June 9th, 2009

Hands clasped, lips pressed to index fingers, thumbs hooked under chin. Watching.

Tick...tock...tick...tock...tick...

There was something wrong with that clock. There was always something wrong with that clock. He seemed to change it every single day. It was always ahead of itself. The golden minute hand moved, marking another fifteen seconds.
Nathan stood up, drifting over to the cabinet and opening the glass door. He sighed heavily as he moved the minute hand back. Again.
He frowned, suddenly remembering the look on his mother's face the first time he had noticed the clock. It had been a look of horror, a certain unease. The kind of unease when she knew something was happening when it shouldn't have been happening. He'd seen that look before several times.

He couldn't lie to himself any longer - he was worried about his sudden fascination with clocks. Timepieces in general. He'd only ever seen that in one person. Sylar. The man he'd watched burn only six weeks ago. A funeral pyre, surrounded by the people who were all so desperate to see that maniac dead. He'd been the same. Calmer now, he had better things to focus on. Like politics. His reputation.

Well, he could. Only if he wasn't slowly going crazy. If he didn't keep thinking he was Sylar. If he didn't keep seeing no difference between himself and the psychopath. First the clock, now...the memories. The dreams. Every time Nathan let his mind wander, he would see him. He would be him.
The dreams. He would remember things he'd never done. He'd wake up with somebody else's memories. With Sylar's memories. They had to be his memories. The amount of times he'd dreamed about killing somebody. A finger drawn across a forehead. An exposed brain. The amount of times he'd seen himself, Nathan, before him. A cut throat. So familiar, and yet so, so distant.

What was he becoming?