The Clock

One may say a clock ticks onward, always constant, always on beat. It will never waver, a constant in this world that you can always trust. But in my mind it ticks against you, taunting you, staring you down with its cold, blind face. The implications of its existence defines humanities need to quantify things, to set goals, to give ends and beginnings to things that need not end. But how can anyone blame us for trying to control something we created, but cannot destroy.

Family

12:23 AM, a young boy is born as a young woman dies. Time passes and the boy grows, and an older man can't sleep at night anymore without drinking. The boy is afraid of this man, and from time to time bad things happen. The older man looks at a clock, 12:20 AM, he figures nows a good time to go to bed, 12:21 AM, he undresses in the dark bedroom, 12:22 AM, he lays down to sleep but doesn't notice the door creep open. 12:23 AM, an old man dies, and a young man goes missing.

A Woman

She lay dying in a hospital bed, barely able to utter the name of her newborn son. Her dear fiance stands above her while holding her hand tightly, he seems to be yelling something but the words seem so far away. Her mind fades back to a moment in her life she had forgotten long ago, she sat upon her mothers lap at what seemed to be her grandfather's funeral. Her mother softly says "We are all racing against time, but no matter what it will always catch up to you. It's your job to make sure you live each moment like your last, because you never know when it'll catch up." the image grows bright and her vision whites out.

The Fiance

"She died in my hands, heh, there's a lot more intended with such a small statement isn't there? That was when the old me died, honestly. Hell, I can't even look at my own son without thinking he killed her. I know I'm a horrible parent, and thats why I'm at this godforsaken meeting." I look up from my hands at the rest of the sad looking men and women sitting in a circle, a few look away as if they feel guilty for being an alcoholic without such a depressing reason. I look down again, the rest of the meeting a blur, I head home afterwards and realize how late it is. I shamble into my room and strip down, then I flop into my bed with hope for tomorrow.

Murderer

How do you live with yourself when you are born a murder?

I see the look in their eyes as I carelessly play.

I mean, how is a child to know what pain he has caused?

He never let me forget though, in fact, he reminded me daily.

What do you call someone like me?

Murderer.

How can I escape this hellhole of a life?

I'm not going to stop the clock short, thats for sure.

Who does he think he is to judge me?

He may be my father.

But you know what he's made me?

A Murderer.