Clock on the Wall

Thanking John for giving her an hour of his time, the woman, all business and clipboards and a wee, practiced smile, entered the venue of their interview along with him. They took their seats on the polar ends of the modular sofa, as if the space in between would make it easier for them; easier to drag deep, appraising eyes across the vagueness of a stranger still barely lit by the ebb and flow of tongue and light; easier to shrink away from predatory curiosity masked by polite smiles and a semi-formal suit. There was a brief pause as they prepped up; a few counts of sorting out papers and awkwardly shifting around on the soft seams of dark colored cubes, then the interviewer finally opened her mouth to speak.

It all started with the most basic information, of course: name, age, status, birthday, address; and then, the actual interview began. She had brought up the topic of Regionalism, and John managed to maintain a cool and effortless fluency to his answers until the part where the interviewer asked him for his thoughts regarding the decision to move out from Bacolod and into Manila. He fell silent, was silent for a long time. The woman looked up from her notes and squinted those deep, chocolate hues at him in bemusement.

"Sir? Is something wrong?" she asked. Another silent stare. She shifted in her seat. He was staring right through her; a fifth dimension caught between her ears, and she dared not remove him from it. Perhaps she thought it important, relevant hopefully, or perhaps she was simply too unnerved to react or to even know how to react. Thus, the only sound for the next bit was the ticking of a wall clock just east of them, and, for some reason, John seemed drawn to it. The interviewer had repeated her question, an attempt to finally bring him back, but he kept his gaze locked and livid, feeling mocked all of a sudden. The clock, typical in design, has one long hand (minute) that moves the shorter one (hour), but neither would continue forward unless the thinnest and longest one kept moving. He couldn't help but feel as if it was, indeed, the perfect, realest representation of his dreams in life, with the long hand as his actions, shorter one as goals, and the thinnest of all being his will to move. He continued glaring at it.

Then, the strangest thing happened. Time seemed to have been reversed; a jab by the Maker's tongue in cheek way of things. The clock suddenly began moving opposite of its usual course, and the world was revolving quickly, far too quickly for him to make any sense of. Sensing an overwhelmed migraine about to strike, he closed his eyes and uttered a prayer.

When he opened them again, it was high school graduation day. Everything was going so well; he passed all his entrance exams to the best universities the country could offer and took up UP Manila's. Everyone was celebrating and giving him congratulatory slaps on the back. There was even a party: a farewell party. He was bound for Manila; new place, new home. Thinking about it, there had been times when that party felt more like a funeral of irony than anything pleasant; a grave laden with rose petals so red, they could be mistaken for the blood that trickled down his cheeks as he cramped himself into the coffin to be shipped to the cities.

He was never one for socializing, and the move was a struggle due to it, with all these fresh faces being forced through the walls of his personal space. Everything was new, strange, and simply uncertain, like a child taking his first steps; but just like that child, he persevered and succeeded despite it all, and he got to be one of the top students of his batch during his first year of college. But not the whole move was all sugar and everything nice.

~

While waiting for the man to come back to his senses, the interviewer looked down at her clipboard where she wrote down the information he had given her not a long moment ago.

Name: Carlos Bautista

Sex: Male

Status: Single