This is a little plot bunny I had today that nagged at me until I wrote it. I'm not sure how far it'll go or how often I'll update, but I can definitely see how the whole thing will be laid out so there's hope that it'll get finished at some point. Not to beg or say reviews will make me write faster, but I would really appreciate feedback. I've never written more than a one-shot or poem, so I'm not completely sure how this is going to go. Thanks for reading and enjoy! - Grace

Time: a precious gift and a deadly discovery having granted men appreciation of life, fear of death, and a need to be remembered. There are those with too much time on their hands and those without enough. Whatever the amount man has developed the obsession of constantly and endlessly counting time. Days, hours, minutes, and seconds: all endlessly distracting and meaningless.

Reagan Jones began her day as a sixteen year old with all the time in the world only to have her time limited with two words and an apologetic smile. She was given sympathy and a bag of medication and was sent on her way. Four months at the most. Her countdown began.

Christopher Peterson was a seventeen year old with too much time on his hands. Enough time for worry, doubt, and expectations to consume his every thought. With an overabundance of time he made the decision to limit it himself. Four months to the day. His countdown began.


It started with a headache; a small throbbing at the base of her head that caused only a slight discomfort in Reagan Jones' daily routine. Thinking nothing of it, she went about the first day of her junior year as any other sixteen year old would. Rushing through her room, throwing discarded clothes in random directions, she searched tirelessly for the perfect outfit that just screamed "First Day". She wanted to look mature but fun, smart but cute. Pulling on a pair of skinny jeans she raced over to her closet in an attempt to find a shirt she swore was in her dresser last night.

"Reagan," her mom's voice carried up the stairs. "If you don't hurry you'll be late. You don't want to be late on your first day do you?"

Reagan rolled her eyes, head still buried in the bottom of her closet. "Yes, mom, I so badly want to be late on my first day. It's what all the cool kids are doing now." Tossing aside another top, she ran over to her dresser in a last-ditch effort to find her shirt. The sound of her mom's footsteps carried up the stairs but were ignored by the frantic teen.

"Oh my goodness, Reagan!" Reagan's head snapped up at the sound of her mom's voice in her doorway. Her mom, Amy Jones, stood in her usual business attire, long brown hair in a tight bun and bright blue eyes, which Reagan shared, looking around Reagan's room in horror. "This looks like a tornado disaster zone!" Her mom's face morphed into a mixture of anger and shock as she attempted to tip-toe around the discarded piles of clothes. "What on earth are you doing?"

Reagan sighed and turned back to her search. "I'm trying to find my shirt –"

"Well it seems you've found all of them haven't you?" Her mom's gesture to the destruction of Reagan's room went unnoticed.

"Yeah, but I'm trying to find the perfect shirt. You know the one. It's the green one with the stuff on the sleeves."

Reagan's mom stood puzzled for a moment before reaching down and plucking a shirt off of the top of the nearest discarded pile. "Is this the one?" She held it out towards her daughter on one finger as if afraid it might bite her. With bold, black graffiti designs on the sleeves and having been made from a screaming green fabric the shirt did indeed seem a bit fierce.

Reagan sighed again before turning her head to look at her mom over her shoulder, highly doubting her mom had founded the shirt that quickly. Never doubt a mother's powers, however, for her mom had found the exact shirt she'd been looking for, for nearly an hour. Reagan snatched it from her mom and quickly pulled it over her head while still attempting to keep her perfectly quaffed brown hair straight and tidy. She threw her arms around her mom and squealed, "You're the best!"

Her mom patted her back and smiled, "I know, but you better hurry if you want to look the best. You've only got fifteen minutes before you have to leave for school." Reagan squeaked before racing out of the room her mom's laughter following her down the stairs as she quickly made her way to her first day of junior year. She had the entire year ahead of her and couldn't wait.


Christopher Peterson woke to shouts. He rubbed his eyes and sat up in bed trying to tune out his mother and father's early morning argument. 'They're arguing started a little early today. Guess I'll have to be a little more careful,' he thought as he got out of bed to get ready for school. It was the first day of his junior year which meant new teachers, new classes, and new topics for his parents to argue about. Internally groaning, Chris pulled on his jeans and a clean t-shirt before heading to his bathroom for his morning routine. Normally he pretended to wake up after his father had already left for work, but today he had no choice or he'd miss his first class.

"—can't afford this kind of thing—"

"—not my fault you can't seem to—"

"—why you can't even bother to try and be home when—"

His parents' argument followed him as Chris quickly walked to his bathroom, rushed through his routine, and grabbed his already packed backpack from his room. He mentally prepared himself to enter what was surely a battle zone on the way to the front door of the house. He inched closer to the kitchen in time to hear a glass shatter against the wall. He gulped before slowly moving into the room where he caught his first look of his parents that morning.

His mother was sat at the kitchen table, head in her hands, crying. His father stood with his back to her, arms braced on the edges of the sink. The shattered glass lay on the floor at the base of the opposite wall probably thrown by his father when he was too angry to contribute words to the fight. Christ inched into the room a little more but cringed and stopped when the floorboard creaked under his tennis shoe. He froze, the muscles of his father's back tensed, and his mother slowly lifted her head from her hands.

Her eyes were red and puffy, cheeks wet from tears. Chris's breath caught in his throat at the sight of a red splotch on his mother's cheek that was clearly not from crying. His mother looked at him briefly before her eyes darted back over to his father whose back was still turned. Christ began to inch towards the door again, heart hammering in his chest, fist clenched around the shoulder strap of his backpack. His father's voice stopped him just as Chris' hand wrapped around the door handle.

"Didn't I teach you not to listen in on other people's conversations?" It was more a statement than a question, but Chris new better than not to answer.

"Yes, sir."

His father still didn't turn around. "Then what are you doing in the kitchen when your mother and I are clearly talking about something that doesn't involve you?"

Chris so badly wanted to tell his father that it did involve him, especially if his mother was hurt, but he held his tongue. "I'm on my way to school, sir. It's Monday and –"

"I know what day it is." The quick interruption made Chris flinch. Hand still frozen on the door handle, Chris waited. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get to school." Chris glanced back at his mother who had buried her head in her hands again before rushing out the door leaving it to bang closed behind him. He had a whole year of getting up in the mornings and walking through arguments and fights on his way to school. Chris trudged down the street beginning his ten minute walk to school while silently wondering just how much more time he could stand to spend with his father.