The Golden Pocketwatch

Tick, tock.

Tick, tock.

Tick.

Time is a funny thing.

It feels as if I'm running late. The tick, tock of the clock sounds in time with my footsteps. The world isn't wild, the plants are dying, and I'm late. I'm late.

Tick, tock.

Tick, tock.

Tick.

I'm like a rabbit, my feet thudding against the ground. I need to be quick or else I'll be dead, like the flowers and the grass and the trees. There is nothing to crunch beneath my shoes, so they thud. And I'm already late.

Tick, tock.

Tick.

Time runs fast, but not faster than me. It was quicker than everyone else. Mom and Dad and the flowers and the grass and the trees, but not me. They didn't know that to beat time, you just had to hide yourself inside it. As long as the pounding of my feet matches the tick, tock, tick, I'll be fine. Even if I'm late.

Tick, tock.

Tick, tock.

Tick.

I don't know how long I've been running. I can't recall how many times the clock has tick, tocked since this began. Since the world started dying. And I don't want to try. Remembering the tick, tocks is how it wins. So I let my feet hit the ground and I listen and I think nothing of how long I've been running, because thinking too long and hard about Time's insistence is how you drown in it, and I'm already late. I'm late.

Tick, tock.

Tick.

My eyes focus for just a second before I tell them no again. I can't think about the blackness beneath and around and above me. Can't comprehend my white sneakers that have probably grown gray and sooty by now or the jeans that the jagged and dead trees have ripped. Can't contemplate the ashy rain coming down around me, because as soon as I do, I lose. I have not come this far only to lose. I just let my feet hit the ground in time with the tick, tock and I feel more okay. It doesn't matter that I'm breathing in smoke or that the ground is just dust beneath me. Or that I'm late.

Tick, tock.

Tick, tock.

Tick.

The clock is a blessing, I'm realizing as I get further from my home. It covers up my thoughts as much as my steps. I can't stop and think when the ticks are all I hear. They resonate in my head. I hear a faint boom behind each one. They are a reminder and a distraction at once. They quiet the explosions and the screams that sound only in my own mind, because the world outside is silent. Silent, except for the tick, tock and the thumping of my feet and the heaviness of my breathing. No crunch of dead leaves, even though it's autumn. No children playing in the pumpkin patches because none of them knew. None of them heard the clock but all of them heard the screams. I'm alone and late.

Tick, tock.

Tick, tock.

Tick.

Am I the last person in the whole world? I can't be the only one who heard Time's rhythm and understood. Eight billion people and I am alone. No, that's not right at all. I just need to get out of here, just need to get where I'm going because I'm already late and I will be until I arrive. Everybody else left early, but not me. I'm still running. When will I arrive? An hour? A day? A month? I have no clue, but I know that I cannot stop running or I will be caught, just like the children in the pumpkin patches and Mom and Dad and the flowers and the grass and the trees. I'm sweating. That's good. The sweat means that I'm still moving, when everybody else stopped. I can deal with sweat. I wouldn't even be sweating if I weren't late. I'm late.

Tick, tock.

Tick, tock.

Tick.

The ground grows softer as I move, like pillows beneath my feet. It's like the moss that used to coat the floor of the forest outside my house. Before. Except this moss is gray and smells like fire, which isn't right. The earth is supposed to be green, not black. Rain is supposed to be cold and damp, not warm and soft. These thoughts begin to circulate against my better judgment. I think I'm beginning to understand. They all left me in this world of dying plants and gray moss and tick, tocks because they didn't understand, so why did I? I vaguely remember that I used to like to play outside. That I was in a field with no trees or people when it happened, only grass and flowers that withered away before my eyes. But that was fine. That was the reason I was running late. I didn't hear the people from far away whisper a warning into our living room, so I lived, and now I'm late.

Tick, tock.

Tick.

I was fiddling with my grandfather's pocket watch when the world around me turned gray and died. I remember that. The thought sounds loudly over the pounding of my feet and the ticking of the clock. I remember how it shone gold in my hands, the last bit of color as the field I sat in disintegrated. I remember how it grew louder and louder until it was all I could hear. I remember the gray cloud in the distance, moving slowly towards me. I remember starting to run. And now I'm here. I'm here with this gold watch but no grandfather or children in pumpkin patches or Mom or Dad or flowers or grass or trees, and the only thing I can wonder is why. Why did the world end and leave me here? What if I didn't want to be alone forever? I have to shake myself in reminder. As soon as I get there, I'll be fine. I won't be alone anymore. It kills me that I can't go any faster. The ticks are getting agonizingly slow. Quietly, the words echo in my mind: I'm late.

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock.

Tick.

I remember Mom's smile, now. And Dad's sparkling eyes. And my grandfather's warm laugh. I remember all the things that I left behind completely by accident and let them run through my head in time with the tick, tock, because I can't forget them anymore. It takes everything I have to focus on the ticks and the pounding of my feet now that I know everything I'm missing. I recall the old house in this little secluded bit of the countryside that I call home, and the way the birds used to chirp in the morning. The way the grass would swish around my calves when I went for long walks outside. The deep colors of the river that ran outside my house, which is the reason my favorite color has always been blue. But there's no blue left in the world anymore. Only gray and black and soot. The ash falling from the sky replacing the late June rains we used to get. Even the sky is bleached and blackened, with clouds that spill those mossy ashes all over the ground. The only bit of color I see is the gold from the pocketwatch I'm clinging to.

Tick.

I don't realize that I've slowed down until I cast a glance behind me. I let myself remember, and Time didn't like that one bit. I was too alive to remain in this world. The enormous shifting cloud behind me has grown too close to run from. I cannot be any later than I already am.

My knees give out. I'm sitting in the moss that isn't moss, surrounded by death. The moss and my grandfather and the children in pumpkin patches and Mom and Dad and the flowers and the grass and the trees succumbed to the darkness, and now it's my turn.

Time claims me. I am no longer late.

Tick, tock.

Tick, tock.

Tick.