The Clock of Life

by Jiayu Kok

Life is like a clock, a bomb slowly counting down. Tick. Tick. Tick. Each year another hour, each week another minute, each day another second. Closer and closer. All you can do is wait and remember.

Tick. Tick. The endless sea of grey, like a pathway to heaven. The smell of fresh air on a cold evening. The buzz of the radio in the car, the breeze against my face. Closer and closer…

Tick. The swaying of the car as my mother drives down the freeway, my father slapping her until she’s senseless. My aunt screaming as she looks at her sister’s face lolling to the side. Tick. Tick. Tick. The light fragmenting in my vision like fireworks bursting through the sky. The wind roaring, deafening in my ears. The screams of my father, the tears against my face, my aunt shrieking. The seatbelt against my neck, a jolt and then blackness, my vision smothered suddenly by a black silk blindfold. All a waste of time on the ticking clock of life.

Tick. Waking up in unfamiliar surroundings. Looking around for my parents. White lights blinding my vision, haze settling around the edges of my eyes. The beeping in the background and the faint sounds of shuffling feet. The sense of fear. The relief. Another second closer. Searing pain spiking my head, as I try to lift it, wincing as my arms and legs tingle. Worried faces, my lips trembling as I realised. They’re gone.

Even closer now. The squeal of wheels, the retches of my aunt. The hushed voices still loud enough for me to hear. The worried faces. The pity, the pity I don’t want. Treating me like a child. Brain damage. Broken femur. Whiplash. Two casualties. My hands against the wheelchair handles, the ache in my back from waiting and waiting. The talk they give me. Making sure I understand what to do. The weight upon my shoulders.

Tick. Tick. The smell of wet grass and burning incense. The sea of black and darkness. Any speck of colour and vibrancy, drained out from the air. The misery. My heart thumping against my chest. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. The crowd of strangers. Relatives I didn’t even know existed. All arriving to pay their respect. The endless talk of loss and the tears on their faces. The clock of life slowly counting down.

Tick. The feel of the wooden box beneath my fingertips. My mother’s face, plain as day. The gasps scattering across the crowd as they peer at her. The defiantly displayed patches of yellow and the ugly swells of purple painted across her face like an artwork. My mother always said that she wanted an open coffin so that everybody could see what he did to her. The pity deep in the strangers’ souls, the streams of tears rolling down their faces. The look of my father in a suit. His hair brushed and parted, his face peaceful. It was hard to remember what my father had been before this. The singlet, the shorts, the screaming. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The stutters of my aunt. Pleading for her sister. I try to hide the look of anguish on my face. The look on everyone’s faces as she screams in agony. Asking the heavens for a proper goodbye. The defeated sigh and the way she tucks my mother’s hair behind her ear in a final farewell. Tick. Tick. The confused look on my sister’s face. The annoyed look of our brother, shouting that she’s stupid, just because she doesn’t understand. My siblings fighting over the smallest matter again. My bad explanation of death. My brother afraid to show weakness because of my father’s stupid lessons. The taste of my mother’s famous pancakes; never to be tasted again. All memories that transcend the ticking clock of life.

A minute left. The last week. The crying, when everyone else is asleep. The concern etched on people’s faces. The pressure of taking care of my family. The mess of my hair, the bags under my eyes, the lack of sleep. The brush of wind, her voice in the air. It’s okay, she says. But it’s not. It never was. And now, it never will be. Tick. Tick. Screaming, trying to get these thoughts out of my head. Hiding in my room, afraid to show my face. The websites online not helping, my friends doing nothing. My hands shaking, never fully committing, terrified of the end. The shame of how I would let down my family. Who would take care of them after? After the time on the clock of life ran out?

Seconds left. The little red robin flying into the kitchen. The soft sound of its singing, and its reassuring, knowing look. The relief. The closure. The first emotions I’ve had in weeks. The amazement on my sister’s face, the terror on my brother’s. The resignation in my heart. The final kisses on my family’s heads. The final words. I love you.

Time is up. The cold metal against my skin, then the sting as it pierces my flesh, lulled over by her voice in my head. My breath finally taken away by the comfortable embrace of death. Nothing lasts forever. In the end, everyone submits to the clock of life.