Mackenzie is a fourth-year journalism student at Concordia University and copy editor at The Concordian.
ELLA
Tick tock. Goosebumps pepper my flesh. Heat creeps up my ears. Chills travel down my spine. I can’t help but think my body is failing this unending race against the monster. My throat constricts. I can barely breathe, barely see through my anxiety. Tick tock.
The deadline looms over me. I run, run, run my fingers over the keyboard, blindly reaching into the depths of my mind for ideas that might satiate the beast. It’s become a mechanical system: I get up, do as much work as I can, and crumble from fatigue once the deadline has been fed. It lurks in the dark corners of my room when I decide to take a day off. It whispers in my ear when I’m finally doing something for me. It drains the fun from everything I do.
Tick tock. It’s dinner time. The deadline is starving—I can feel it staring expectantly, encircling me, smoking me out of my passion. The house creaks under its weight. My bones strain under its pressure.
My muscles are sore from the fight, but I need to get writing before it eats me alive. I can feel it waiting for me to nod off, ready to pounce the second I lower my guard. Even my laptop is heavy-breathing in empathy. Feed the deadline—that’s all I have to do. The clock is tick, tick, tocking so loud while my fingers are tap, tap, tapping viciously.
The shadows snuff out the setting sun, my desk lamp barely holding the fort. The deadline sneaks toward me as I frantically type. I don’t have much time left. My fingers slide on the trackpad, shaking like it’s the epitome of winter. The deadline’s cold breath down my neck makes me shiver. I freeze. Squeeze my eyes shut. I can feel its anticipation.
Tap.
“Submit.”
My muscles relax all at once as the deadline slinks away, happily fed.
ADALINE
I flinch at Ella’s visceral reaction. Her disgust and mistrust makes me want to slink back into the shadows. The clock ticks insistently, and she winces at every passing minute. I try to get closer to help ease the tension in her shoulders, but the hair rises on the back of her neck like hostile spears aimed right at me.
I sigh. I hate what people have turned me into. I hate how they disfigured my name over time. Adaline. I miss hearing people call me that, but now they curse at the “freaking Deadline.” They write down my birthdate in their calendars and cross out the days. I used to think they were excited to meet me, but I know now that was naive—they’re dreading the day.
Ella’s fingers dance across her keyboard. They miss a beat here and there, but still give it their all. She’s such a talented writer. I can’t wait to read what she wrote. I peek over her shoulder, but she shifts in her seat and anxiously looks around.
My heart skips a beat. She can feel me. Waves of joy crash over me, washing away the self-doubt and self-hatred. I step closer, craving her friendship. I should introduce myself. “Adaline,” I whisper in her ear.
She shivers violently. Squeezing her eyes shut, she presses “Submit” and a cannonball is shot right to my stomach. I stumble backwards, my eyes tearing up. I watch her melt in her chair as I melt into the wall.
Ella met her Deadline, and now she wants nothing more to do with it.
