Tick, tock.
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It’s an aggravating sound, don’t you find?
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Tick, tock.
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The sound of a clock.
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Tick, tock.
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A clock represents time. In this moment, if there’s anything I don’t have, it’s time.
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Tick, tock.
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It reminds me that I’m weeks away from dying. The terrifying, awful, traumatizing feeling of the next months will be enough to wish myself death.
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Tick, tock.
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I’ve wasted my life.
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Tick, tock.
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Where has the time gone?
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Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
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I pick up a book on the table next to my bed and throw it at the clock. It lands onto the floor, breaking. I can’t hear the ticking anymore. Just the internal one. My internal clock yelling at me. It’s trying to warn me that time’s running out. Because it is. There are too many things in life, I wanted to do, but never got the chance. I’ve never found a lover, I’ve never smoked or drank, I’ve never become successful. I’m only 23, anyways. I’m not ready to die. What would my 8th grade teacher say when I would zone out in class, again? Oh, right. “Snap out of it, James Baxter! You need an education to get far in life!”. Why would I need an education, and how would I be successful if I can’t do anything but fight in a stupid war, that I have nothing to do with. My country was bombed. I should care, but I don’t. I do understand that the Nazis are awful people that are doing terrible things, but I still don’t feel like fighting them. I don’t feel like fighting anyone. I just want to live my life. Politics have never really been my thing…it was mostly whack that I didn’t agree with. So, I would stay out of it. Every time I’d go to one of my parents’ stupid dinner parties, the subject of politics would always come up. I remember what my mother told me before entering one of those.
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“Be polite, James. Agree with whatever the adult says. Do not contradict that person. Even if you don’t agree, pretend that you do. Good boys don’t get involved with problems like that.”
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I scoff internally. “Good boys don’t get involved with problems like that.”. In other words; that’s politics, and we don’t want you saying something stupid in front of people. I love my parents, don’t get me wrong, but I would like parents who trust me enough to talk.
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Tick, tock.
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I hear my internal clock ticking, again. It’s not telling me the time, like an average clock. It tells me all the things I missed out on. I glance at my calendar. It’s the 1st of December 1941. That means, I’m going off to war in exactly 7 days. I’ve read about the Germans…I feel bad. Not for them- I mean, for myself. Myself because I’m going to have to go through that in a week. The thought I had earlier came back to me. I’ve wasted my life. It’s true…I have. I have proof; right now, it’s my last day in America, and I’m lying on my bed, manifesting my death. If that isn’t the saddest thing you’ve ever heard, I don’t know what is. It is my last day living as a free human in America. Shouldn’t I be…I don’t know…having fun? You know, normal things 23-year-olds do. That does not include lying down on your bed like a sad sack. No one feels sorry for me. A lot of people are in the same situation. I’ve heard of men that cut their toes or fingers off to pass as “disabled” and not go off to war. Honestly, I’m not sure how those people live with themselves. I guess, losing a finger is less bad than dying, and it is a pretty clever thing to do…but what of your country? There are innocent people dying in the German’s hands. Shouldn’t we do something for those poor, sweet people? That’s probably the only reason I haven’t cut off my fingers.
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My mind wanders. It’s funny…the things you remember when you’re weeks away from death. I remember my best friend, Pete, in primary school. He was a terrible influence and taught me more swear words than I could count. I wonder what he’s doing today. Is he a mechanic? A doctor? A teacher? It doesn’t matter, anyways. He’s probably going off to war or gone off to war already, like the rest of us. It’s actually a good thing I don’t have a wife or kids. I don’t need more people to disappoint. My parents are already aware that I’m not coming back from this war. They won’t tell me that to my face, though. What’s the point of hiding it from me? I know I’m about to die, anyways. I think again to another thing I thought of, earlier. I’ve never had a lover. Yeah. I’ve never even had a girlfriend. Back in high school, a lot of girls liked me. That’s probably because I was very mature for my age and gender. I treated everyone very kindly, even if they didn’t deserve it. Let’s face it, a lot of kids didn’t deserve it. I tried my best to be nice, but they’d call me names. Bad names. I was a bit of an oddball. I was friendly with a tone of people, but I had no friends. I’d always just read on my own, away from everyone. I still remember what they’d say…
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“Mollycoddle”
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“Go-Alonger”
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“Twit”
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“Girl.”
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“Diseased”
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I’m sure they thought they were freaking hilarious. I wonder where they are or what they’re doing, now. Maybe doing just like me. Lying down in bed and staring at the ceiling, having strange shower thoughts. Now that I mention it, that sounds really sad. I should probably go out in the world and do something fun. Yeah. That’s it. Maybe that will help me take my mind off everything. I get up and grab a light jacket. Once I left, it was pitch black. Nothing is illuminated other than the giant, circular moon, shining its purple light over the neighbourhood. I sigh. Where do I even go, from this point on?
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