Time never lies. Never ever. Never. The room lies everyday. The tiles, the white, everything from the bed to the wall filled with lies. My eyes saw lies. Gravity lies. Senses lie.

Time doesn’t lie.

Each minute ticked by unusually slow. It chose today of all days to go at half speed. Or maybe it’s because I keep watching the clock tick-ticking, bobbing my head in tune with the metronome. But, still, time tells the truth. It’s universal and unbeatable.

Time took many things in my life. I remember the day it took my mother. Peacefully but abruptly when she didn’t wake up that Saturday morning. Her heart had just stopped. She was out of time, and long gone by the time I came up the stairs to wish her a good morning on Mother’s Day.
I ate her breakfast in silence as I waited for the ambulance to arrive even though it was pointless. It seemed right. It seemed empty to watch her go, the indent in the bed barely gone by the time they left.

My father’s death was more violent. But, his time came just as it did with everyone else. We knew about the brain tumor years before so we prepared. His death didn’t come as a surprise. Every day was considered extra time. So, when the tremors started, the vomiting, the pain, the seizures–we weren’t surprised. Only shocked that it happened on Father’s Day.
We were at the zoo. I was laughing at the otters that squeaked like little chew toys, and they rushed across the enclosure in a mass of oily scramblers, mushing over one another as a wave did at the beach. I turned to make a joke. And time claimed him.

My brother and sister died together. Plane crash. Funny thing was that they were late for their flight by about thirty minutes. The plane had been because the pilot’s alarm never went off. His clock just died. And so did the other two hundred passengers.
I never grew close with my siblings. Our time together was short. The day I found out I was at lunch.

I finished my meal because I knew time didn’t lie.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Forty-five. Forty-six. Time comes for us all. No matter the person who didn’t believe my musings. As the door to my room creaked open, I shredded off my straight jacket.

Fifty seconds exact. And I bolted out the door, just as the room caved in, taking the psychiatrist as penance for my denial.

Time claims all. Whether it’s our time or not. And so far, even with the hereditary diseases, the accidents, the random attempts on my life, time wasn’t going to get me anytime soon.

I removed my sleeves, manifested the numerous watches that lined my arms from wrist to elbow. A wall fell, a car exploded, a meteor demolished the building seconds after I escaped. I checked the time of the middle watch on my right arm. I dusted off my pants and popped the kink in my neck. With twenty minutes to spare before the next disaster, I took off in a light jog.

Three minutes to the nearest cafe. Four minutes to eat. The rest to position myself to avoid the next disaster. I felt a little bad for the bystanders that were going to die. But, I needed to eat.

And, after all, time would claim us all eventually.