15 minutes

Just making it up as I go.

I checked the watch. Fifteen minutes. They told me it would happen quick, but somewhere in the back of my mind I had stretched out that fifteen minutes to an hour, maybe two. I checked my pockets in a panic, my hand slid over the right pocket of my jeans. Yes, it was still there. My hand crept into the pocket on its own will,  it didn't believe what my brain had told it, but needed to feel for itself.  It would all come to this. I took off running along the building's edge. The city glimmered beneath my hurried feet, a million people shouting and cheering, awaiting the arrival of the new year. Its a long way down. They picked me because I have no fear of heights. I lied.  Its death that I am not afraid of. I ran.

The end of the skyscraper rose to meet me. Another quick glance at my watch told me I only had twelve minutes. Again my hand grasped the delicate contents of my cheap tattered jeans. The seamstress could never had guessed what the jeans she crafted would eventually hold in the innocent pockets she had carefully sewn. A silly thought at the most serious of moments.

The noise was deafening. They better keep their promise. This whole mess, all of it, started with a small brown package in the mail. Inside a gold watch was kept warm by a white piece of college ruled paper, the kind you could tear out of a binder or notebook. The perforated holes along the side suggested that this might have been exactly the case. I set aside the small timepiece and removed the paper that had been keeping it company. Only two words occupied the real estate available on the page. "Times up"

The End

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