The Clock

It is always of great human interest to witness the transformation of another being as they display the discomfort of any given situation for which relief has no part.

      His eyes began to bulge slightly, not so much in disbelief, but rather from the exertion. The folded brow, raised to hold perhaps some thought of how to rise again, became smooth from time to time, which seemed to pulsate the rapidly forming perspiration down his now inflated, quivering cheeks that were turning a shade of Valentine-red. The strangest sounds became audible, but only if you really honed in on him. A bow striking rubber strings on a broken violin; a vehicle stopping suddenly as to lock its wheels on a poured concrete floor underwater; all the woes of nighttime communicated through a receiver during a phone call with a weak connection. He would kick, but at nothing. The air, ripe with metropolitan haze and pregnant with disposable humanity did not bruise easily. His attempts were fruitless. Laying there, lifting one helpless leg after the other, sometimes his entire lower half would leave the lifeless ground below him. The throat that would host a crisp, cold glass of liquid refreshment in Summer, and a frothy hot cocoa (made slightly darker by the addition of a ¼ teaspoon more than the recommended amount of chocolate mix) was becoming pulpy and thicker. Each breath became his last, but weren't they all? The confused windpipe, now filled with despair, would sound out its dissatisfaction with forced choking and juice. Just then, a funny thing happened. His nose, appearing more sunburnt and anchored in the wet Valentine sea of face, began to run. Don't tell me he didn't stop to wonder at this, even if for a moment, during the same fate that made his navy blue eyes dilate and water as though he was forcing a demon out from his every orifice, but failing miserably.

Miserably.

     A small, trailing orb of crimson traveled from the height of his left temple, coated by thinning short ashy hair to the back of his head, which was subject to gentle impact from time to time against the pavement, forlorn by beautification measures of any kind. Where the blood came from, some of us may never discover. Quaking hands were attached to arms that were covered by a suit jacket matching his eyes in a completely unplanned and coincidental wardrobe decision taking place earlier that day. These hands had rings – one in particular felt hot and reminded him of the struggle over which he must prevail. They attempted to claw both sides of his covered throat, now bruising and expanding. Muscles and tendons heaving, along with sweat now forming faster that was agitated by the struggle, made it greasy and especially difficult to grasp. Raised rubber veins on his now drenched forehead caught and reflected the dim sun of streetlights grimly projecting off in the distance. His every contraction made each bead of moisture shift and run down the sides of his big, swollen face and mix with the spittle and blood that gathered safely and silent around him. A nearby floodlight burst forth into life and showered him with both shadows and a brief moment of composure. Navy blue was to be forever eclipsed with stalled movement of darkness. His eyes continued to be forcefully pressed forward from behind watery sockets. Lips that remained open during a silent scream were constantly tickled by the flutter of a bloating, fabric tongue riding the wind of strained breath. One huge propulsion of forced oxygen – his last – exploded through his crumbling throat. It sounded as though as overfull wooden outhouse had been dropped from a great height and spread in shards upon impact on an uneven street, hot with July, and its contents scattering quickly in even pointed directions. The red foam continued to form from and float down his purple face. It was surprising to see how very quickly it became completely free of struggle and color – his face. In no more than 15 minutes, all those reds and pinks and purples evaporated to reveal him as specimen-beige, decorated with black handprints and occasional brown banding. He almost appeared peaceful and it made a funny taste develop in your mouth upon seeing him. It tasted like an unwanted Christmas present, or any other Holiday marked by misfortune or unplanned affliction. Somewhere, a flag will be flown at half-mast. Someone will mourn. Someone will celebrate. Someone will keep their job. Time will pass. We will forget. Struggle. White flashes. Pink. Airless. Red. Love. Strength. Light. Strain. Kick. Blood.