20 Minutes Mr. Clay

 

 

  

 

I had killed this day in accordance to any other day. Fighting thought, fighting fate. I sit on the foot of my lonely and still and somewhat haunting bed, complete with it's bleak green, single layer, half cotton half polyester sheet with matching pillowcase. My elbows dug into my knees holding up my tired head as I try to avoid the most deepest of thought from entering my mind. I am unable to, as the unwarranted prods soak into my feeble memory, goading my brain like an old crow out of it's nest. How I am so ill-prepared for such a task as to manage these perturbed inklings as they reverberate between my ears.

 

"20 minutes Mr. Clay."

 

I feel that I have lived a long enough existence in which I would be the subject of someone's commentary. But what accomplishments would I have offered to set the tone? Lost desires and lost opportunities? 'Oh, that Clay, he could've been something alright'. If it wasn't for this bed and these walls, I'm certain that I would have no purpose at all. Unlike the many faces that have crossed my path, the inanimate has more use for me. The age the has settled upon me leaves me with not much to show for it other than a blurred reflection of wrinkles and grey that reflect in the morning mirror. I have barely made use of the face of the clock on the wall as it looks down on me as I watch time run out. I can hear the mocking of the tick-tock as it's wired hands laugh after every half-hour. Even the chirping of the cuckoo can be heard behind it's doors before it's time. And the carved birds have their chance at the prodding of my failures. And as it were, the clock starts to chime a quarter to.

 

"15 minutes Mr. Clay."

 

The one chance that I had I can recall now. Entering my thought process like a breath of fresh air in a smokey card store. She appeared as vivid in my mind now as she did that day. Long flowing hair, deep blue, almost oceanic eyes. Wistful skin that seemed to be that of the great pharaohs in Egypt's time. Her scent reminded me of the sea breezes of ole, when I was less than three-quarters the age I am now, gathering quahogs off the shore with my grandfather's tutelage. The only true chance I had at succeeding amongst the working class man and live in a society that would otherwise have me shunt out. It would've been with her. For she held my expediential mind in such high regard that I would only choose to keep my most profound of thought at bay. She would whisper 'keep it as simple as this kiss' as she pressed her thin lips against mine with her eyes quaintly shut as my eyes would flutter as I succumb to her love. But she had been taken away. Far away beyond even my most proficient and vastly expanded mind and wonderment.

 

"10 minutes Mr. Clay."

 

Unsure, I sat, as a bead of sweat ran off my head and trickled down my arm. I lay back and throw both arms over my head and examine the cracks in the concrete of the ceiling. Wavy lines that seem to intersect and carry on until finally meeting the crease of the wall. Like breaks in ocean waves it continues to the corners of the room. It leaves it's marks upon anyone that chooses to see it. Unnoticed only to those that have not the need to look beyond what is in front of them. Beyond that which is obvious and sometimes abundant, but not always relevant. I have not always been relevant. The antithesis being that I have always gone unnoticed, that is until the most obvious stumbled onto my fateful path. It isn't always luck, be it good or bad that determines where a man should be at any given moment. Some call it a 'destined state' or 'coincidental occurrence'. Just as the rain is now roaring outside and the raindrops fall to their predetermined landing and crash - sometimes noticed, or other times they land to a blind eye, or in a body of water or into a bed of soil without so much as a whimper from the scattering people seeking refuge. The thunder, how it rumbles now like a pre-historic animal, frightening it's prey as it approaches.

 

"5 minutes Mr. Clay, 5 minutes."

 

And it would only be five minutes that I had spent with her that day. I had wished that I had known that it would be the final minutes. Just a few glances we had exchanged, with not as much as a 'how was your day?' could we manage. She only exists now in my thought as her final moments called to me like a clock on a wall. I was blinded by her depression as I witnessed the letter opener piercing through her ribcage as she leant on it, killing herself. A spattering of crimson drops covered both her and I as the provisioned knife disappeared deeper into her heart. This 'destined state'- this once only love, entering my sullen dull life, for a brief glimpse of happiness would then have run out like the pool of blood that flowed from underneath her. My time would just as soon run out like her heartbeat, slowing as the approaching authorities screamed outside the window and would arrive and search for blame. There was I. A victim of coincidence? Of circumstance? No, merely a victim of existence.

 

 

"It's time Mr. Clay."

Author's Note

Yes, I am aware of the run-ons and fragments. Thank you!

Reviews

[zogzog]

i like it....

[ANNA]

AMAZING TO READ! couldn't wait to write the next time!!

Much love n respect,
Anna

How are you!?

[krissie]

nice!

[Clouded in Hopeful Illu..]

This is a great story. It really shows how some forms of justice aren't always the right forms of justice. Or atleast to me it does. When I read the title, I thought it had to do with death. With someone dying, but I thought 20 minutes to kill someone. I guess in a way, my thinking was correct, but it was not what I expected. I had caught on fairly quickly though.


Since you know of the run ons and fragments then there is only little I have to add in the way of editing.

"The age the has settled upon me leaves me with not" ---
The age that has settled upon me, leaves me with not
or
The age that has settled upon me leaves with not

"my most profound of thought at bay" ----
thoughts

"quaintly shut as my eyes would flutter as I succumb to her love" ----
quaintly shut as my eyes would flutter and I succumb to her love.

Good work. And thank you for sharing.

Nice. Its all I have to say

[Damien Dsoul]

Where was Satre when he sat down to compose 'Nausea'? and under which rock did Camus reside in when the lines of 'The Outsider' arose in his mind? Why else aren't there around to have snatched up this complex, piece of Existential existence for themselves? Too bad.

[Siddartha Beth Pierce]

Oh, this one gave me chills at the end...I knew he was on death row or so it seemed but wouldn't have expected the ending in any way. Nice prose. Well done. Thank you for sharing your talent.
Light,
Siddartha

[OceanTropic]

Woah. I loved the irony! How his time is now running out because he cuts someone's elses time short. I loved that. And the whole counting down thing was nice also. The description of the crimson drops just reminded me of the images we see in movies, when deep, dark red drips onto white clothing, its such a disturbing image. And you portrayed it here perfectly. Wow I really loved this last paragraph. I didn't really notice any run-ons, i'm a big fan of long sentences, I think they work better anyways.

Great write!! I really loved the imagery.

[Wildfleour]

The countdown clearly builds in suspense and this is reminiscent of a Poe story. Well done, Jason.

As far as critique - I would review for fragments and run-ons.