The Clock on the Wall
My name is Ernest. I am 98 years old.
A monitor beeps steadily beside my bed, counting down the heartbeats till my life is blown out like a candle.
Tick, tock. Oh, that’ s the clock on the wall.
Below me, the world moves on. I gaze out of the tinted window. A manager on a construction site shouts at a worker to lower the crane in, 10... 9... 8...
It seems like everything is awaiting my death.
My breath rasps out of me in a rattle.
A beat. I’ m plunged into darkness.
I blink groggily in my mind’ s eye. There is a woman leaning over me. Her brown eyes, same as mine, glisten with unshed tears. A deep voice booms from the other side of the stark white room. A tall man comes into vision, love shining through his eyes. It suddenly occurs to me where I am. The hospital.
My mind pulls me out of the memory. It shoves me into the next one, me at three years old. I totter around before climbing onto my bike. It was one of those balance bikes, the ones without pedals. I ride unsteadily before falling clumsily. I stare at the growing beads of crimson as it starts stinging. Stinging into oblivion.
I get yanked into another long-left memory. Me, as a gangly sixteen-year-old. I fondly recall my sporting days, before my age got the better of me. I remember the excitement and adrenaline, the tangible tension at tournaments. I remember my trophy cabinet, groaning and creaking with each new addition.
I feel myself being reeled away like a fish on a line. Slowly withdrawing into another memory. It’ s a bright summer day. Flowers are strewn on the floor. I wait on the dais, unable to keep the undiluted joy off my face as she appears. My eyes well up as she approaches with a smile full of promises. A bright flash of dazzling light transports me 10 years from the best day of my life.
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