Overwritten: Perspective (Part VIII)

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I return to work after a couple of years in recovery. I think they only give me this time off because I’m such an oddity. No one else is like me. A human who has survived such a dramatic temporal shift is rare if not completely unheard of. Each time I see my daughter again, more time has passed, and she spends less time with me, weening me off of her care. Eventually, she’s gone for good, and I never see her again. I keep abreast of the situation with Mateo and Leona year by year. Horace Reaver spends a little time in a human prison, which is apparently good enough for the choosing ones, while it lasts. But Mateo and Leona need his help with something, and so I pull some strings and have him transferred to a different prison. It’s far more complex, and seems more difficult to break out of, but it’s not; not for them. Somehow, I know this. I have some kind of connection with time that I tell no one about. I can’t see the future, and I certainly cannot travel there, but I feel it. I am part of the timestream itself. Sometimes, for no apparent reason, I just know what needs to be done. I gather a list of other salmon within my “range” and assist them as well. They never know, and that’s just how I like it. I even help Reaver out once by sending a message on a convoluted path throughout time. He thinks it's a favor, but it doesn't work out for him. But it’s all for the best. And again, I just know this to be so.

After yet another decade of working at a salmon/chooser prison facility, I am given a special assignment. I and four of my closest friends operate in shifts, monitoring two of the most notorious salmon criminals I’ve met. Reaver is one of them, of course, but his pseudo-partner rival, Ulinthra is the other one. I live underground on Easter Island in a sort of cave mansion. It’s pretty badass, and I feel no need to go anywhere else while I’m not working. The others live with their families in the future. I was ferried there once. It was a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there, I’ll tell ya that. At the moment, my shift partner is taking a nap, and I’m keeping Reaver company. We’ve just returned after a brief journey into the past so that Reaver could finally attend one of his friend’s funeral service.

“I’ve been down here with you for years now,” I tell him, “yet you refuse to speak to me. I’m curious as to why that is.”

“You betrayed me. That’s all I need to know.”

“I never betrayed you. I was never with you. I was a spy.”

“Who were you working for?”

“Lady Justice.”

That got a laugh out of him, which is all I was really going for.

“Melly accidentally sent me back when she sent you back to 2016. I was born to protect people from people like you. It’s fitting that it should end in a place like this.”

“What do you mean, end?” he asks.

“This day today is our final day.”

“How do you know?”

“I can feel it.”

He lifts his chin, not totally surprised. “When did that start?”

“Melly rubbed off on me I guess.”

“She’s a strong one.”

“Indeed. She helped me out when I needed her most. Way I hear it, she did the same for Mateo, against you.”

“She did. I overestimated her loyalty to her father.”

“She wants to do the right thing. All in all, I would say she is the most noble of the choosing ones.”

Reaver chuckled in a way that made it clear that he agreed. He walked over to the corner and rested against the glass. “I’m so tired. Is it really over today?”

“It is. There is nothing we can do to stop it. But it sounds like you don’t want to.”

“Do you?”

“I believe I’ve served my purpose.”

“What are we talking about? My shift partner said suddenly.

I look at my watch. “Is it time already?” My end is coming soon. It’s like I’m being pulled towards it, and it doesn’t feel like darkness. It feels like peace.

“What do you mean?” the other guard asks.

I cover for myself, “oh, I just thought you would be asleep longer.” Before anyone can question what I really mean, someone pulls me out of the timestream.

I find myself standing on a simple garden path. A man pretends to be picking flowers up ahead of me. “Can I help you?” I call up to him.

“I just wanted your last sight to be of beauty, so I hijacked The Cleanser’s jump,” the man explains vaguely.

“What exactly does that mean? Who is the Cleanser?”

“He’s a rival of sorts,” the man answers, but then adds that he’s more of “a partner.”

“He will be the cause of Reaver’s death?”

“And yours, yes.”

“What shall I call you?”

“What do you think you should call me?”

“I’m getting the sense that you’ve been breaking the rules, but you’re so powerful that no one can stop you. You’ve gone rogue.”

He stops haphazardly tugging at a dandelion. “Rogue,” he repeats. “I love that.”

“Glad to hear it,” I lie.

“The Cleanser is trying to rid the world of time travel,” The Rogue says. “In all time periods, in all realities.”

“And you’re trying to stop him?” I ask.

“Not all that much,” he clarifies. “But I certainly don’t want him to do it, even if I thought he would be capable of such a thing. I’m just trying to have a lot of fun. When you’re immortal, every decision you make is meaningless. At that point, all you have left is watching other people’s decisions.”

“If you say so,” respond, but I have no interest in him expanding on his words.

He turns and looks at me. “But I can see that you don’t care.” Can he read minds? He goes on, “no, what you want is true beauty. I thought this garden would do it for you, because of its simplicity, but you want something more. You want to see something no one else has.”

“And do you have any idea what that is?”

“Death.” He snaps his fingers and returns me to the Easter Island cavern, far away from Horace Reaver’s prison cube. Reaver is talking with someone. “That’s the guy I was telling you about,” The Rogue says.

I nod. “The Cleanser.” I can’t hear their conversation, but I see what is likely a bomb. “I’m going to watch Reaver die? I have no interest in that either.”

“Not him,” the Rogue says. “Just wait.”

I patiently wait for them to finish their conversation. The Cleanser mysteriously moves over and picks up Reaver’s pillow. His body shudders away from itself, and then he disappears. The pillow falls to the floor. Just as that happens, all five of Reaver’s security guards appear inside of the cube, including myself.

“This is my favorite part,” the Rogue says. All he needed was a bucket of popcorn. He turns an imaginary dial in the middle of the air and the volume from inside the cube increases.

“It’s a bomb!” Horace yells as one of the guards is pointing a gun at him.

“You see? Without you, Reaver wouldn’t have cared that others were going to die. It may not seem like much to you, but if there’s an afterlife, you’ve increased his chances of going to heaven. You’ve helped redeem him.” He turns the imaginary dial the other direction and lowers the volume. The device the Cleanser left in there exploded and consumes the cube.

“They died anyway,” I say. “I died. Who cares if Reaver was a slightly less despicable human being at the time? Why are you showing me this?”

“I showed you this perspective so that you could die knowing you made a difference. Sure, Reaver is only negligibly better than he was, but what about people you met who already had potential, but were squandering it. What about Micro? What about Brian?”

I laugh at the obscure pop culture reference.

“You mattered, Lincoln Rutherford,” the Rogue claims. “You matter.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better for when you send me back into the loop to experience the death I just witnessed?”

“It is,” the Rogue says.

I lean against the cave wall and let out a sigh of relief. “Do it.”

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Microstory 260: Perspective Thirty-Five

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Perspective Thirty-Four

I’ve been gay all my life, and I’ve known about it for nearly as long. I grew up in a household where people were people, and there was no normal, and there was no hate. I never felt the need to hide myself, or try to be like everybody else. But I know I’ve been lucky. There are people in this very community who struggle with their identity; not just because their families don’t accept them, but because they’ve yet to accept themselves. I’ve sort of set up this little club-slash-support group for everyone. Well, I didn’t set it up myself, but I helped a lot. It kind of looks like we’re disguising ourselves as a group of extreme sports enthusiasts, but the truth is that a lot of us happen to like extreme sports. It seems statistically unlikely, but it just worked out that way. But everyone is welcome, and there are people who hang out with us but never skate, or anything. Or they do skate, but they do it casually, and really just try to have fun. The point of our club is to have a safe space for anyone feeling left out or unsure of themselves. Our little organization has grown over the years, and we’re even thinking of fundraising and expanding by opening up our own recreation center. But that might be a bit of a pipe dream, and many years down the line, if ever. For now, I’m just content to have a place to blow off steam and get away from all the drama. Unfortunately for that, though, there is a girl in our group that I’m starting to have feelings for. She’s such a badass. She’s fearless but thoughtful and understanding. She’s making me question my own identity, which I never thought I would do; not at my age, at least. I don’t know what it is. Perhaps my friendship with her just feels so strong and right that I’m mixing it up with romance. We just fit together so perfectly that I always want to be around her. But isn’t that what friendship is? I mean, how do you distinguish between a friendship and relationship? They’re about the same as each other except for that one particular thing. And I’ve encountered of lots of couples who don’t do that very often anyway, and they seem perfectly happy with each other. She and I are going to be planning the ski trip together, so I think I’m just going to keep going as is and see where it leads. I’m not switching closets any time soon, that’s for sure.

Perspective Thirty-Six

Microstory 259: Perspective Thirty-Four

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Perspective Thirty-Three

Ever since my bitch cousin moved to the big city and got her angel wings, she’s been all my parents talk about it. I know it’s a cliché, but they really do ask me why I can’t be more like her. I mean, it’s not like I don’t have my life together. I have a decent job with decent pay that I got from a decent education, and I’m doing all right for myself. Sure, there’s no room for upward movement, but so what? They don’t seem to understand that some people are perfectly content working uneventful jobs. My main concern is income and job security. I have those now, so what more should I want, to live in a mansion? I wouldn’t feel comfortable knowing someone could get shot in one room and not be heard in another. So no, a two bedroom apartment is fine for me right now, thanks. The hours are set in stone, and I never have to take my work home with me. I spend my money on the things that I love which is predominantly extreme sports. I do it all; from spelunking to scuba diving, paintball to parkour, rafting to roller derby. I’ve been saving for a major ski trip next winter, and I have other travel intentions as well. But no, that stuff is for teenagers who are, at best, trying to find themselves, and at worst, rebellious. I don’t smoke or do drugs, and I don’t drink very much. What more do they want from me? Oh that’s right, to be like my cousin. She works as a counselor at a crisis hotline, but she’s not as perfect as they think. She’s done things. She’s been involved with certain persons. But I can’t tell them that because I actually like her, and the truth is that she really is a good person. I just wish people would see that I am too. Just because I’m not saving lives doesn’t mean mine is meaningless. I had a teacher in college who seemed to feel like that. To him, the only reason anyone doesn’t pursue the field of social work is because they’re not good enough for it. I mean, he legit had trouble understanding why anyone would have interests he didn’t share. He was either autistic, or just a sociopath. I hope it’s the second one, because then I don’t feel so bad for hating him. What does he know, anyway? He doesn’t have passion. He just has work. He can keep his statistics. I’m going to the skate park.

Perspective Thirty-Five

Microstory 258: Perspective Thirty-Three

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Perspective Thirty-Two

My job is extremely stressful. I don’t get a whole lot of feedback from callers, so I never really know if things went all right. I work for a domestic violence hotline. People from all over the country call us for help with abuse. Sometimes the caller is being abused, sometimes it’s a friend or family member, and we even get calls from abusers who realize what they’re doing is wrong. Obviously being an advocate comes with its limits. Since we’re communicating anonymously over the phone, I can’t go and actually help the people who call in. After they hang up, I can’t be sure if they took my advice, or if they’re safe. I feel so frustratingly powerless to help. I’ve started writing this comic book series about a superhero who never saves people from burning buildings, or fights villains. Instead, she flies around removing people from unsafe domestic environments, and mediating disputes between family members. I’ve still not settled on a name for her, but I’m leaning towards Doctor Safespace. That seems a little cheesy to me, and feels like an advertisement for our services rather than something victims and survivors can look up to. Whatever her name is, she’s not bound by arbitrary laws and regulations. She can go in and stop the violence at its source. Just this last week, I took a call from a child who happens to live in my home town. He was hiding in the closet while his father was drunk again and hitting his mother. It was heartbreaking to hear him tell me what was happening as it was happening. I could hear the screams in the background. It took me awhile to convince him that he needed to hang up and dial 9-1-1. A part of him knew that the situation was serious, and needed to be dealt with, but as a child, he couldn’t help but spend the time telling me about his alter ego, Prince Malvolio. He had clearly created this character in order to escape from his world of abuse, but that was no longer helping as the two worlds were colliding with each other. Finally he agreed to hang up and call the authorities instead. I hope he’s okay. If this weren’t anonymous, I would have Doctor Safespace team up with Prince Malvolio.

Perspective Thirty-Four

Microstory 257: Perspective Thirty-Two

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Perspective Thirty-One

My sister is being abused by her husband, and I’m having trouble getting her to see the truth. To be honest, I’m not all that worried about her. The fact is that she is an adult, and I don’t feel like anyone can help her unless she admits that she needs help in the first place. They have a son, though. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to confirm that the guy’s physically abusing him as well. My girlfriend suggests I call a helpline about it, but I’m not good over the phone. What I really need to do is speak to someone in person. The problem is that the nearest domestic violence shelter is two towns over, and I have just not had any time. That’s a bad excuse, though, and I know it. I’ve always done that. I am an expert at putting up roadblocks when people try to give me solutions. My girlfriend calls it my most frustrating feature, but she’s helping me work through it. But for now, my priority is protecting that kid. Everything I’ve read on the internet says that when children are involved, immediate action must be taken. So maybe I should ignore the women’s shelter for now, and go straight to child services. What I’m worried about, however, is whether they’ll find any proof that he’s hurting his son. If they don’t, then this will just antagonize and aggravate him further. What is he going to do then? He’ll probably assume that his wife is the one who called the authorities on him, and even if he doesn’t, he’ll take it out on her...and their son. Oh my God, there is no good way to handle something like this, especially not since I can’t get my sister to truly open up about what she’s going through. Should I get someone into the house as fast as possible, or should I try to get the victims out first? Those are just my roadblocks again, though, aren’t they? This is stupid. I’m being stupid. My first order of business is to get help from someone who knows what they’re talking about, and not online. However legit or professional a website is, it’s still only going to be able to give me general information. Somebody needs to hear what’s going on in this particular situation. Somebody needs to hear my sister’s story. And I’m the only one who can tell it.

Perspective Thirty-Three

Microstory 256: Perspective Thirty-One

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Perspective Thirty

My husband loves his family. He just has trouble showing it sometimes. He has had a really hard life, and his job is just the absolute worst. He wouldn’t be able to get through it if he wasn’t allowed to relieve stress. And when you live the way we do, alcohol is really the only way to do that. People like us can’t just go get a massage, or buy a fancy car, or whatever it is that rich people do. We have to rely on the simple things. You can’t blame a guy for trying to forget about his troubles. My sister tells me she doesn’t care if I want to let myself get hurt, but that he is not allowed to hit our son. But she doesn’t understand that it’s not like that. Our son isn’t a bad kid, but he needs a strong hand. Just the other day he got in a fight with another kid on the bus. He’s obviously not being disciplined enough, and his father is the only one who can do that. If only his job wasn’t so demanding, he could be around to help out more. But he is a good man. He works himself to the bone to provide for us. His jerk boss is the real problem. He works my man and the other “slaves” at the plant sometimes fourteen hour shifts. Well, they’re actually seven hour shifts, but he doubles them up all the time. It’s criminal. Literally. It might be illegal to work people so much. I’m not sure. It’s not like I was given the opportunity to get myself a decent education. By the time I reached high school, both my parents were working two jobs to support seven children, and my only option was to drop out and start earning my own wages. Technically, I wasn’t allowed to drop out when I was that young, so all I did was skip class regularly until they expelled me and forced me to another school. I just kept doing that until truancy laws stopped applying to me. And so I of all people know what it’s like to have to find that balance between work and home life. I’m not leaving my husband. No matter what you say about him, he doesn’t deserve that. When he’s sober and happy, he’s really good to us, and I know that if I just work harder to be a good wife, that side of him will come out more often.

Perspective Thirty-Two

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: May 8, 2062

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The year’s Tribulation did not begin until rather late in the evening. And they knew this from the very beginning. They were not able to make calls on their phones. In fact, they were not allowed to do anything on them. There was only a timer, counting down the hours until they were to be pulled away from their lives. They last year asked their family to find them tactical gear and certain supplies to aid them in whatever was coming next. Just before the timer hit zero, they dressed themselves in bullet proof vests, which were thinner and easier to maneuver around in than those found in Mateo’s time. Over that they wore black uniforms with tons of pockets for flashlights, pocket knives, those rebreathers they’ve used on occasion, and various other survival items. They gave their loved ones hugs and kisses and prepared for the jump.

Mateo and Leona found themselves standing in an orderly line with a bunch of other people. They were all wearing beige jumpsuits and staring at the newcomers with little surprise. A security guard walked over for a look. “New prisoners?”

“Uh...” Mateo tried to think quickly.

Leona covered for him. “No, we’re not. We’ve been sent to work here.”

“Which chooser assigned you to us?” the guard asked.

“It was Melly,” Leona lied.

The guard was noticeably shocked by this. “She never sends us anyone. We are to understand that she’s not a big fan of keeping her kind locked up.”

Mateo shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell ya. We’re here for her.”

“What year are you from?”

“2062.”

“It’s 2062 right now,” the guard said, shaking his head. “They don’t ever send guards to their own time period.”

“I meant 2014,” Mateo tried to say.

The guard looked up to a couple of other guards and gave them a hand signal. “I don’t know who you are, or why you’re dressed like this, but I’m going to assume that you’re inmates until I’m told otherwise. You will be temporarily placed in a cell.”

The other guards started removing Mateo and Leona’s gear and outer clothing. “No, please,” she pleaded. “We’re supposed to be here! Not as inmates! We’re a tack team!”

The first guard scoffed. “Tell it to the poster girl.”

“What?”

The other guards took them by the arms and escorted them upstairs to a corner cell. They weren’t too terribly rough, but they did push them in and ordered the bars closed. For what was presumably a salmon prison facility, it was rather antiquated and unsophisticated. It was made of metal and concrete. They saw no security cameras, or lasers. There were no robots roaming the hallways, and a quick look out the window showed them that they weren’t placed on top of a kilometer-high platform. The gates were, however, electronic. The cell itself felt familiar. “I feel like I’ve been here before.”

“Yeah, Mateo, we’ve both been locked up a number of times. Too many to count.”

“No, that’s not it.” He looked over the room and tried to remember. There was a single small bed, with a table next to it. A shelf of books was on the other side of the bed. Besides a number of postcards, there were a couple of pretty girl posters. They were familiar as well, but Mateo could not remember their names. He decided to focus on the table where there was a bible and a chessboard. “Like I said, in prison, a man will do almost anything to keep his mind occupied,” he quoted.

“What was that?”

“It’s Shawshank Redemption.”

“The movie?”

“Yeah. We’re in it. This is Andy’s cell.” Mateo stepped over to one of the posters. “See, this is Rita Hayworth.” He picked up the bible. “There should be a rock hammer in here.” He opened it up and found himself to be right. The book was completely hollowed out with a small hammer placed inside.”

“Did he teleport us into a movie? I don’t think that’s possible.”

“No, not everything is perfect. Andy carved the chess set himself. This was obviously bought at a store. And these posters are clearly replicas, and there should be...” He walked over to the Raquel Welch poster and lifted it up to find a hole in the wall. “Yep. There it is. Our escape.”

“The Rogue recreated a movie set so that we could recreate a scene from it?”

Mateo laughed, “I guess.” He laughed some more.

“You’re a little too happy about this.”

This was true. He was rather excited. This was one of his favorite movies, and now he was Andy Dufresne. Who else can say that? “I knew it would be important that the Rogue has an obsession with pop culture.”

“You were right.” She pointed to the hole. “So we just crawl through that and we’re home free?”

Mateo scrunched up his face like he was smelling something disgusting. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”

Mateo described to her the events of the film, including the parts not directly related to the escape itself. If they had had time, he probably would have recited the dialog and narration word for word, because he was definitely capable of that.

“So we’re going to have to slide through fecal matter.”

“That’s the plan,” Mateo replied, trying to be upbeat.

“Then we end up in a creek, and we’re home free.”

“That’s right.”

“The Rogue said we wouldn’t likely survive this one. This all sounds gross, but not deadly.”

“True. I imagine he has something in store for us in addition to this.” That was immediately proved to be true. The tunnel did not lead them to a replica of the pipe system from the movie. They were in a hallway. No one was around, but it was much more advanced than Shawshank.

“You didn’t say anything about this.”

“Now I have no idea what to do.”

“Wait, now I recognize this,” Leona said after they looked around for any guards. “This is Fox River State Penitentiary.”

“I’ve not heard of it.”

“It’s from the show Prison Break. This is a mashup.”

“So, how do we get out of here?”

Leona paused and carefully recalled the events from the show. “We have to climb through the window and crawl along the cable. But we’ll have to tear the bars off first. In the show, they tore out the firehose and tied it to the elevator which forced the bars from the window frame.”

They walked into the med bay to find they didn’t actually have to tear off any bars. “Again, not a perfect replica,” Mateo noted.

Leona opened the window and looked out. “There’s no cable.”

“No cable?”

“No cable. There’s no way to get all the way over to the wall.” It was several yards away from the side of the building. “He’s creating a no-win situation.”

“No, he’s not. There’s a way out of here. There will always be a way. He likes to be entertained. They all do. If something is too easy then he has to throw a wrench in it.”

“So what do we do?”

“We give him a show.”

“How do we do that?”

“We get you to a computer. It’s not like you haven’t broken someone out of jail before.”

They searched the hallways and found a computer terminal in an office. Leona started working her magic. She didn’t have full access to the system, but as long as there was a single connection through the network, she could make anything electronic do just about anything. She programmed most of the prison doors to open up at once, and she sounded the alarms. She also made the lights start flashing on and off and turned the volume up on every television set. On the security feeds, they could see guards running all over the building, trying to contain a riot.

“What was the point of this?”

“It’s a distraction. We have to get down to the chooser block. I found something in the files.”

Mateo followed Leona down the stairs. They ran into one of the guards on their way. Now, Mateo was not known for fighting, but he used his memory of every combat movie scene he had ever witnessed to subdue his opponent. He wasn’t able to knock him out, but he knocked him down so that he wasn’t able to get back up again by the time Leona took his badge and continued forward.

They ended up in a different block of the prison. Some salmon had made there way there and were either fighting guards, or each other. Leona looked around before settling on her target. “There.” It was Prince Darko, in his cage.

“What are you doing here?” Prince Darko asked.

“We’re getting you out,” Leona explained.

“Why?”

“Yeah, why?” Mateo asked.

Leona swiped the guard’s security badge and unlocked the cell. “How are they suppressing your time traveling?”

Prince Darko presented his arms. He was wearing a fancy set of wrist restraints, not unlike the ones Mateo was given way back when they were in the Reaver warehouse.

Leona took a key she had stolen from the office desk and removed them. “Okay, get us out of here.” She took his shoulder and motioned for Mateo to do the same.

Prince Darko searched around the room.

“What are you waiting for?” she asked angrily.

He pointed to one of the security guards. “Get me his hat.”

“The hell you talking about?” Mateo yelled.

“Just do it!” Prince Darko yelled back.

Mateo ran over and took the hat from the guard who was too busy to care because he was fighting off two particularly vicious salmon prisoners. He handed it to Prince Darko then took his shoulder again.

“This is going to be jarring,” Prince Darko warned.

Mateo felt himself being torn from the timestream, but it was different than all the other jumps. It was like there were multiple versions of him, each one a little bit behind the other in a cascade. A small tremor shook his body as an electrical charge jumped between every single one of his atoms. The scene changed. They were standing in the foyer of someone’s home. Prince Darko released his hand from the security guard’s hat that was now resting on a hook. Light came through the window, proving it was daytime.

“What just happened?”

“You just threaded an object,” Prince Darko told them enigmatically.

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Overwritten: The Other 2038 Problem (Part VII)

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My children. My life becomes uneventful, except for my search for my kids. I’m not given any information about the people I’m guarding in this special prison for time travelers. The inmates are forced special medication to prevent them from being able to manipulate the spacetime continuum. In the movies, the not-so-crazy person always escapes from the psych ward by pretending to ingest the pills, but secretly spitting them out while the orderlies aren’t looking. That was not an option in this prison. The medication is given through injections, once a week for salmon and three times a week at least for choosing ones. A salmon named Dr. Baxter Sarka jumps into the time period on the regular to dose them personally. We often chat with each other, and he explains what he knows about the whole situation. There are people out there who are capable of jumping through time and space. They’re immortal, lazy, and just complete assholes. They use their abilities to screw with other people who can jump through time. The basic difference between the choosers and the helpless salmon appears to be superficial and contrived. Sure, there seems to be this thing where two activated salmon birth a choosing one, but that’s not the only way to create one, and it doesn’t always happen. The division between these two classes is, any way you slice it, arbitrary.

Being what The Delegator referred to as an “accidental salmon” I was neither choosing one, nor truly salmon. I was not put on no particular pattern, and no particular choosing one was put in charge of me. If I wanted to go anywhere through time and space while I wasn’t on the job, I could put in a request, and someone would be dispatched to ferry me. I spent most of that time in present-day New Jersey, poring through records, hunting for the two kids that I had adopted in the other timelines. But they were nowhere to be found. My son’s parents didn’t have any children in this timeline, and I could find no trace of my daughter anywhere at all. After years of denying it, I had to accept the fact that either Reaver or I had altered the timeline enough to prevent both of their births. I had erased my children from existence by going back in time. I continued to press for someone to take me to the first timeline, but was rejected every time. It’s never been clear whether that means the original timeline no longer exists, or if they can no longer access it. Or—and this is the most likely explanation—the choosing ones simply don’t give a shit.

It’s January 1, 2038 as I’m writing up my final two blog posts, noting what I remember from that first timeline. I can feel the memories slipping from my mind as I type them out. But also, my brain is becoming fragmented and confused, but it’s more than the usual overwriting side effects. I actually feel sick to my stomach, and I’m starting to have trouble remembering pretty much anything that happened to me for the last two decades. I feel myself become nobody, a nothing. I spend the rest of the night and part of the next day in a stupor. I know that I’ve had a life; that I’ve done things, and that I’m real, but there’s nothing there. I’ve been hollowed out like canoe wood. My other brain functions are being compromised as well. I can’t remember which side to hold the spoon, or why food matters, of what food looks like, or what word I just said. It started with an “f”. What? I just had a thought about letters, but I can’t remember what it was. Did I forget something else again?

“Hello, father,” a voice says to me.

Some of my brain function returns to me, but only enough to survive the next minute or so without forgetting how to breath, or keep my eyes open. “Cranberry,” I grunt. Nailed it.

“I do not understand what is wrong with you,” the girl says. I recognize her. I saw her once in prison...I think.

“Me either,” I say.

She continues to speak, but I don’t understand many of the words. Sometimes, my ears turn off, which I didn’t know was possible, but then again, I don’t know much. “...whereas before you were having trouble distinguishing the two timelines, now it’s like you’ve never had a timeline.”

Yeah, I’m a non-person! I yell. I don’t think I said it out loud, though. “Not personing the non-person life as non-people often do with their non-person lives.” I think that’s drool bubbling from my lips. Drool or air. There was something I heard the one time about cyanide or rabies. Or was it rabbits? What’s it?

“Fuke!” she yells. But I can’t hear very well. I think she might have said a different word. People often say different words than they say. That’s just how it goes. It’s it. “I need Baxter.”

“You’re a bastard!” I scream as loud as possible.

“That is not quite an inaccurate description, if I do say so myself.” She craps her finger and a man don’t know from having met before appears in a fascist. Flascist. Fla—uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, “uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...”

“He is not well,” the dog says, admittedly. That baxter dog. He’s not a dog though. That—I didn’t say that.

“That, that, that, that, that, that, that, that, that, than, that cat, then bat.” Prat, I mutter to my mind.

“Sarka, what the hell are we gonna do?”

The man looks in his back blag. “I’ve not been given the equipment I would need to help him. This is an unsanctioned appointment.”

“Well, what do you have?”

“Literally nothing, see?” He opens his cat and shows it. No blood, he was right. Good boy, baxter dog boy.

“Where’s your fur, you feather plucker!”

“Lincoln,” a calming voice claims. “It’s okay.”

“Don’t kill me, bull!” Idiot. “BULL!” Bad dog. “Bull-goddamn shit!” Dammit. “Shit! Shift!” I slam my fist on the table to demand order. “Heyoooooooo!”

“Please try to remember who you are,” my lovely daughter, Melly says.

“Dotter Thracker Snorkel.”

She either rolls her eyes or make a sad face, whichever is which. “He’s trying to say Doctor Baxter Sarka.”

“Yeah, I got that,” the dog replies with friendly, deadly confidence.

I stand up and try to run into the wall, but I just trip and fall asleep on the table for two years.

“He’s losing it, getting worse,” the doctor says. “I can’t do anything to help him unless somebody puts a goddamn thing in my medical kit.”

“I can try something,” Melly fries.

I wake back up and watch her. She closes her eyes, exhales deeply, and twists her neck to prepare. She puts her palms together in a prayer position before ceremoniously lifting them up and placing them softly on her beautiful head. She slowly drags her fingers down over her face. The face changes. The placement of the eyes, the shape of the nose. Nothing changes too dramatically. She still looks like her, but fresher, with softer skin. She presses on her chest and her breasts disappear. She places one hand on her head again and forces it down before pulling on her wrists and shortening her arms, one after the other. Little by little, she adjusts her body, regressing her age ever downwards. When finally she stops, she’s a little girl, only a few years old.

“I didn’t know you people could do that,” the doctor dog says. He is stunned, and a little scared. And also.

“They can’t,” she says, still sounding like a woman. She coughs and chirps and whimpers while tapping her fingers on her throat. He voice becomes that of her young self, “I’m the second most powerful of all.” She turns her attention to me. “Daddy.”

My eyes begin to water as I look upon her. “Where have you been? Where are you?” Who are you?”

“I’m your daughter,” she answers.

“You’re the one who took Reaver back in time. You did this to me. You made me lose you. You ran away, and you ran from my thoughts.”

“I am the daughter of Leona Delaney and Horace Reaver, two salmon. I was placed in your care after some time in the system. Choosing children cannot be raised long by their salmon parents. Nor can they be raised by some regular guy. Once I turned three, I was taken away to live somewhere else. This would have happened whether I was with my parents, or with you. I’m sorry for leaving you, but I had no choice.”

“But you’re from an alternate timeline.”

“Yes.”

“And you prevented your own birth; your own existence.”

“Essentially, yes.”

“Then how are you here? You’re not here.”

“I am here. Choosing ones have the benefit of surviving any temporal adjustment. It doesn’t matter that a version of me doesn’t exist here. In fact, there can be only one of one person anyway. I was born, and I’ll always exist. Like I said, I’m not like the others. I’m more powerful, and because of that, I can’t be killed by any means.”

“Why did you push your birth father to the past?”

“I was trying to get him to make things better.”

“Things are not better.”

“But they are. What happened to you was an accident. I did not intend on that, but you’ve had a greater effect on the outcome of events than you realize. Horace Reaver has attempted to kill people, this is true, but he’s not succeeded. You’ve made him a better person just by being around. He’s not great, and they’re still gonna lock him up, but you’ve helped the world by sacrificing your life and being at his side. His technological advancements have saved more lives than they’ve ruined. You’ve created a balance, and the timeline thanks you for it.”

“I don’t remember any of this. I remember that I’m supposed to remember. I remember what I feel, and I know what I feel now, but I do not recall the events leading up to this moment.”

“I know, you’re sick. It’s because you’re not genetically predisposed to time travel, as most humans aren’t. We avoid shifting their time placements for this very reason. About the most a normal person can take is a quick teleportation. Anything beyond that and we end up with this.”

“So I’m going to be like this forever? A nonperson?”

“Not if you come back to me. I’m going to help you, but you have to trust me.”

I’m not neurologically capable of declining the offer. “What do we do?”

“We start...with a hug,” Melly says melodramatically.

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