Time, Perhaps

Time, Perhaps 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Tick-tock, Tick-tock, the sound from the clock. Tick-tock, Tick-tock, it didn’t stop. Over and over and again and again. Tick-tock, Tick-tock, Tick-tock, Tick-tock.

But there was no clock. No pendulum swinging. No real one anyway. But the click click click continued. Greg rubbed his head, trying to focus past the low level headache that had already formed. Somewhere out there time was being used against him. The seconds compressed and hardened, ready to strike. The minutes were battering rams. The last hour had been a slugfest, punch for punch, knock-down drag-out fight. He was sure he could make it through another hour, but after that? He wasn’t sure.

Tick-tock, Tick-tock, Tick-tock, Tick-tock. Over and over again went the rhythm. Repetition. Louder and louder. Victim to the timepiece machine.

Someone was out there. Someone was fucking with him. He didn’t have a personal item, so he couldn’t track them down that way. Maybe he could write a note. Something. A scrap of paper. Something to write on. Anything. Message in a bottle and get an answer. But where would he find a bottle?

They were attacking his brain, over and over, using the same technique each time. Maybe he could piggyback on that and work back from that. Some sort of return to sender counterattack? He’d still need to find them first.

 They must have a real clock, he thought. I can find it. It’s out there, making that pattern. It’s distinct. They are probably using a real clock and simply amplifying it into my mind. Search. Search the sound. Match it. Then figure out where the hell it is. Someone somewhere must be close to that machine. Find the pattern and turn it on them.

Tick-tock, Tick-tock, Tick-tock, Tick-tock. Louder and louder it got. He had no trouble identifying that pattern. Now he just needed the source.

Write it down. Envision it. Find something that could make a noise. Something loud. Something abrupt and painful. Maybe a broken glass. Maybe he could make the glass case on that clock shatter and cut its owner.

His body hurt. He was slowing down. The noise was driving him mad.

He would break that damn thing. He had to, or else it would break him.

He just had to reach… something. While he could still think. While he could still focus.

Something.

Tick-tock, Tick-tock.

He was barely moving. Just a fingertip away from a glass case full of his grandfather’s pocket watches. Just so barely far and inches away and close all at the same time.

Tick…

He tried to muster whatever remained of his will.

…tock.

One inch at a time.

Tick…

His mind was burning.

…tock.

Hours, minutes, what was left? It was hard to tell. How many seconds had come and gone since he had last moved.

Tick…

Open your eyes, you idiot! Open them. Move!

…tock.

One last chance. One last effort. That’s all it would take. But time was running out.

Time. That was the key. That was it. Time. Somewhere in-between the seconds, in-between the swing of the pendulum. Time was infinite. Time was forever. He just had to focus and think in-between the god forsaken sounds of that clock. Slow it down. Slow down time and make your move in the vast emptiness of in-between. That was all it would take.

T…

He would do it. He was sure.

…i…

Try, damn it! Try.

…c…

Just another inch. Reach for it. Reach it and break it and—

…

…

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