The Hardest Thing of All

One year.

That’s what the dial in my wrist said. The thin strip of white bulged slightly out of my skin, but other than that, the smooth countdown-clock blended into my arm pretty well. It’d taken a few months, but at this point, 3 years after the implant, the only time I ever noticed it any more was when my jacket sleeve caught on it, or when someone asked about my time. One year. Well, 364 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes, and 7 seconds, now.

I glanced down at the inside of my wrist, squinting a little to try and make out the numbers. The glare of the sun blocked out everything but the seconds counter. That was my only real complaint with the device – the grey numbers were in some modern, sans-serif font that was pretty tough to see in natural light. I made a mental note to stop by the next Suggestion Box I see floating around. “EPCC NEEDS BOLDER FONT.”

I buzzed down the road in my blue commuter car. It always made me laugh to watch old ‘sci-fi’ movies – we’re still wishing for flying cars too, 1960. As the mundane rubber tires of my car rolled down the city streets, I pulled my sleeve back down over my EPCC and rolled down a window. People lined the sidewalks, zipping in and out of buildings or rushing to work. I was always a little envious of people that lived within walking distance to work - cars were the bane of my existence. Nasty, smelly things.

I pulled up to the small traffic light on a corner, pulling the car to a stop for the red light. People always wondered why we still even have traffic lights - there were literally three other cars on the road with me, and they were all in my lane. I sighed and propped my elbow in my open window. I heard a group of giggling voices, and looked over towards the building on my left.

"You got it?" a girl asked, her voice in a pitch too high to be her normal voice. A group of four girls was hurrying out of the surgical clinic on the corner, surrounding one girl in particular who had her right wrist wrapped in green gauze.

"Yes," the bandaged girl answered, beaming at her friends, "the doctor said I can't unwrap it until tomorrow, though." The girls made a collective groan of disappointment, but the girl in the middle never dropped the smile. "But it's so exciting!"

"Oh, I can't wait to get my Epic!"

I smiled to myself as the light turned green. Stepping on the gas, I glance down at my sleeve, at my own EPCC. External Personal Countdown Clock. Epic. Soul Mate Meter. Mileage Clock of Your Love Life. Whatever you want to call it.

The day after surgery was always exciting. lt was nerve-wracking, I remember, pulling the already disintegrating gauze off and reading my number for the first time. It changed a few times at first, starting at six years, dropping down to two, then eventually back up to four. I got as low as seven months once, but three weeks after the surgery, it settled on 4 years, 16 days, 12 minutes, and 43 seconds. As a kid just out of school, on my own for the first time in 18 years, it was a roller coaster of emotions to say the least.

The thing about the Epics was that they basically changed the way you interacted with people for the rest of your life. When you know that you aren't going to meet your soul mate for 4 years, dating gets complicated, and it's sort of pointless to flirt with the cute cashier at the local Go-Mart. Unless you believe in re-meeting people you already know, or your Epic started at zero, that whole phase of dating around becomes obsolete. Not that dating was ever my thing anyway.

But that was beside the point. The point was that since I knew I wasn't going to meet the love of my life for a year, I thought absolutely nothing of the charming smile from the front desk clerk as I walked into Midtown Medical Center. If anything, it was sort of embarrassing, waltzing into work in my blue scrubs and white hospital shoes. It wasn't until I got back into the ER that I felt back in place, greeting Dr. Jenson with a smile and wave. He sat in his office chair looking unbelievably bored, as he usually did before the first patient of the day. He was the only person I knew that genuinely wanted people to get into accidents. Not in a malicious way or anything, though.

Work was long and tiring. Being on my feet all day was always tough for me, and there wasn't even a toilet seat stuck around someone to make the day more interesting. In the staff room on my last break of the day, I flipped on the news.

The beginning music for the nightly news was different, and I quickly recognized it to be the breaking news intro. My fellow nurse, Jackie, turned up the volume as a stern looking newswoman appeared on the screen. In the background, flames lit up the silhouette of city buildings and I furrowed my eyebrows. What? The woman spoke for only 30 seconds before Jackie and I realized what was going on. Jackie fell to her knees, in utter shock. I shook my head in disbelief. This couldn't happen. They promised it wouldn't. The burning buildings told the whole story, the story of an attack on our city, on our country, on us. It was 9-11 all over again. Jackie looked at me, and I looked at her. We both stood up in unison and rushed to the ER as the paramedics were starting to arrive.



One year. That's how long the war had been going on. One year that felt like ten years, one year of death and destruction, and one year of running on fumes and 3 hours of sleep each night for the employees of Midtown Emergency Hospital. Well, 364 days, 22 hours, 21 minutes, and 43 seconds.

I was clocking out for the day when another ambulance showed up, this time with a soldier instead of an innocent civilian. After working all night on a kid who was caught up in rough missile, I was worn out and had my fill of war for the night, but when I saw this man, I knew Jenson would need all the help he could get.

The man's eyes were closed, his mouth hanging open, and his face was covered in blistering burns and cuts. The rest of him wasn't much better. It looked like someone had tried to blow him apart and he managed to escape with his life, and somehow I couldn't help but think that might have been the case. It took hours of intense surgery and lots and lots of needles to get any of his vitals close to normal, and it was two hours before he was released from the ER.

"Casey," Dr Jenson said to me, "you're tired, it's past your shift, you should go home. We'll take care of it from here." I nodded, almost in daze as I clocked out again. Something about me felt different, something in my brain was buzzing. It was a strange feeling, like an incessant itch in the back of my head, something that was trying to tell me something, but in a language I couldn't understand. I peeked into the man's room as I walked by, and saw him move a little. His heart monitor was going crazy. I bit my lip and slipped into the room, my off-duty nurse instincts kicking into gear.

The man's eyes fluttered open and closed, almost matching the beat of his heart as I checked his pulse. I pressed the emergency call button on the bed, and grabbed his wrist to check a pulse there. I felt along his skin for the pulse, and paused when I felt it. His Epic.

The Epic was warm, hot even, and I was hesitant to look at it. I've heard stories of Epics malfunctioning and hurting, even some times mortally damaging a person's brain. I flipped his wrist over and noticed his numbers were in red. And there weren't very many left. 00 years. 00 days. 00 minutes and as his eyes opened fully - 00 seconds. I looked up and him and felt a tingling sensation rip through my veins, running up my arm and all over my body until I couldn't feel myself breathe. We made eye contact for a split second before doctors and nurses came pouring in. His heart monitor was beeping almost profanely. He smiled. My heart stopped.

Then his did.



Now, almost twenty years after the end of the war, I'm merely a legend. A tale told to school children and science majors about the dangers of the EPCCs. They are a miraculous invention, a genius device designed to perfect the human race in terms of love and interpersonal relationships. It was a mircle, though, that came with a warning. A label to clearly state that it could ruin your life. A caution to think wisely about what you really want. Would you rather not know who you are meant to be with, and search until you find him? Or would you want to find him, only to loose him? It might torment you, eat away at your insides for the rest of your life. It might tear you away from sane society, make you wish you had never made that choice. That's what it did to me. I lost the man I should have loved. I could have loved. I could have seen him die, and not thought more of it than sympathetic thoughts to his family. Had I not known, I might be okay. But I'm not. Sometimes knowing is the hardest thing of all. Would you want to know?