiness above my head is equal to the emptiness of my stomach. My hair is a tangled mess from all of my tossing and turning. I know exactly what to tell my therapist when he asks if the dreams are gone. His clock reads 4:6:2:3. He will be dead and for all I know, I might too. The clocks have helped doctors for generations to tell terminal patients their time. The clocks help families prepare funerals. The clocks dont help the unstable. I have always seen my clock out of the corners of my eyes. A time couldn't be made out. But I have made it to 15 and that's something. When I walk downstairs for food my parents are already there. My mother stares at me. 35:9:3:5. My mother has 35 years, 9 months, 3 weeks, and 5 days left to live. She will be 74. My father is not so fortunate. Both of my parents are 39 years of age. My father's clock read 0:0:1:0. He has a week. We dont know what will happen, so we can't prevent it. My mother has tears burning in her eyes as she does every morning. My father is the same optimistic person he has been since the days my sister and I were born.

I put a piece of toast into the toaster and head upstairs to dress. It has just become fall and leaves have just started to change. I throw on an old pair of jeans with rips right above the knees from years of wear and tear. My long, black shirt hangs loosely around my neck and my stomach barely touches the fabric. My heavy sweatshirt covers my scrawny body. My long brown hair curls around the edges of my face and falls in loose curls down my back. I stand with my hands on my dresser examining my facial features closely. I have dark green eyes like my mother, except mine do not sink in as much from years of lost sleep and stress. I have the curls in my brown hair from my father. My face is a mix of scattered genetics; My grandmother's small nose; my aunt's lip shape; my grandfather's miniscule ears.

I sit on my bed to but my black skating shoes on. I slide my hand over my embroidered pillow. The stitching so delicately crafted reads "Erin" in careful cursive. My fingertips glide over my soft blankets. I make my way back downstairs, knowing my breakfast has finished toasting by now. I examine family portraits as I walk down the long halls of my home.

The smiling faces are now unfamiliar amongst my mother and I. My sister, only 11, fights urges to tell my father of his death. We have spent years knowing his death is inevitable. The pain in my chest becomes unbearable as I make my way downstairs. After eating breakfast I wait for my sister to come downstairs as my signal to leave for the bus stop. My mother sits on our couch in the living room, crying at the wedding portrait of my mother and father.

The bus stop is a large wave of emotion as well. My best friend, Charlotte, has lived a life of constant foster hopping, depression, and eating disorders. She has 2 months and 4 days left. Rumours have been spread that she takes her own life. Her hollowed grey eyes look over at me and she smiles.

"Ready?" she asks, her voice small.

I sigh and make my way up the bus.

Click, click, click. My own clock teases me as I think of enduring a school day of rumours of death. None of me have led me to believe I will have a full life.

••••••••••••••••••••