The Clock Has No Hands-

He can't see the clock from here but he can hear it ticking away his seconds as if it wants him to die. He can't see it like he can't feel the hand that holds his- his skin is numb somehow and maybe it's the lack of oxygen or maybe it's just because it's so cold- hospital rooms are never anything short of freezing, he'd decided long ago.

Or maybe it's from fear.

He hates time because there's never enough of it and he's afraid of time because he knows he has none left.

"Time."

"Time?" The hand clutching his tightens its grip andits ownerrepeats the word in a clear, smooth voice that's so different from his own.

He finds he can't talk right now and he can hear himself breathing and the breathing ties in with the clock's ticking- it's a sound he doesn't want to hear. He sounds so strained when he breathes.

"The...clock." He struggles to keep his eyes open briefly, searching for the clock that he decides must be hanging behind him over his bed, but he can't turn his head to look so he keeps his eyes on the man holding his hand and smiling a sad little smile. In his mind, he can visualize the clock's hands moving steadily and counting down his life. He discovers, quite suddenly, that he's crying and that it's making him even more exhausted. He has to cough but he can't find the strength.

Through blurred vision he can see the red roses that fill every corner and table in his room- sixty-five in all, the sweet nurse's idea, because roses are so much more pleasant than death.

Sixty-five roses, cystic fibrosis...

Time. Time is so ridiculous. If time didn't exist, he'd be in so much better shape right now, because time would never end.

He panics when the hand falls from his but he can't scream. He watches him as he stands and removes the clock from the wall behind his bed. He's relieved when the hand grips his again, even more tightly this time and he can finally feel it- it's warm. So warm.

The tears are streaming down his face and his eyes burn with salt but he can see a little better now as the other hand holds the clock in front of his face. He's surprised to see that the clock has no hands, just black Roman numerals on a white background- the man holding his hand had bought it earlier in the day and it angered him deeply to hear it ticking before, but...

"The clock has no hands." He lays the clock beside him and the smile doesn't leave his face.

He laughs silently and chokes on tears and laughter and his chest is tight. The ticking of the clock beside him fades and he really is numb now.

He closes his eyes again and lets out his breath.

---

Comments, whatever: For the record, I DO have a very morbid obsession with cystic fibrosis and I can't figure out why. (On the other hand, I also have morbid obsessions with lung cancer, underage boys,and prostitution.) This was done for the June challenge (Time) at an LJ community. (ahgayfiction) Don't waste your time trying to figure out perspectives and narratives. Coherence is not what the story is about.