Prompt: Years of your remaining life can be sold at a high price. You go to your local life trader to sell of one more of your years, only to receive the message, "ERROR: Insufficient Funds."

Charles Siebald was not a very important man, so he was perfect. True to his name, he was balding, and used a small disgruntled-looking hat to cover it up, making his remaining hairs look pathetically tufty underneath the worn gray fabric. He could be seen clutching the hat to his head often, rushing from place to place, swinging his briefcase from his other hand and looking generally rushed and unpleasant all the time. Mr. Siebald was the type of person who could be featured in a comedic movie, not just for his looks, although with his flat, bulbous nose and watery eyes he looked somewhat like Santa Claus gone to seed, but rather circumstance never seemed to favor him, not since the day he was born.

Mr. Siebald was the poor chap always brought up at parties when a young fellow was having a spot of trouble, and his mention would appear, "But did you hear about Mr. Siebald? Had a bit of a turn for the worse, poor fellow..." And soon the young fellow would cheer almost instantly when he heard the depths of Mr. Siebald's troubles.

Poor Mr. Siebald could never hold onto a bit of money greater than a thousand dollars or so longer than his commute on the way home, almost like a taboo in effectiveness and potency. Once he had his briefcase stolen from his hand while he was entering a taxicab, once a pair of wizened ladies picked his pockets so thoroughly he found the insides had been ironed without his notice, and once he held his paycheck in one fist only to have the slip of paper wiggle its way out of his fingers and flutter into the air, away from sight. These might seem jokes or unfortunate occurrences that would be laughed about over a beer with friends, but Mr. Siebald never seemed to be able to keep up with friends any longer than he could money, perhaps from his perpetually gloomy mood over his gross misfortune.

His apartment in Chicago was a weathered brownstone that was leaning more than the famed tower of Pisa, but that escaped the notice of the super, with creaky floorboards and windows that funneled in the heat in the summer and let in every draft in the winter. Mr. Siebald would have left months ago, but it was the only place he could afford with his rotten luck and meager funds, so it was home. The building super, Pierre, was a weasel-faced man with no mercy for rent extensions, and certainly no mercy for apartment inspections, although Mr. Siebald was almost positive there was a drug dealer in the neighboring room it seemed that he was never threatened with eviction.

None of this would have been so bad if Mr. Siebald had any true talents, even drug dealing, which he did not. Every job he had seemed monotonous or boring or far too demanding, definitely not the right fit. Mr. Siebald never considered himself a rambling man, but he was beginning to fancy himself one now, never able to hold down a job for long enough to get settled. He had once had ambitions for the future that had narrowed down simply to employment and having money, petty and worldly ambitions at most, but demanding enough in their own right. And Mr. Siebald would certainly have been swamped by his debt and his misfortunes if it weren't for the life trader at the bank, who he owed allegiance to almost as much as any other modern necessity.

He had found the life trader one night at an ATM, when he had been crushing another canceled credit card in his hand and wiping his exhausted eyes. The device had chimed agreeably and he had looked up in shock, wondering if the bank had made some kind of error in his favor, when he saw a short message scrolling across the screen.

"Welcome to the Local Life Trader. Would you like to make an exchange?"

Mr. Siebald had been confused - he had never heard of a life trader before - but then the ATM responded again, pinging as it changed to a new screen showing a family laughing happily around a similar-looking device with a smile on the screen.

"Corporate Bank Services has invested in Life Trading, an exchange of monetary units for years of life. Simple, easy, and effective, Life Trading is the next step in loans and exchange. To begin, place your hand on the screen. For more information, please select below."

Feeling as though the ground was spinning, Mr. Siebald selected 'more info.'

"With new medical technology the ATM device can extract a selected amount of years of your remaining lifespan and extract them in exchange for a reward. These years are taken for studying in some of the world's finest laboratories and are reviewed by experts. The average reward for a single year of life is $23,895."

Mr. Siebald's gray hat toppled off of his head and he felt his jaw drop. With that kind of money he could pay back his credit card debt and afford a better apartment. With that kind of money... The opportunities were staggering.

"Would you like to continue?" The ATM offered, and hungrily he pressed 'yes.'

As he placed his hand on the screen one small, rebellious part of his wondered if what he was doing was right. After all, it would be a full year of his life gone. What if he did something important then? What if he finally managed to find a good job, maybe settle down? But the feeling of the cash in his hands clouded his thinking, and he ignored the inkling of doubt in his mind.

"Customer: Charles Siebald. How many years would you like extracted?"

Mr. Siebald selected one.

"Extraction process beginning - please stand still."

At first nothing appeared to happen, then a strange force tugged at Mr. Siebald's hand and pulled him against the ATM, leeching a silvery mist from his palm, and suddenly Mr. Siebald felt as if a pert of him were slowly being torn away like Velcro, and a scream lodged in his throat...

Then it was over. A new credit card popped out of the ATM and a new message appeared, "Thank you for your patronage! Come again soon!"

Disgruntled but oddly pleased, Mr. Siebald picked up his hat and pocketed his new fortune, occasionally glancing at his palm as if wondering what happened in the year he had lost.

Strangely, there was no news about the Life Exchange in the paper, nor in the next week's, or the next. The only mention Mr. Siebald could find was a small paragraph in the local publishing, which told about a woman who said the service might be worthwhile. That was all.

Mr. Siebald was not satisfied with this, so he sought out his old friend Harris Ogden and asked if he had tried the new ATM exchange.

"Of course I saw the popup," Ogden said over a coffee, stirring in sugar almost broodingly, "But I thought nothing of it. Why, don't say you tried it? A year of your life gone, what kind of trade is that?"

Mr. Siebald thought it fruitful enough, though, as he bid Pierre a thankless goodbye and rented a new apartment closer to the center of the city, miraculously large and clean and without the perpetual tilt of the other building. He could afford three meals a day and even went out once a week to a local restaurant to have tomato soup and a salad and watch the commuters bustle by during the after-work rush. He even became so hopeful he secretly began searching for a new job, hoping he could reinvent himself, have a new beginning. And all because of the Life Trader! What a fix he was in before that night, he thought often, chuckling to himself, reminiscing about his old apartment and his downhearted disposition. Everything was fine now!

The only things that bothered him were the dreams. They only happened once or twice a week, not enough to be concerned about, and they were the strangest dreams he had ever had. He would be talking to someone on a moonlit sidewalk with raised voices, or perhaps sitting in a taxicab, staring out past his reflection at the traffic just outside. When he'd wake Mr. Siebald would have a feeling of emptiness set deep in his stomach, cold as ice.

All of his problems were solved until his credit card money ran thin, then ran out, and Mr. Siebald was left with a much more expensive rent and seemed to have dug himself into a much deeper hole than he was before. In only moments he was back to hungry nights and running odd jobs, trying to pull together enough to keep the apartment for another month, but ended up lugging his bags back to Pierre's doorstep and taking his old bent room key again, back in the same predicament he was in before, only he had paid a year of his life for it.

"This time," Mr. Siebald thought, determined, "This time I'll make it better." Clutching his noticeably more tattered gray hat to his head, he hurried to the ATM and waited for the Life Trader. When the option appeared his finger lingered over the '2 year exchange' button. What could really happen in two years? More rent to pay, more bills to pay. And think of the extra money! But he decided on only one year again, and received this time $21, 997 and another new credit card. Mr. Siebald could almost taste the opportunities in his palm, but he pocketed the card and walked all the way back to the apartment, refusing to take a cab for frugality's sake.

And frugal he stayed, still working late jobs and late shifts, shopping on mega-clearance, and keeping his budget at the barest minimum. Mr. Siebald looked less and less like the slightly unkempt gentleman he used to be; his clothes were now torn and well-mended, his jackets thin and his same old hat looking as though it had been through better times. His briefcase was battered at the corners and worn at the edges, but he was in a batter financial state than he had been in ages. While he didn't look like much, Mr. Siebald fancied himself a new man, more cheerful and jovial, with a brighter future ahead. All of this stayed generally the same for a year until Harris Ogden approached Mr. Siebald one blustery January afternoon, looking as shabby as the riffraff on the streets.

"Charles," He complained over a cup of tea provided by Mr. Siebald at his apartment, "I have simply run into the worst of luck this past year. Look at me now - a disgrace! I used to be a hearty young man, and now, what a shame."

Mr. Siebald thought Ogden had not been a young man in a very long time and was by no way returning that way but said nothing.

"If you could only lend me a spot of money to get me out of this hard time, then all would be fine for me."

"Well, well..." Mr. Siebald said, as money was a topic he was not well-learned in, after having so little experience with it for so long.

"Oh, don't be that way, Charles! How about this: I'll borrow the other half from Lillian Goodfellow. The most charming young lady you'd ever meet, and equally as generous as she is charming."

"And how much will you need?"

"Fifteen thousand dollars."

"Fifteen thousand!" Mr. Siebald exclaimed, clutching his hat to his head as if worried it would fall of from sheer shock.

"Don't look so startled, good man! It's all I request!"

Mr. Siebald, though strictly frugal, was unfortunately very kind-hearted, and took pity on his old friend and lent him the rest of the money. While he hoped his leftover funds could sustain him for a while longer, the usual influx of bills and apartment rent forced him back to the ATM again, where he took away another year of his life for $23,612. Perhaps it was unwise for him to have lent the money to Ogden, for among Ogden's friends Mr. Siebald became a revered moneylender, and a moneylender they didn't have to pay back, as first displayed by Ogden himself. Soon Mr. Siebald was dragging his feet to the ATM after being assailed with stories of woe and lost love and 'only a little more and I'll be able to support my family again.' They sang sweet tales of pity and Mr. Siebald bent over backwards to comply, even though he knew he shouldn't, he simply couldn't leave another man in the dust, to crawl from poverty like he had.

Ten years, gone.

The dreams were worse now, so haunting Mr. Siebald dreaded going to sleep. The most eerie part about them was they were not filled with monsters and bogie-men like the dreams of childhood, but with events so natural, so realistic, that Mr. Siebald could almost believe they were real. Sometimes they were lovely, dreams of a beautiful woman wrapping her slender arms around him as they danced across a ballroom floor, her in a shimmering dress of white, and sometimes they were oddly normal, such as Mr. Siebald dressing himself in the morning. And every night he was exposed to the time that he had lost, that he had sold away, and it would be stalking him forever, like a shadow creeping after its prey.

He had only decided that he would have no more of the money-lending business as he stood at the ATM when a new message appeared, one he had never seen for the Life Trading routine before.

"ERROR: Insufficient funds"

Mr. Siebald froze, then swiped his old credit card, thinking perhaps frequent customers had to pay a donation.

"ERROR: Insufficient Funds" The message repeated. A new popup appeared afterwards, another unfamiliar message.

"Unfortunately, you have insufficient funds. Would you like to make a sub-donation?" There were many choices underneath the message: One week, one month, three months, six months, nine months, all fuzzed out and gray and unresponsive when Mr. Siebald selected them.

Six months.

"ERROR: Insufficient funds"

One week.

"ERROR: Insufficient funds"

Frustrated, Mr. Siebald was about to ask the bank teller about the problem with the machine when an all-too-familiar voice called out to him from the sidewalk.

"Charles! Fancy meeting you here, my friend!" Ogden cried, waving a hand cheerfully at Mr. Siebald. Ogden certainly looked worse for wear than he had when Mr. Siebald had last seen him - his suit was at least two sizes too small, although it didn't look remotely new, and his smile had the tug of strain underneath it that made him look slightly pained. Mr. Siebald had a few choice words to say to Ogden, but he has interrupted when Ogden began to speak again.

"Now I know what you must be thinking - Harris Ogden is no man of his word, not repaying his loans, but let me tell you this - I've had a big break and am about to be a rich man, Charles! All I need is a thousand dollars to buy some new clothes, to look presentable, before I pitch my idea. What do you say, Charles? Could you lend to an old friend one more time?"

Mr. Siebald felt himself flushing with anger and he started towards Ogden, hands clenched into fists.

"You want to ask me about money now?" He cried, and Ogden turned as pale as a sheet, holding his hands up in defense.

"Really, I didn't think it would be such a bother, I can return later and under more favorable circumstances if you wish..."

"Save you words." Mr. Siebald growled, his rage growing by the minute. Because of this man he had lost years of his life and aged those years in too short a time. Because of his so-called friend he had no future anymore. He had nothing left but his anger, and it began to guide him as he kept approaching Ogden, who was inching to the curb of the street, panicked and trembling.

"Honestly, I can come later! Or borrow from someone else, if it's too much trouble for you now..."

"Too much trouble? I wasted my life for you and your scoundrel friends! I should have seen right through you, con man, and don't you call me a friend again or on your own head be it!" He took a slow swipe at Ogden, who bolted to the side with a squeak and turned on Mr. Siebald, whose back was to the street now.

"I-I'm sorry? You were always so generous, so giving, I just thought..."

With a roar of anger Mr. Siebald swiped again, this time cuffing Ogden about the ears, who squeaked again and thrust his skinny arms out, pushing Mr. Siebald into the street. For someone so scrawny he could push with surprising force, and Mr. Siebald tumbled into traffic and lay still, dazed with pain and shock.

"C-Charles? Charles, stand up." Ogden stammered, bobbing left and right on the curb, not willing to step into the street. "Charles, come on, Charles! Get up, hurry!"

Mr. Siebald heard very little of this; his ears were ringing mightily and car lights flashed like fireworks across his vision. He tried to prop himself up on one elbow, and then he saw the car coming. ERROR: Insufficient funds... Suddenly it all made sense.

As Ogden hemmed and hawed on the pavement Mr. Siebald gave in to the pain, not of his fall, but the pain of the years he had lost. He mourned for the beautiful woman in her wedding dress, and that he would never bring her happiness. He mourned for his future, which was always bright, he had just never seen it. He mourned for Ogden, so twisted and led astray, and most of all he mourned for those he would have touched in years to come, and that he would never experience their sorrow, their joy.

The death song of Charles Siebald trumpeted silently in the honking of the car horns and the eventual collision, that impeding impact that shook the pillars of the firmament. Only when Ogden was brave enough to peek through his fingers would he see the scene laid before him, oddly peaceful - peaceful in the way Mr. Siebald lay reclined on the asphalt as if it were a funeral pyre, and most eerie of all, peaceful in the way he smiled, a full, complete smile, one he hadn't smiled in years, the kind of smile that gave hope to all who gazed upon it.