Time
They think the ticks keep us sane. How is that even possible? The ticks, they’re supposed to be time, but I know thats just a joke. It’s all a joke. This place, this world, these walls, all a joke. Yet, no one finds it funny. Maybe it’s just oblivion, or maybe it’s more, but it shouldn’t matter. Time. There’s sixty seconds in a minute. Everyone knows that, they have engraved  it into our minds thousands of times. Once during morning meal, twice during supper and written down before lights out. Next, we know sixty minutes is equal to one hour. My mind wraps around that perfectly fine, I get it, everyone does. But there’s not twenty-four hours in a day. It destroys the pattern, developing a flaw. The ticks are wrong. They think we won’t notice. I notice. The ticks change at the same time everyday, slightly speeding up. It’s hard to understand why. The ticks are flawed, society is flawed, this world is flawed. So why is it they have to fix my flaw?

“Elliot, two minutes until morning meal.” The nasally, high, feminine voice called into my dull grey room. It’s always a few degrees too cold in this place. Not cold enough to put on an extra layer, but enough to make me uncomfortable. Everyone stuck here is uncomfortable. I slowly slid my legs out from underneath the plastic like sheets, that’s the thing that’s supposed to keep me warm. My long hair was everywhere all at once. I pulled it back into a fast side braid, it should be good for the day. A new day a new hash mark. I found the small piece of chalk, hidden

underneath the mattress and slid the headboard away from the wall. Hash number 174. 174 days I’ve been here. Well at least woken up. The side effects keep us tired. That’s the goal. Too tired to think, or at least to forget how to think.
The grey cardigan we are forced to wear is uniform. No pockets, no strings and tight sleeves. They don’t want any accidents. This whole place is grey. Matching walls, clothes, bed and ceiling.  I pulled the sweater tighter around my body, protecting it from the grey air. My mind complained as I left the colorless room and made my way into the dull hall. Stepping into to the hallway meant I had to hear the terrorizing ticks. The ones that stay in your mind until the pain gets to be too much.
“Take a seat at table number nine.” A voice said sharply, marking a sloppy number nine onto my sunless forearm, “Don’t get lost.”
“Wouldn’t that be a shame.” I muttered pulling the tight sleeve back down to cover the horrible mark. I sat at the table alone, they tried to separate the patients as much as possible. We wouldn’t want anyone to share any ideas, would we? I’ve never had anyone sit with me. I was considered high risk or whatever. Too much too lose I guess.
Today was different, things don’t normally change. Everything normally stays the same within the flaws. There were more people today. The hallways that were normally bare, were now over filled with people. This should be more than they can handle. They normally kept us as spaced out as possible. You can tell they are stressed because of the tiny furrows right above their eyebrows. Finally, it’s not just us. The tables were filling quickly today, everyone was filled with one person, before the line was halfway through.
“Hello” a deep voice said bringing my gaze towards him, “I’m August.” He sounded so sure about himself. As if nothing could ever change that one fact about him. He better hold onto that. I gave him a slight nod, addressing his presence. The second thing that caught my attention was his bright blue
eyes. The were radiating color. They were intoxicating and made you want to stare at them forever.

“How do you figure that?” My dad asked me spinning me around.
“The sky's still blue there.” I spoke, “It’s not ugly like the rest of the world.”
He gave me a sad smile and pointed towards the last patch of bright blue sky, “You see that right there?” I nodded quickly. “Keep that with you, the color, it wont last forever.”
“But it’s prettier than the rest of the colors.” I complained. “I just want to keep looking at it.”
“I guess some people just don’t understand that.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“You’ll learn, sooner than I would like.” he said quietly, picking my 4 year old self up again. He spun me around as if there wasn’t a care in the world.
“Not going to tell me your name?” he questioned, sitting in the seat opposite of mine, pulling me more and more towards the blue.
“You won’t remember in a week anyway.”
“How do you figure that?” he asked another question. Oh God, he has way too much energy for this place. Wait till they get him on the meds.
“Why would you say that, no one says that anymore?” I said sharply, ignoring his positivity and most of my rules.
“Old habits die hard I guess.” He laughed, he laughed as if he was hiding some sort of inside joke, the kind only those closest to you would know. I haven't had any of those in years. I locked eyes with him. I doesn’t matter what he thought. I wanted to see the color. My eyes accommodated to the grey, and the ticks months ago. As I stared at him he started moving his fingers. It was a musical thing. I don’t know if thing is the right word to describe it. It looked like an art. But each of his fingers moved at a different pace. Tick, tick and then a finger would tap, tick, two more finger taps, tick, then another one. Never repeating the same pattern. The ticks. They match my heart beat. They match my steps. They match all of my movements. That’s how they want it. It’s how it should be! A voice rang through my ears. Them! Get out! I grabbed the sides of my head. Please just get out. Massaging my temples, I looked up. They're all staring. All of them. Every single one.
“What’s with you?” August said shoving his face full of watery oats. I tried, I tried so hard to not hear the ticks.
“Either stop with the finger tapping or do it louder so I can't hear the tortuous ticks.” I growled.
“Uh, what ticks?” he said shoving more grey oats at his mouth.
“You can’t hear the time?” I spoke slow and clear so he could understand.
“Oh, I just don’t listen. It’s easier to talk than to listen.” He said as he cocked his head to the side, quirking up one eyebrow.
“You can’t feel them?” I asked, why doesn’t this seem right.
“If you think about it, it’s all illusion. Time, it’s just there I guess.” He said. One thing about him is his confidence. He always sounds so sure about what he says. As if nothing could ever get to him. Good luck is all I could say to that.
“How can you eat this horrible food?” I asked lightly.
“Food is food, it’s all the same in the end.” he said finishing the bowl.
“Way to stay cheery, Mr. Positive.” I muttered.
“Always.” he smiled, pushing his bowl, that used to be filled with mushy oats, away from him. “Not going to eat yours?” he questioned. I shook my head pushing the bowl away from me and into the center of the table.
“Four minutes left of morning meal. Finish quickly.” A loud sharp voice came over the hidden speakers.
“Looks like I should head back.” I said moving my chair back, having it squeak slightly.
“Hmm, I guess so.” he said as I turned to walk away.
I turned around slightly to see him looking at me still, “Elliot” I said clearly.
“What?”
“My name is Elliot.”