tick

William Fung

Abstract


The clock hand moves.

Another minute passes.

            I wring my hands slightly, feeling the smooth curvature of my nails. They feel foreign and alien, like hands that aren’t my own. I take a deep breath, and the slight burn of fresh air mixed with the faint unfamiliar odour around me hurries down my throat.


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We wish to acknowledge the financial support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Munk School of Global Affairs, and Mount Sinai Hospital.

Canada Council for the Arts
Munk School of Global Affairs
Mount Sinai Hospital