Time Trial

This is your life and it's ending one minute at a time.

Fifteen…

One quarter of an hour. The atomic number of phosphorus. The number of days contained within each cycle of the Chinese calendar. The number of checkers each player possesses at the beginning of a backgammon game. The number of function keys on his Mac laptop. The number of completed symphonies composed by Dmitri Shostakovich.

Fourteen…

A nervous laugh escapes his dry lips. Another precious minute wasted spouting random facts. It was useless. Knowledge had never saved his life. Stupidity was going to kill him. Water. He needs water. Shakily, he steps over to the sink and turns on the faucet.

Thirteen…

Normally he would never degrade himself to drinking tap water. But today was different. Everything was different when you were about to die. Weakening hands bring the glass to his quivering mouth. His parched throat is relieved as the cool liquid splashes down into his stomach. But the feeling is only momentary.

Twelve…

His bloodshot eyes dart around the room as his head begins to spin. The finely crafted Austrian crystal glass hits ceramic and shatters. He is vaguely reminded of his own heart. He blinks, trying to focus on something before meeting the same fate as his chalice. Concentration is key.

Eleven…

The first spacecraft to land on the moon was Apollo11. Himalia is the eleventh moon of Jupiter. The leaf featured on the Canadian flag has eleven points. Aquarius is the eleventh astrological sign. Eleven is the number of space-time dimensions in the M-theory.

Ten…

He sighs. His mind steadies and he looks around the room, this time with a deepened sense of calm. He catches sight of the horrendous mess he has made. Perhaps he should accomplish something in his last few moments and clean it up, that way she doesn't have to. Because he knows she'll come. She could never resist his eccentricities. And this was his biggest to date.

Nine…

He smiles as he bends down to pick up the larger shards if crystal, drawing blood many times. Not that he minds. There are more painful things than bleeding. Just like there are things that are scarier than knowing you're about to die. Not that any come to his mind at that moment.

Eight…

He can feel his heart beat slowing, fading. But he does not stop tidying the last room he will ever set foot in. He hurries to clear the marble counter of the scattered white pills he has left there. They destroy the elegance of the entire scene. And he had always imagined the most elegant of deaths.

Seven…

Cold sweat forms beneath the raven locks falling over his starless eyes. The room is clean, save for the tiny droplets of blood that litter the floor. But his attention is elsewhere. There is one more thing to do. He scrambles to find a piece of paper. Mentally, he cringes; cursing himself for not having done this earlier.

Six…

His writing is barely legible as he begins to scrawl out what will be his final sentiment. He begins with her name, though he is reluctant to do so. That name causes him to bleed, differently than the glass. Her cuts are deeper, much more severe. And once more, he finds himself unable to focus.

Five…

In binary code, the number five is one-zero-one. The most destructive tornadoes are rated a five on the Fujita scale. Followers of Islam pray to Allah five times a day. The modern musical staff is comprised of five horizontal lines. There are five oceans in the world. There are also five senses that human beings possess.

Four…

And he was slowly losing all those senses. Caring wouldn't help him. He could not be saved. And so he continued to write. He wrote his heart and soul onto the tiny piece of paper, knowing full well his feelings would never be done justice. That piece of knowledge truly saddened him.

Three…

But then he finished his final masterpiece. And he imagined her face when she would read it in coming hours. And he smiled, what he was sure would be his last smile. She would weep over his wasted years, quite aware of the fact that she had driven him over the edge, even if it was involuntary. Her guilt would haunt her for the rest of her years. And he couldn't be happier. He signed his name, as if he were signing a contract. In a way, he was. This was a contract that would seal his fate.

Two…

It was then that he felt it. His legs began to turn to jelly. His arms became limp. His throat screamed for more water. His hands shook violently. And so, to spare himself a tiny ounce of dignity, he lay down on the chill ceramic, waiting patiently for the inevitable.

One…

It was a pity. He really would miss this world. He would miss her. But it was too late for regrets now. One last closing of the eyes. One last review of useless facts. He had one minute to live. One last minute. One last breath.

Zero.

-x-x-x-x-

The End!

Please review and let me know what you thought. Constructive criticism is welcome and all that jazz. And remember kiddies, I don't own Artemis Fowl. Not in the slightest. Nor do I own Fight Club, which is where the opening line came from. Those words came from Chuck Palahniuk, author extraordinaire.

I'd like to now thank Nikki, for the beta. She's fantastic! She also got me into the mood to write angst, after inspiring me with her awesome story – Drowning Lessons. If you liked this, than you'll love that. Go read it!

Cheers!