Tick was preceded, and followed, by tock. It went vice versa, too. A constant coming from the simple white wall clock hanging on the wall. Unrelenting, unfaltering. Well, except for an exciting time when the battery died and needed changing. That was a rare occurrence though.

It wasn’t just the sound that filled his ears, but the movement of the hands on the clock. A red second hand, a blue minute hand, and a black hour hand, making their way around the dial in a constant circle with a steady pace.

There used to be other sounds. A steady up and down hush, a fairly constant beep, the sounds of footsteps on a hard surface. They probably still were there in the background, but the clock had come to obsess him. Perhaps that was the wrong term. He was always obsessed with them. Maybe it had consumed his sanity.

He had been a young boy when he discovered his ability to alter the shift of time by concentrating on the surface of a clock or watch. Childish pranks turned to self-serving actions, which led to crime in his later life. Hiding between the seconds, he’d stolen millions in cash and items. And now he was paying for his misuse, the overuse even, of his ability. Laying catatonic in a hospital bed, staring at the clock he could no longer stop.


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