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Six Forty-Seven

Short story By: writersbug

I'm not good with summaries...please read.

Submitted:Feb 11, 2012    Reads: 24    Comments: 6    Likes: 2   

The room was featureless, blindingly white. Devoid of essence, of anything. Except one thing. Above him, right in his line of vision, a large, too overly large, digital clock displayed the time in grotesque fashion. The red LED numerals said it was 6:40. They told him it would happen at 6:47.

"What?" he had cried through his muzzle of wadded guaze. They probably wouldn't have answered him even if they had understood. The robed figures had dragged him to this room, this blank cesspool of inner madness, with its looming countenance of digitzed death, strapped him down in the chair with ropes that cut into his wrists painfully and bit athis ankles, and left. Without saying anything. Without even giving him a reason.

"Why?" Why?


6 minutes left. Not much time.

He struggled against his bonds, fruitlessly, vigorously. They held tight, rubbing deeper into his skin, the rash they left unimportant, trivial. He would have gladly let them slice all the way through just to give him a free appendage.

The door was probably locked, stupid. The door he couldn't see. So it wouldn't have mattered anyway.


Was bleeding to death worse than what they had in store for him? Did it really matter? What did he do to deserve this unjustifiable end?


His breathing became erratic, his heartbeat racing, blood pulsing through his veins with tremondous velocity, a lightspeed of coronary reaction. Two minutes left. If he didn't die of a heart attack first.

6:46. Attone for your sins. Recite as many Hail Marys as you possibly can remember, or dare to. Think about the past, when the future was forever away, when this moment could never possibly happen, when it was ludicrous to think that anything like this could possibly happen. Death was a concept; not a reality.

The sweat gleaming on his skin loosened the ropes a little, making their snags a little more pleasant, a little more comfortable to deal with. A last bit of euphoria before the end. The last thirty seconds....


There was no bell, no alarm...other than the ringing in his head. No change. Nobody came through the supposed door that he couldn't see. The walls remained white, placid, unmoving, unrevealing. A tremor? No, nervousness. And then....then.....

The digital numbers leaped out from the gurgantuan clock, floating like a spectre before his very eyes. They transcended space, time itself. They hovered there, surrealistically, making him choke on his own inhaled gasp of breath, his own dripping tears.

They came for him, efficient messengers with no other purpose than their own.

The 6 looped around his neck, the circle cutting off his air supply, making him visualize black spots as he gagged helplessly. The 4 perched down at his feet, inverted, so the 7 could rest on top of it. It elongated, the numeral becoming a spear, a long, red rod of sharpened light. The pointy end of the 7 kept stretching...moving....spearing into his chest cavity with ease, puncturing the thin wall of skin, expertly gliding between the space of two useless ribs, finding his beating heart. It plunged into the muscle, rupturing it with a violent twist.

A thin trickle of blood poured from the man's mouth. A spasm, ajerk. Then....nothing.

Infinity granted.


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