Borrowed Time - Hour 1

Borrowed Time - Hour 1

Hour 1

"Psssst, Zeit?" a little girl whispered close to her. It was a sweet voice, a nice voice. Where had the paramedics gone?

"What?" Ah. She recognized his voice. A paramedic. So she wasn't dead yet. But then, why couldn't she move? Fear came instead of hope. Around her all she could feel was a blankness. Not asphalt. Not grass. But nothing --- nothing at all.

"She's still here. Why hasn't Death taken her?"

"He's probably bowling."

"Oh." the little girl hesitated for a moment before asking, "I can't take her watch then."

"Course you can."

"No, Zeit, I can't. Then she'll float into nothing and become a ghost. I can't do that. Remember what happened last time?"

The male named Zeit gave a haggard sigh and sounded to have been walking away. "Whatever. You can stay here. I'll go and finish watching America's Got Talent." He paused. "And wait for Jerry Springer to have his scheduled heart attack."

The little girl gasped. "No way! He'll die on live television?!"

"Hey, it was Death's idea. Anyway, bye ---"

"Zeit!" the little girl stomped her foot impatiently.

Lowe tried to focus on the sounds, which became her eyes easier than she could have even thought for she had never been a good listener. It sounded as if the man did indeed stop. And turn around.

"What?"

"I don't want to be out here alone!" she pouted.

"You'll have dead-girl here."

"Zeeeeiiiiiit!"

"Whaaat?"

There was a slight pause. "I'm scared of the dark."

The man gave a sigh and stormed back towards Lowe. She wanted to open her eyes, to see who these strange people were but she couldn't move. Her eyelids wouldn't open. And somehow the nickname dead-girl didn't settle too well. She couldn't be dead! Wasn't she supposed to --- she didn't know --- go to the pearly gates or something? Meet St. Peter? Not this. She knew this wasn't supposed to happen.

And what about her Father?

"Fine. Whatever. We'll tale Miss Roadkill with us until Death catches up to her."

It was then she felt her wrist --- but only because he had grabbed it and slipped something onto it. Something cold and metallic. Warmness buzzed from the chilled metal. A warmness that ate the cold that had settled in her gut. A jolt of life pulsed through her and she flew her eyes open and found the man named Zeit.

He was young --- no older than twenty --- with long silver hair and a gangly build. He wore a black trench coat with silver watch chains drooping from every pocket, and dark red trousers with shiny black loafers. He stared at her with eyes she'd never seen before. Alabaster eyes with ticking clock hands inside of them. He made his eyes into slits and studied her intently.

"Damn you're ugly," he finally rebuked and stood. "Get up."

Lowe sat up slowly, and felt her body suddenly sag. She didn't have to breath, and she no longer felt a heartbeat. And blood lay around her body. Her own blood. She wanted to vomit. The cold wristband slid down her arm. It was a watch --- a cheap Rolex, ticking with the same deep ticks she had heard before. Ticks that once synced with her heartbeat, and somehow she knew the watch was her heartbeat now. How strange it was, and how utterly terrifying.

"C'mon. Get up. We haven't got all day. I'm scheduled to play pool with Eshe in five minutes." He pulled up his sleeve to emphasize twelve mismatched watches simultaneously ticking on his right arm. Lowe blinked, her mind taken off of her own demise at his oddness. He lowered his sleeve again and made a twirling sign with his fingers in a sign to get moving. "C'mon. C'mon. Vamos --- Haste!"

The little girl helped Lowe to her feet, and stepped away with blood smeared over her front overalls, but the little girl didn't seem to mind. She gave a bright beaming smile, so white against her dark Italian looks. Her soft black hair split into braided pigtails at the nape of her neck. She tugged at Lowe's fingers and said, "Zeit never likes to wait. He's very punctual."

"I can see that," Lowe replied. "But what about Dad? Where's he?"

"Alive," Zeit replied deadpan.

Lowe's feet stilled as she watched the silver-headed man walk away, trench coat swishing behind him like a fluttering black cape. The word cemented her to the reality she faced, to the cool blood drying on the side of her face, the chunk missing from her shoulder, and her missing heartbeat.

"Then . . . then how am I alive?" she asked breathlessly. "How am I walking?

He turned back to her, somewhat startled, somewhat bored. With a sigh, he said something offending in German. "You, missy," he pointed at her with a black-gloved hand, white eyes ever-ticking, scrutinizing her from blood to bone to soul, "are walking on borrowed time."