The Countdown

Chapter Four~ I Swear We're Just Friends

Dad finished his story. His face remained an expressionless mask, the only sign he had any more feeling than a sculpture were his eyes.
I finally understood why people say that eyes are the windows to the soul.

While his face remained a marble statue, his eyes swam with multiple emotions.

Fear.
Sadness.
Anger.
Grief.

I was certain that my eyes were equally revealing. I doubted I could speak without my voice shaking, so I nodded grimly and turned away.

As if in a daze I headed up to my room. A cluttered mess really. A thin path snaked to my bed which only partially showed. My hamper had no clothes in it, they were just scattered all around it.

I made my way to my bed and threw my backpack off to the side, collapsing onto the mattress. I didn't even bother to remove my shoes. As I snatched my laptop I marveled how little technology has changed in the last hundred years.

As I signed in I noticed my hands were shaking.

I had long since abandoned hope of stopping my clock. It was much easier to fall into some hopeless void, and accept that I was about to die and that there was nothing I could do about it.

Still, I wanted more answers.

I felt a sick curiosity to know everything I could about the device that would decide my fate.
I pulled up my favorite search browser and typed Add-ps 2000.

Several results popped up. I sifted through them until I found one that seemed reliable.

"The latest in medical technology," I read under my breath, "Meet the Add-ps or Accurate death date prediction system. Creator, Richard Snuff, may be a genius or just plain crazy. If his test makes just one mistake he'll lose everything!"

I was surprised how thorough Dad's explanation had been; there wasn't much more for me to learn.

I looked at some conspiracy theories about what happens if one should stop their Clock. The majority echoed Dad's warning.

An explosion.

I understood why no one had ever messed with their Clock. Not one article even alluded to possible survival and it would only harm innocent people. Some articles even theorized that terrorists used their Clocks as bombs, or the military weaponized them, although none of the stories were confirmed.

How could I stop my Clock, jeopardizing the lives of countless innocent people.
People with years left on their Clocks.

Before long, the doorbell rang.

I dragged myself downstairs, stomach churning, and open the door.

It was Abigail. No surprise. Still, I felt my face fall.

"Gee, I sure do feel welcome," She muttered as I stepped aside. She walked in and settled on the couch as if in her own home.

"Scoot," I commanded as I sat down next to her.

"So, what is it? Why were you so upset at lunch today?" She asked.

It's just like Abby to get to the point.

"Well..." I sighed, feeling my tongue grow heavy. "I'm dying. I'm going to die one day after my birthday." The words fells from my mouth rapidly.

I hadn't mean to tell her so abruptly, but I was afraid I'd chicken out if I didn't get it over with as soon as possible. Blunt was the only way I could force the words from my lips.

She stared at me in shock. "Real funny, Loser. Now what's really up?" She rolled her eyes.

"Abby, I'm serious. My Clock runs out on my birthday and I'm going to die." I showed her the article I had been reading.

Abigail started at it, horror creeping onto her face.

"How come you never told me?" She looked hurt, her voice barely a whisper.

"I'm not allowed," I answered flatly.

"Okay. I'll take that," she replied, aware that I'm generally terrified of angering my parents. Mom's wrath is something no one would knowingly subject themselves to. "But we're going to stop it."

"It's not that simple. No one has before,it starts some kind of explosion. I'm not going to take that risk."

"It's a risk!" She exclaimed , somewhat desperately, "You said so yourself no one's ever tried so why not? You don't have anything to lose anyway!"

"Because I'm not a suicide bomber!" I yelled. "Even if I'll die anyway I don't want to risk killing everyone around!"

"Jamie! I don't care! I don't know what I'll do if you die!" Abigail shrieked.

Her words hung in the air, a silence settling between us.

In a movie this would have been insanely cheesy, but not in real life. I was disturbed to see that Abigail was crying.

"Please," She whispered. "We'll go outside of town, no one will be around."

She looked up at me eyes begging me to agree.

"I can't," I sighed, feeling miserable and helpless.

"Please," she repeated. "We have to at least try."

"Okay," I finally consented. "I'll try."

"Promise me you won't die."

"I can't."

"Promise me you won't die," Abigail repeated forcefully.

"I can't promise you that."

"Promise me!" She practically screamed, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Please."

"Fine, I promise," I muttered.

Abigail wrapped her arms around me. I had known her for years but she had never hugged me.

hesitantly I rested my arms on her back. I could feel her shaking through her jean jacket. Her tears wet my shirt and her blonde hair tickled my nose; it smelled of strawberries.

Awkwardly, Abby pulled away. She looked at me shyly.

We had known each other for years but had never been more than friends. That wasn't going to change anytime soon, even if I managed to survive.

I saw in her eyes that believed me.

I felt a pang of guilt at making a promise I didn't think I could keep.