The Girl Who Lived
Who among us truly comprehends the flow of time? All remain in the moment. Day to day, record to record. The moment, for them, is all there is. But for me, the moment is a stranger. Time itself is my only companion. The clock in the corner mocks me, as it attempts to keep pace. A birdsong will begin in a moment's time. And fade the moment after. Always the same song. Always the same moment. Like drums, keeping the tempo of discordant melody. The moment will come and go, and I will never feel it.
Oh, to be a fool, I reflect. With knowledge comes sorrow – even as knowledge slips from my memory, the sorrow remains. Wisdom itself is as banal as the ticking of the clock. Wisdom, in the end, means nothing. Wisdom does not beget power. There is nothing in this world that could grant me. And I run a finger down the barrel of my companion, before the finger is removed, and the hand kept in check. Wisdom offers me a way out. Yet I lack the courage to end it all.
I glance at my friend once more. Once, I would have called it magic. Once, I would have prayed to the gods. But they have never answered. Not one, in all the pantheons that rise and fall around me. Never have I seen divinity. I am immortal…does that make me a god? What do gods do when they are lonely? Perhaps they create worlds and life to inhabit them. Remain silent and watch over their domain. But…I pull back the handle of my friend. I am not a god. I cannot create.
I raise the barrel to my mouth. I cannot miss. And I wonder how much the magic of gods can do when confronted with the fire of Man. Fire. Our oldest piece of technology. Still used today, even as the world grows colder. I could pull the trigger and end it all. Do so much damage that immortality itself would pause.
I have power, I reflect. I have enough wisdom to know that this is the only way. But now, do I at least have the courage? Or does cowardice guide my hand? Am I to play the Roman fool, and die upon my own sword? Or is this life so charmed that I truly cannot die, that prophecy itself rings true? The play goes on, its acts standing before me, each one more insipid than the last. All I have to do is close the curtain, and refuse any encore. All I have to do is pull, and…
…The song begins. It is midday. Twelve of the clock. Twelve chimes. The largest number. The greatest number. The cursed number. Twelve. Always twelve.
And I retreat. I toss my friend aside and weep. No wounds for their salt to enter. None remain in my body long enough to deep deeper. To rip my body apart, and see if there's anything left of the soul within. I am stretched. Yet never torn.
The bird sings, and I behold my companion. Time, my friend. Time, my jailer. Time, my foe.
Life has long since left me.
And death offers no respite.
