Yellow Sweater

Tick.

The ticking is all I can hear these days. Every second is another tick until the ticking fills my head and strangles me. You would think I would be used to it after sixteen years. Sixteen years and two clocks steadily ticking away. Sixteen and two makes eighteen. But eighteen isn't important at all. Things that aren't important waste my time. My time is ticking away. I'm going to die. I know I'm going to die.