The Watch
In a crisp autumn night, he leaned against the cold grey pole of the streetlight, his hands folded before his chest, with his right arm above his left, hiding the large mechanical watch on his left wrist. He waited, but he was not in a rush, so he didn’t bother to check the time.
He caught the sight of the girl at the far end of the street. She walked slowly, bathing under the warm orange streetlight for a few seconds before sinking into the chill of the night and turning into a slender silhouette. She reappeared under the second streetlight, turned dark, and reappeared under the third, fourth, fifth streetlight, and finally the one above him.
He dropped his arm. She reached naturally for his left hand because it was closer, but was then caught gently in the middle of the air by his right hand. Feeling the watch wrapping around his left wrist like a shackle, he wondered what he would say if she finally bothered to ask why she was never allowed to touch his left hand; if he told the truth, she’d leave him.
When he was little, wandering in the neighborhood, he reached the house at the very end and saw a dead man lying in the backyard with eyes wide open, staring at the grey clouds above. The white shirt beneath his business suit was drenched in blood, which must have gushed out from the bullet wound in his throat. Flies hovered above him, landing on the pale, rotten flesh occasionally; that was when he saw a glister of silver on that man’s left wrist.
He took the man’s watch and kept it.
He remembered that at the age of five, he pretended he was dead, so his parents could get ready when—if—his real, unexpected death came. When he was seven, he imagined his beyond-death experience for the first time, trying to grasp the idea of absence of feelings and consciousness, and he was absolutely amazed by that void, that… nothingness. By the age of fifteen, he had planned his death that was going to happen when he turned thirty. His favorite dream was about death, too. All he could remember about that dream was that the ground was torn apart and everyone was falling into the boiling lava below. Someone beside him panicked, so he, feeling peaceful more than ever, embraced that person with all his strength and said, “Don’t be afraid, everything’s going to be okay.”
Death had always been romantic until the day he met her. Now the watch on his left wrist had become a constant reminder of how ugly and filthy he was. At times he would lose all sensation in his left hand, imagining it turning stiff and blue, rotting until only bones were left. Sometimes, he almost believed that his left hand was moving on its own. So no, he would never let her touch his left hand.
Yet he would never take off that watch either; while she was the closest thing he had that didn’t reek of death, the watch was the closest thing he had about it. When he, torn by his thoughts and worries, heard her ask, “what’s with your left hand,” something broke inside him.
He looked into her innocent eyes and his heart ached. As the soft glow of the streetlight surrounded her, he thought of words like “angel” and “phantom.” He had to let her go.
He left the warmth of the light and immersed into the darkness, alone and hurting. His left hand twisted victoriously, as if saying, “you’re my slave now.”
He shuddered, knowing he would never be the same.