The green numbers flashed, ticking down with every distinct click.
Two minutes and counting.
She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever laid his eyes on. Even through the layer of dirt and grime that bedded her features, there was something incommensurable to her qualities. He'd never seen a single girl—not even in New Greenwich—that could even compare to what he'd seen then: the eyes like liquid sapphires, the face forever frozen in the flawless age of 25. This Minute Man had never, not in any time district, seen anything paralleled to her beauty.
One minute and thirty seven seconds.
He could see her eyes shift nervously at her forearm. Like any other person there, the green numbers were ticking by with their terrifying, rhythmic pace. The lime-green light glowed its condemning numbers. It was clear by her fearful eyes that her time was running out.
One minute and six seconds.
"Please, just ten minutes. Five, one—anything!"
One by one, the passing people walked by in their usual, fast-paced steps. Nobody heard her—nobody wanted to hear her. Each and every one of them stepped around her, ignoring her desperate pleas.
Fifty three seconds.
"Please, just a bit more time!"
Her voice reminded him of his mother. The sweet tenor that had lulled him to sleep on restless nights, the soothing voice of comfort. Even in this girl's panic, he could hear the loveliness of her tone.
Thirty seconds. Half a minute.
But she was just a street rat. A common provincial in the ghetto, waiting for the last of her seconds to slip away, like all the other inhabitants of the lowly time zone.
"Please."
She knew she was going to die.
Twenty four seconds.
He could never be with her. Her life had probably been worth weeks less than what he "earned" in a single night. She would never stop being desperate, be it five minutes or another year. Like a starved creature, she would have begged for mere days: always rushed, always scared. That's what the people in this time zone had in common. They were always rushed to keep themselves alive but, in doing to so, they never really lived. That was why he did what he did—they didn't need to expand their lives any longer. They were wasting their time, just like her. Just like the very girl whose lifestyle he was so desperately trying to run away from.
Ten seconds.
Her green eyes met with his, wide with anguish and fear. The very sight made his heart beat with an unfamiliar constriction, but, even through the discomfort, he couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from hers.
Nine.
Who knew how much she had really lived. Perhaps she wasn't even twenty six yet. Maybe she'd been an old resident of another time zone who had fallen upon hard times. Whatever had driven her to this, she was nothing now.
Eight.
He knew exactly what she felt now. His mother had passed with an apologetic smile. "Don't cry," she'd whispered. Her voice had been unnaturally calm for somebody whose last seconds were ticking away. And he couldn't have done anything to stop it. He was just a child; he couldn't give her any time. All he could do was cling on to her wrist, screaming and blubbering. And through it all, there was that soothing voice again, that calm, "It's okay. It's okay. Everything will be alright, Donnie."
Seven.
But everything wasn't okay. He'd never imagined he could feel that pain—he was so agonizingly helpless. He would have given every last second of his life that moment, but he couldn't. There was absolutely nothing the child could have done. He was helpless.
Six.
He would never be that helpless little boy again. Never. That's why he lived the way he did—leaching everybody down to their very last minute, stealing what little time they had left. He would never be afraid like that again. Not because of a petty issue like time.
Five.
But he was afraid. Deep down, he was terrified—he had never stopped being that scared little boy. He wasn't doing this to not be afraid. He was doing this because he was afraid.
Four.
And, most of all, he was afraid to love. In this business, he didn't have to care about anybody. Minute Men cared only for their own time. They didn't come back to their families after a day of thieving. Their lifestyle didn't allow them to have families.
Three.
And that's exactly what he was afraid of. He didn't want to ever have to care for anybody ever again. He didn't want to risk having to be that scared little boy, pressing the dull, lifeless numbers to his own wrist. Hours of sobbing and yelling wouldn't ease the pain of seeing his mother's time slowly dwindle away to the fucking zeros. Nothing would erase that memory. No amount of time would cure that.
Two.
"Somebody, please, please—!"
That hardened exterior of his was a sham. It was nothing more than a thin paper shell, desperately trying to mask that inner child. Every time he'd pointed that gun at someone, it hadn't made him stronger. If anything, he was just adding to that miserable life of his. More time to contemplate on his solitude and shame. He knew that what he would do next, he would never forget.
One.
He turned away.