I can still hear him counting.

I found a scrap of paper in my backpack today. I don't remember drawing it, but I recognize the lines. It's him. Or what he’s become.

I saw him by the parking lot. He didn't say hello. He couldn't. Where his face used to be, there is only a glass circle and a brass hand that never stops moving. He is the "other me" I tried to bury. He knows I didn't clean my room. He knows I missed the alarm. He hides the good paths and leaves only the darkness, watching me with a hollow, mechanical stare.

The sketches don't show the sound. The way his chest rattles like a bag of broken watches. He is why I have to be fast. If the clock hits twelve before I reach the gate, I think I'll become a shadow, too.

Question: Does your alarm clock sound like a promise, or a threat?