Ten minutes. Ten minutes.
Ten minutes is too short. Subtract five minutes, you get five. Subtract five, you get none.
That was Deklan’s thinking. It was all in fives, thus all in halves. Ten minutes just wasn't enough. Thirty minutes maybe; that would leave fifteen. But not ten. Ten wasn't an O.K. number for him.
He thinks he should have been granted more time, time that considered his mindset of halving everything. What could he do, say, or even think in ten minutes? He didn't know. He didn't have the time to figure it out either. It wasn't even his fault he died. It was an accident that did him in. Wasn't that simple fact enough to grant him some more minutes?
The real question, however, wasn't about minutes and time and seconds. The seven-year-old boy realized this when his feet found the sidewalk that sat in front of his home.
The real question was a matter of who he was going to see.
His dad would have whooped him for saying this, but damn those ten minutes. They were just too restrictive, both in life and in death.
Who would he meet with?
What would, should, could he say?
The boy hugged himself, his nonexistent form feeling cold. Or perhaps it was wanting to be cold that made him feel like this. Did the afterlife feel things? He didn't know.
He could see his dad, tell him thanks for his valuable lessons and for being such an amazing role model. He could see his mom, tell her thanks for all the hard work she put into raising the family in an economically comfortable and safe home.
But neither of those felt right to him.
And suddenly, after all his consideration, ten minutes had been halved into five.
The boy shivered once again, a car whisking by him, wind currents blowing through his no longer live and concrete form. He was brought back to the crash that had ended him.
Screeching metal.
Shattering windows.
Rolling. 1. 2. 3. 4.
Screaming.
Searing pain.
Darkness.
Who else was in the car? Yes, he remembered now. His dad, who lost a foot in the crash. His mom, who had some twisted hips and a damaged back.
His sister.
Suddenly, he knew who he would meet. Deklan turned around and walked down the street, towards the park, for the one he died saving.
She was always at the park. She loved the peace there, especially in times of turmoil, when she was driven insane by the sound of yelling parents. There, he could see her, sitting on the swing-set but not kicking her feet to do what the contraption was meant to do: swing. She didn't swing because he wasn't there to push her.
She was the only one at the park, or at least the only he could see. She had the dead, vacant, and hopeless look she had when their parents argued.
Suddenly, more memories.
He dove in to cover her body with his.
He was there for her, like a human shield.
He smiled at her.
And she walked out of the crash with only a few cuts and a broken ankle.
Deklan was cut down to a minute when he awoke from the memory. Thirty seconds left in his mindset of halves.
He ran to her then, then slowed slowed down, afraid of alerting her.
What would he say?
He decided nothing.
He placed his hands on her back and pushed her. Surprise lit her dark brown eyes, and suddenly, everything seemed to slow down. Thirty seconds became an eternity of unspoken words and many promises. As she came swinging back down, Deklan smiled.
And he faded.
