Clock

From time to time, man by name of Carter Whitley dreads the moment he wakes up. He slumbers inside a home with no machines or gears and doesn’t even own a watch. Sound of all forms is blocked by the expensive insulation installed. It is an apartment of intimate privacy. He rises from the envolped sheets annoyed by a simpe thing. The sound of ticking. Not bothering to open hiis eyes he shuffles around the room knowing where everything is by routine. Opens a door by the window and turns the faucet open. He opens his eyes facing foward into the mirror. No reflection to be seen at all. A number shows up in its stead: 40. he blinks and he sees himself disheveled and unshaven. he removes the mirror to get a grasp of one of several bottles. He takes a pill quickly and sinks his back to the wall, waiting for it to take effect. He tries hard to smile, but remains stoic for a minute. A scowl forms quick on his face after his eyes are focused enough to see the multitude of old wounds he bears hidden under his t-shirt. He stumbles back into his bedroom, lifts the blinds to show the walls full of photos. Some of them are recent, some old, some written on and others crossed out with marker. He looks around these photos and thinks deeply. Out loud he says, “40 days and I need to know who is going to die.”

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