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| No title, but it's fairly brief. by Colonel K 07/22/2003, 3:23am PDT | ||||
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| In the morning the sun rose. The clocks more or less agreed that it was six o’clock, and Gerald found himself at work by nine. Willing time backwards, willing it to be anything but now, if only so he could avoid the next eight hours for five more minutes. Just five, he thought. Please.
Eight fifty-nine. I can’t do this, he thought. I can’t do this now. I could just get up, walk out the door and leave. Right now. What time is it? Maybe there’s still time. Eight fifty-nine. It might be fast. It might be fast, the clock might be running fast for some reason. It’s never happened but today could be a first. Maybe crack commando squads, bursting through the skylights - we don’t have skylights, though - bursting into the room to set time back and throw the system off balance. Terrorists, maybe. Time terrorists, that’s all they do, they don’t pack housecats with gelignite and chase them into office buildings, they attack us from the inside out. Eight...fifty-nine. He starts drumming his fingers on the table. Syncopates the seconds on the clock each time it clicks, keeps thinking and tries to steady his breath. Time Terrorists, he says, imagines their combat uniforms with a giant orange T on the front. It isn’t working and he tightens up, loses the beat when he stops tapping the table and just gets up, heads for the door and keeps walking. But, eight fifty-nine! The sunlight’s bright on his face. Orange and hot, it’s shining for him and nobody else. There’s a voice calling out and he knows it, knows that lopsided, horrible voice and it knows him. It won’t stop. It doesn’t stop, not when he turns away, not when he covers his ears with his hands, not when he rolls off the bed and stares at those red, rectangular numbers blinking on and off. Gerald fumbles for his keys and swears, louder than he expected but the radio doesn’t mind. Nine o’clock. He snaps awake and his mind empties, thoughts flushed out so completely that he can’t even think to think. But they start coming back, and he can’t hide them from himself this time. No, he begs. Not in my head, not again. They’re coming back and so he talks to himself, to the walls, to the windows, to anything that keeps his head filled with something that’s anything but that. It’s too late, and the memories resurface as he pulls the key from the ignition and adjusts his tie in the mirror. Nine o’clock. He steps inside and walks across the smooth floors, past the pot plants that never stop being green and the clock that is never wrong. The lift splits open as he passes by and enters, people threading out as the man beside Gerald activates the elevator and it surges upwards. Both men leave in separate directions and Gerald keeps walking, through the automatic doors into a crowded foyer where he pulls off his jacket, listening to the screams build as people spot the giant orange T on his shirt. He glares at the watch on his wrist, and the clock that is never wrong starts ticking backwards. |
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No title, but it's fairly brief. by 07/22/2003, 3:23am PDT  I love the uniform descriptions NT by 07/22/2003, 4:28am PDT Re: No title, but it's fairly brief. by 07/22/2003, 5:12am PDT Thanks. by 07/22/2003, 7:37am PDT |
