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91 Days

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In a world where clocks determine the years a person has left to live, Alastor Huxley is one of the few human beings diagnosed with Decaying Time Syndrome, a horrible disease that causes a person's clock to wind down two times as fast as the average person.

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91 Days Remaining ↬

I’ve been dealt a shitty hand. A horrible, no-good, down in the dirt shitty hand. My poker-face remains intact, but there’s no way I can pull of a win with this.

“So...that’s it?” My father cries out, hand gripping my hospital bed like a lifeline. Funny how I’m the one who’s dying, but Father is the one looking like he has a life to lose.

Dr. Kurta shakes his head, a sad expression on his face. I wonder if he’s really sad, or if it’s just another part of his paycheck. It is a hospital, after all, people must die here every day. And it’s not like I’ve left much of an impression on him, besides being one of the 1 in 10,000 people diagnosed with Decaying Time Syndrome.

“Well, look on the bright side Dad,” I say, and I watch how his sullen eyes zero in my clock. There is nothing good about this. “Now I can go with you on that trip overseas”

My father snorts, but I can see how hard he’s trying to hold in his tears. “How ’bout Champ? Wanna see your mom again?”

I nod, poker face crumbling by the second. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“I’ll go get the release papers,” Dr.Kurta says primly, stepping out of the room with lightning speed.I can't tell if its because Dr.Kurta is an awkward man, or if he's just being pol He closes the door behind quietly, and it is now that my father chooses to cry.

“This is rotten,” He says after a while, wiping his tears with his sleeve. I swallow thickly, it’s been quite some time since I’ve seen my father cry.

Dr.Kurta comes back with my papers ten minutes later and gives me a change of clothes.

“Bathrooms right over there” He instructs as if I haven’t been using that same bathroom for the past week that I’ve been here.

The room smells citrusy, and when I spot the can of lemon-scented Febreeze, it isn't hard to figure out why. I can't get that horrible hospital gown off fast enough. I spare one last somber glance at the clock underlying my wrist before yanking on the long-sleeved shirt my father brought from home.

My name is Alastor Huxley, and I have 91 days left to live.

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