If this is not rated correctly, please let me know. I couldn't decide if it should be 'R.' I don't use the f bomb, but I do use sh*t a lot, and there's death. *Shrug*

Again, title suggestions are very welcome!

This is for the contest Ten Minutes To Live. In this contest, I have to write about three different characters who have ten minutes to live. The first one is in part one, which is a bit longer than this one.

Justin

Shit. That man’s messed up. We didn’t do anything to Sarah; just urged her on.

Nothing wrong with that, right?

I know I don’t believe that, though. If I did, I’d be able to open this stupid envelope.

If I keep it closed, will I last longer? Does my timer begin when I first look at the words, or the minute I picked the thing off the ground?

So what if I never get letters? Or that there’s no return address? It could be a different letter.

I take a chance. I run my nail under the nail, allow the paper to fall into my hands.

It’s yellowed. Frayed. Black writing, scrawled across the front.

The same that was on his table.

I let it fall to my feet. “Holy shit…”

Who does this? We just told her to run, to get away from her father – his fists. We didn’t do anything wrong – he did.

My phone rings once, then is silent. It doesn’t matter – I wouldn’t have answered anyway.

I think about going over and dialing Matt, but I don’t move. I don’t want to know if he’s still around. I don’t want to know if the letter is serious.

The phone rings again – twice this time – but I still don’t move. I’m glued to the spot.

My ball’s still at Matt’s place. I’ve never forgotten it before. Not in seven years.

The phone rings three times. It pierces the air. I want to turn on the TV, the radio – something to fill the room with noise. Instead, I talk. I haven’t paid my TV bill anyway.

“Man, Sarah, why’d you have to listen to us?” My feet seem to move on their own, pacing back and forth. I always seem to end up in right next to the letter.

“If it was that bad, you wouldn’t have waited so long. You would have run sooner. No one in their right mind would put up with that shit for so many years.”

The phone rings four times.

My entire body is shaking, but I can’t shut up. “You got us in deep shit, Sarah. You should have just stayed.”

Five rings this time.

“Shit, Sarah! You’ve gotten us killed!” I kick out at my couch, missing entirely and nearly falling on my butt.

Another six rings, and I don’t even look at the phone. I know what it’s doing.

Seven rings.

It’s counting down my time. When it hits ten, I’ll never hear it ring again.

Eight rings. The rings are eating up more of the minute. They come faster and faster together. Less silence.

The letter’s still by my feet, the words glaring up at me. ‘What will you do with them?’ Nothing. Just freak out.

Matt didn’t do anything. He didn’t care. Just hung out, listening to his friend talk about some game.

Nine rings.

“Shit.” I fall to the ground, curled up in a ball. I’m Justin – I’m supposed to be strong, fearless. Anything but what I am right now.

I tell myself no one acts the way they’d hope in the face of death, but I don’t know if I believe it.

All I did was try to help a friend out. Now her father’s going to kill me.

Ten rings. The final one ends, and my voice message speaks.

“Hey, it’s Justin, man. I’m not around right now – probably playing some ball or hanging with a chick. You know what to do.” Beeeeep.

I wait. Will there be a message?

Yes. There has to be. This isn’t enough torture for him – he wants to drag it out.

“Justin, Justin, Justin.” His voice is raspy, and I can hear his heavy breath between each sentence. “You handled this very poorly. At least your friend died standing tall.”

My heart squeezes, but my only outward reaction is to squeeze my eyes shut. I’m already in a fatal position – there’s not too much more I can do to appear pathetic. Weak.

“I’m assuming you know what this is about?” He sounds formal, as if he were planning on firing me, not murdering me.

“You sent my Sarah away. You told her to run.” He’s way too calm about this. He’s enjoying it.

“If I don’t get to see her again, you don’t either.”

Shit.

“Good-bye, Justin.”

Sarah

The bottle stands on the table, the only thing occupying the space. It’s just a bit of plastic to hold the pills, but it’s still deadly.

I want to reach out, but I can’t. My hand won’t move.

I look at the clock again. One forty-three.

The curtains are closed, but no light strains its way into my apartment. I can only see the outline of the moon. It’s my only company tonight. It was the only witness that night. The moon is very good at keeping secrets. It never told anyone, never offered salvation. It just watched.

I turn back to the bottle. It still stands there, silently. Waiting.

I’m waiting, too. This has to be done perfectly. It’s my anniversary. Ten years since that first night.

The clock was right in front of me, and I survived by watching it. Listening to the steady ticks.

It said one fifty when it started, two twenty-one when it ended. I’m hoping the pills will work in that half-hour it occurred.

I won’t open the bottle until it has been exactly ten years. Until I have survived ten years of this torture. I don’t want to survive anymore than that. I can’t.

A piece of paper lies on the ground by my feet. My eyes stare back up at me, watching me.

Judging me?

He’s searching for me, but all he’ll find is my body – no one will think to check the warehouse. This won’t be new to him. My soul left that first night.

I glance at the clock again: one forty-seven.

I lean back in my chair, my legs dangling off the wooden chair, my arms crossed in front of me. I wear only long sleeves – a habit I picked up all those years ago. They hide the evidence.

One forty-nine. Almost time.

I let the chair fall back onto all four legs and reach out to grasp the bottle. The contents rattle as I bring it to me. My breathing is ragged, greedily sucking in the stagnant air.

I twist the childproof lid, empty the contents onto the table. Thirty pills fall out. Thirty glorious, life-taking pills.

It happens all at once. The minute hand moves, my alarm goes off. I don’t get up to turn it off. The beeps are loud, consistent, covering the soft ticks of the clock, but they’re better company than the moon. They congratulate me; I’ve survived ten years.

It’s one fifty.

I pick up the first pill, and swallow it dry. Another follows. And another. I’ll take twenty-three – the age I made it to. Everything has to have a reason – my death has to be done right.

He always told me to make him proud. Every single morning he’d say that. ‘Make me proud, Sarah.’ My body would still sting from the beating he gave me, and his eyes would still be wild from the lack of sleep, but he would say it.

The pile slowly disappears in front of me. The beeping stopped, but the ringing echoes in my ears. I only have until two twenty-one – hopefully they work quickly.

I don’t think I ever made him proud. He was never satisfied. He’d tell me that every night. That I wasn’t good enough. That I was ugly. Stupid. Undeserving.

“Are you proud now, Daddy?”

Edited 5/04/08