The Clock
by Rose
rosesdecay@aol.com

This isn't fair, is it?

I had never experienced slow-motion before. My life was a constant race. A rush
to get done before the day was gone, a car pushing eighty on a road cluttered with
debris. Too many minor crashes and burns to worry about. Time never stopped - if I
did, how the hell would I manage to keep up?

A lab report. Something as simple as an analysis. Always treat it as a rush job -
be thorough, but fast. Be quick. The murderers and rapists and kidnappers never
stop - if I do, how can I possibly expect to keep up?

Run, not walk, from the car to the apartment in the evening. Too many crazies out
there. They never stop - how can I?

It was hard doing eighty on a road paved with warps and abnormalities. Time not
filled with work was rare - either sleep or emergencies. I rarely go out after work.
Before, before this job, before this whole way of life, I used to have friends, family,
time to spend with them. Before I threw myself, heart, body, and soul into my work and
started to run.

Family complained at holidays. My mother, who once said proudly that she never had to
nag me to call, left woebegone messages on my answering machine, wondering how I was
doing. Friends turned down repeatedly because of things I had to do for work slowly
stopped calling. Clocks lost their steady beat and ticked wildly, sending me faster
and faster to keep up.

The criminals are still out there - the killers who leave their fingerprints all over
the bodies and make my life easy, to the kidnappers who leave minuscule fibers on
bedsheets that keep me in the lab until dawn.

How can I stop, when they never will?

*****

Life at eighty miles per hour takes its toll. The tick of the clock followed me all
the way home, planning my life as each second clicked by. Go home. Eat something.
Sleep. Get up, go to work. Don't think, don't ponder. Don't wonder. Don't question it.
You chose this life - don't screw it up now.

My car shuddered to a halt. The clock regarded that too. Ignore the car. Tomorrow's
a busy day. Wait 'til the weekend. Wait until you have more time. You're running out
of time, Pendrell. Don't stop now.

I stepped out of the car. My senses went alert in the quiet dusk. Listen for trouble.
Listen out for anything that might slow you down. You don't have the time to get into
trouble. Listen for trouble then RUN!

I reached my apartment after a slightly-conspicuous jog. I let my head hang limply
as I searched vainly for the right key to the door. 12 solid hours of working had left
me as tired and sluggish as a three-toed sloth. My mind still played over the events
of the day, working, calculating, eating up whatever little energy I had left.

I finally got the door open and staggered in. Bolting the door firmly behind me, I let
gravity take over and hurl my body straight for the couch. Relaxation spread over my
muscles like a balm, letting the familiar tension soak into the couch cushions.

It took me a few moments to realize I was lying on something. I reached under my
stomach and pulled my address book out from under me. I was about to drop it onto the
table in front of me when a date caught my eye.

Three days ago. Scully - Dana's - party. Mulder had given me a call, saying he was
going to a D.C. bar with Dana for her birthday and wondered if I might drop in to say
hello. The same day those grumpy old cats who affectionately call themselves my
"supervisors" dumped a truckload of analysis work on my head.  By the time the cursed
work was done, my eyes were permanently blurred, I had written the word "acetylcholine"
so many times that I had come up with about 76 variations on the spelling, and I had
gotten into a nasty fight, still unresolved, with one of my coworkers. For the first
time in my life, Dana had completely slipped my mind.

I cursed inwardly. The perfect end to a perfect day. My body pulled the tension right
back in and I sat up. Suddenly sleep and work seemed far away and unnecessary. I grabbed
my coat and headed for the door.

The clock became panicked. Don't go. Don't throw off the schedule. You're sailing smoothly
right now. Don't screw it all up now!

I ignored it as I shoved my arms into my coat. If work could drive even Dana Katherine
Scully out of my mind, perhaps there was something wrong with my work.

I walked, not ran, to my car.

*****

And to think this all happened by chance.

I did something I hadn't done in years - I got drunk. Not a-few-beers drunk; serious,
keep-the-hard-stuff-comin' drunk. I visited the bar I had planned to be in three days
ago, staring around the room, wondering what had happened. Where she had sat, what she
had said, perhaps even the elusive smile that I had not yet witnessed had touched her
face. Each thought of what might have happened made me more glum, giving me more strength
to pick up my glass for another sip. Before long, the bartender started hesitating before
giving me another shot. That's when I saw Dana.

The clock was screaming in protest by this time. Each sip promised more pain tomorrow
morning, more time lost, more time for the criminals to play their part of the game with
no one to stop them. More time for the newbie interns under my supervision to ruin vital
evidence in cheap plastic beakers while I nursed a hangover at my desk. More time for me
to slip and spend the rest of my life running to catch up.

With this kind of encouragement, one can imagine the state I was in when I spoke to Dana.
Even I could recognize the drunken slur in my tone, as the clock shrieked wildly in my
head. I remember mere snippets of the conversation before my self-pitying evening sent me
plummeting down a dark hole.

Dana, obviously a little wary of my behavior, allowed me to buy some beers for her and her
strange military friend. Drinks in hand, I tried to walk over in as dignified a manner as
possible for one who is completely hammered.

The clock betrayed me.

Time, time that had ticked by so quickly during my life, slowed and stretched the seconds
out. Ticks became hollow and few as I heard Dana shout.

I turned. Fire erupted from the hollow of a gun barrel, sending a polished bullet speeding
my way. Time left me no chance to move, to even react. The clock ticked faintly in my ear
as the bullet sped towards me, its swift motion dulled by time's deathly pace.

Alcohol had dulled my nerves, but it nevertheless could not mask the feeling of the bullet.
Hot metal pressed against flesh, tearing away at carefully woven tissues. Pain jolted
through every string of nerve, traveling at a snail's pace as the clock gave another
insulting tick in my ear.

Told you not to slow down. I told you not to slow down.

This is what happens when things slow down.

Pain suddenly blossomed like a fireball as time resumed its normal clacking pace. I was
dimly aware of the smashing of glass bottles as the drinks collided with the floor. My
body - and skull - did the same.

Dana's face appeared above me, but her words didn't register. The clock's tick rang louder
in my ears as the pain grew hotter.

This is what happens when you slow down.

The ticks grew fainter in my ear, dragging and slowing. Above me, Dana moved frantically,
unaffected.

And I realized it was only me.

There was no more time. No time to memorize Dana's features; no time for my mind to shriek
that from her vantage point she could clearly see my boxer shorts; no time to chide myself
on everything I had - and hadn't - said to her. No time to say something meaningful or
poignant to make the moment memorable. No time to reassure her.

There was no more time.

By the time my eyes closed, the clock had stopped.

*****