The Reverse Tick

Leo’s stomach was a clenched fist, a permanent fixture these days. Three months behind on rent, two weeks since he’d eaten anything but instant noodles, and the bank letters piled on his stoop like miniature headstones. He was a dead man walking, just hadn't found the shovel yet. That’s when he saw it, tucked away in the back of the grimiest pawn shop on Elm Street, glowing with a dull, unnatural sheen under a greasy display light. A mantelpiece clock, heavy brass, ornate carvings of vines and gargoyles, completely out of place next to the broken VCRs and bent golf clubs. And it was ticking backward.

He pointed a shaky finger at it. "That clock. The one going... the wrong way." The shop owner, a man whose face looked like he’d been dragged through a gravel pit, grunted, polishing a silver-plated spoon that probably wasn't silver. "Odd bird, ain't it? Found it in an old estate. Runs back, runs forward. Picks its own damn pace. Fifty bucks." Fifty bucks was a week of noodles. Fifty bucks was almost nothing for a man staring down absolute ruin. Leo didn’t haggle. He just pulled out the crinkled hundred-dollar bill, his last lifeline, and watched the old man peel off the change. The clock felt heavy, cold, almost alive in his hands.

Back in his apartment, a single room smelling faintly of mildew and despair, he set the clock on the wobbly bedside table. Its backward tick filled the oppressive silence, a maddening counterpoint to his own spiraling thoughts. He stared at it for hours, trying to figure it out. It wasn't just running slow; the minute hand was literally retracing its steps. He flicked the small brass lever on the back, the one meant to adjust the time. Nothing. It just kept ticking, an inverse march through the seconds.

Then, it happened. He was trying to open a jar of pickles, fingers slick with sweat. The jar slipped, hit the linoleum with a sickening thud. Glass shards everywhere, green liquid pooling. He cursed, his shoulders slumping. As he reached for the broom, the clock on the table gave a faint, almost imperceptible hum, a deep resonance that vibrated through the floorboards. The air around him shimmered. His eyes, fixed on the broken jar, saw something impossible. The shards on the floor shuddered, then slowly, agonizingly, began to reassemble. The liquid retracted, pulling itself back into the newly whole jar. The jar itself flew, with a soft 'thwock', back into his hand. Leo stood there, hand gripping the cool glass, jaw hanging slack. He felt nauseous, like his insides had taken a quick trip through a washing machine.

He spent the next few days in a haze of terrifying experimentation. The clock, he learned, wasn’t just a clock. It was… a localized rewind button. Flick the lever, and a small bubble of time around it, maybe a few yards in diameter, would lurch backward. A minute. Sometimes two, if he pushed it. But it wasn’t clean. Each rewind left him reeling, a violent vertigo that made his vision swim and his guts churn. It felt wrong, a violation. But the raw, aching desperation in his chest screamed louder than any moral qualm. This was his shovel. This was his way out.

The target was the small, independent bank on 3rd Street. Nobody flashy, no big vaults. Mostly elderly folks cashing pension checks. But they still had a night deposit box, and a single, bored security guard who usually fell asleep by 2 AM, his head propped against the CCTV monitor. Leo watched him for a week, memorizing his routine, his yawns, the way his hand always reached for his thermos at 2:15 AM. The clock, wrapped in a thick wool scarf, was tucked into his backpack. It hummed, a low vibration against his spine, a constant reminder of the alien power he carried.

Night of. Rain slicked the street, a cold drizzle that bit at his exposed skin. He slipped around to the back, gloved hands fumbling with the lockbox. He had a pick set, but he wasn't counting on it. He needed a clean entry, no alarms, no fuss. The back door, old and weathered, groaned as he pushed on it. He heard a shuffle inside, a cough. The guard. He hadn’t fallen asleep yet. Panic seized him, a cold hand squeezing his throat. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.

He knew this was it. He pulled the clock from his bag, the heavy brass cold in his trembling hands. The air was thick, humid, smelling of old paper and dust. He could hear the guard's footsteps, getting closer. A beam of light, from a flashlight, cut through the gloom of the corridor ahead. He saw the guard's silhouette, big and slow. His time was running out. He flicked the lever on the clock. The world instantly became a sickening blur. The air shimmered, thick and heavy. A scream tore itself from his throat, soundless in the temporal churn. His stomach rebelled, bile rising. His vision fractured, a kaleidoscope of reversing light and shadow.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. The lurching ceased. He was gasping, leaning against the cold brick wall, sweat stinging his eyes. His head throbbed. He looked up. The flashlight beam was gone. The footsteps had vanished. The quiet of the empty corridor stretched out before him, broken only by the clock's faint, backward tick. He’d done it. He’d rewound the last minute. The guard was back in his office, oblivious. He pushed open the back door. This time, it swung inward silently. He moved, a shadow in the night, straight for the deposit box, his hands still shaking but now precise, efficient. The clock, silent now, rested in his bag, a dark, heavy secret. He emptied the box, shoved the stacks of cash into his bag, and was gone before the guard could even clear his throat for the next yawn. He had the money. More than he'd ever seen. He locked the apartment door, the rain still drumming outside. The clock sat on his table, ticking backward, a constant, eerie rhythm. He stared at it, the weight of the cash in his bag heavy, but the weight of the rewind, that sickening lurch, heavier still. He could do it again. Or he could break it. He just sat there, watching it, the silence thick, the tick-tock-tick-tock of reversed time filling the room.