Timing - SCP Foundation

Mr. Moon knew he was very good at timing these things. He really couldn't afford to be bad at it, with his condition. He'd tried to use watches, but watches only worked when you had eyes to watch them with. Same with a metronome. So Moon counted.

One… Two, Three…

Thirty two thousand, four hundred and sixty seconds. That was how long he'd been able to see. Moon felt his bones cry out in protest as he rose to the chamber door. In approximately three hundred twenty four seconds, a Security Agent would open it and let him out. Give or take twenty nine, if the Agent was slow.

Thirty… Thirty one… Thirty two.

Moon's face was clouded, partially with worry and partially because it was a cloudy night. This particular Agent was an early-bird, and it'd thrown off the count. Deciding that he could make do until it reset, he timed the approximate two and a quarter of a second it took him to make a step with his cane.

Four and a half… Six and three quarters… Nine…

The air conditioning had been on for five hundred sixty seconds when Moon took his seat. Waiting here was the hardest part. In five hundred seconds, the doors would open and they would see him. He'd watched one hundred and twenty pitying expressions staring at him.

Five thousand, six hundred seventy three…. Five thousand, six hundred seventy four… Five thousand, six hundred seventy five…

They were older. Four thousand, three hundred and eighty two weeks had taken their tolls. The small talk was painfully low. She smiled at him, telling him about all the things outside. About Jim, and how wonderful he was, and how happy he was for her. Mr. Moon had lied to her three thousand, five hundred times. At least Jim hadn't accompanied her this time.

Ten… Nine… Eight… Seven…

She cut the visit short by ten minutes. Apparently she'd been five minutes late to a social event, and had been paying him a favor to visit. Fifty seconds later, she'd left him again. She was getting quicker.

Five thousand, nine hundred seconds later, Moon's ear began to grow dull. He paced his cell, counting the steps. Eleven and a half steps north to south, fifteen and a quarter east to west. Pacing until the count could reset and bring him respite.

One… Two… Three…