In Need of a Second Hand

            Like any other day on the job, I could not tell what today had in store for me. As a C.I.A. agent, weeks of daunting missions and dangers tasks were promised to me by the never-ending war. Three years had passed since the Martians unleashed havoc on the United States for no apparent reason. One minute we sat with pounding hearts waiting for the announcement of Earth’s Next Top Model, now we sit with pounding hearts waiting to hear that Earth still stands.

            Government officials from every country gathered together after the first attack and decided that sending us to space would maximize the human race’s probability of surviving the nuclear attacks. The further we drifted into space, the further food prices skyrocketed, literally. So, I soon found myself in the most undesirable occupation available: weapon disarmer. Everyday, a new Martian weapon crossed my path, waiting to spew out alien poison, or the blood of a fallen soldier. I had seen it all and I had stopped it all as the only remaining disarmer in the shuttle.

            When the emergency alarm sounded, I had forgotten what it meant because of the minimal performance it played in my life thus far. I found myself running to the laboratory to find a frantic lieutenant screaming about a ticking package on my desk. Upon scanning the mysterious object, I began my diligent work and kicked the distracting man out of the room. Pulling, cutting, and rewiring the fuses, I felt no worry in my impeccable performance. Yet, as time wore on I found myself entangled with more and more wires until I realized what I had created: the weapon to inflict inevitable termination of the universe.

            I needed a second hand to fix the mess I had made but I stood alone. No one could hear me; no one knew to come to my rescue. The end had come by my careless hands.

            BOOM!

The second hand danced along the surface of the clock as the alarm clock buzzed. A sigh of relief brushed past my lips: “time to wake up.”