It Will Soon Stop

TW: Themes of War; Mental Health

Why am I here?

I know the ‘how.’ I’ve been dealing with this new power for about a year now. It’s the ‘why’ that gets me. Most of the time, I assume it’s so I can learn from my mistakes. But can’t I do that without traveling back to the times I made them? I’m not allowed to change anything anyway, so what’s the point?

The first time it happened, I’d only gone back about an hour and it only lasted a few seconds. The sight of my past self, staring at me in horror as I lurked in the corner of my bedroom, made me feel sick to my stomach. When I came back, I suddenly had the memory of seeing myself—I’d thought I was a ghost, or a spirit. I hadn’t fully recognized myself, but the new memory being shoehorned into my brain made my head hurt, and the nausea took over and wouldn’t stop for the entire night.

So the next time it happened, when I went back a month, I hid as soon as possible and stayed out of sight while I watched my past self make the mistake of bringing home a woman from the bar. She'd turned out to be way more drunk than I’d thought she was, and the whole time we hooked up she kept burping, which prompted her to giggle (a horrifying sound coming from a grown woman in her thirties) and say “excuse me” in an exaggeratedly posh accent. It was funny the first time, but after the fifth, I just wanted her out of my apartment.

Now, I can’t quite tell exactly how far back I’ve gone. It’s also the first time I’ve traveled in public. I follow myself through the crowd. I steal a pair of sunglasses from a lady that bumps elbows with me, and a cap from some old man’s open gym bag. I put on my disguise and keep a safe distance from myself—about two yards—so that people don’t see two of me and get suspicious.

Oddly enough, I can’t remember this street. It must have been that time I accidentally got off at the wrong train stop and got lost on my way to a friend’s dinner party. But what on earth could have happened then that I need to learn from now?

My past self turns a corner, and I rush to follow so that I don’t lose myself. I understand that I’m in a rush to find my way, but do I really need to be going so fast? Everyone else on the street is speed walking, too. I think it must be rush hour or something.

I don’t do so well in crowded spaces. I used to hate going to school dances, and when I briefly worked in fast food I ended up fainting on the third day during the Sunday lunch rush. This crowd is starting to get to me the same way it did back then. The sound of their footsteps, clashing with the sound of their voices and the sound of the cars in the street, are making my ears ring. The heat of so many bodies pushing past me is making me sweat, and my head starts to hurt, making it harder and harder to see clearly.

I can only just make my past self out, pushing myself down the street with a sense of urgency that doesn’t feel all that familiar. I furrow my brow as I realize: do I even own that shirt?

While I’m trying to figure out whether or not the shirt I’m seeing on my past self is actually familiar or not, I hear a scream from behind me on the street. I turn around and see that a fight has broken out. Some people with signs against people wearing tactical gear.

Surely I would have remembered this.

The fight escalates. Fists are flying. The people in tactical gear use nightsticks to beat back the people with signs. The people with signs bring out pepper spray. The people in tactical gear seem to remember something, some kind of game changer. A trick they forgot they have up their sleeve. With a sinking dread, I watch as one of them pulls a gun.

They don’t hesitate. They give no warning. They just fire away.

As I turn my face away, shaken by what I’ve just witnessed, I realize this hasn’t happened yet. Somehow I’ve gone forward this time.

My past self—no, I guess that would be my future self, wouldn’t it?—seems to be frozen on the spot, unsure of what to do since they’ve also witnessed this gruesome act. I’m not surprised. I’ve heard of things like happening all across the country, but somehow I’d always felt detached from it. It was happening to someone far away, and thus could never affect me. Besides, I’ve never exactly been the hero type. I’m more of a keep–your–head–down, post–in–solidarity, thoughts–and–prayers kind of guy.

Alright, I’m a coward.

I don’t know why I was given this power. God knows I don’t deserve it. But still, there’s got to be a reason. I turn back to see that the crowd holding signs has only gotten more agitated, seeing one of their own brutally murdered. As a select few take the body and carry it away, the rest of them swarm the people in tactical gear, not letting up long enough for another shot to be fired.

I don’t know what to do. Usually, I’ve gone back to my own time by now. Why am I still here? I look around, trying to figure out what I can possibly accomplish.

I’m answered by a siren.

It’s not like the typical fire sirens or ambulance wails I’m used to. It sounds almost alien. Low and distorted, and deeply haunting. We all look up, the breath stolen from our lungs, as something floats through the air. Everyone else seems to recognize it immediately. It takes me a moment to realize.

Once I do, I frantically try to shove my way out of the crowd. I pray to God that I’m able to get back to my time before it makes impact. Some people give me curious, puzzled expressions. Why am I running? Don’t I know this is inevitable? Don’t I know I can’t outrun this? Don’t I know it’s too late? Even the people in tactical gear have somber, dejected looks on their faces. They were promised more. They were promised grace and glory. And now here they are, their ashes about to mix with ours.

As the object comes closer to the ground, I see that it’s going to land just a few blocks away. There’s no surviving that kind of impact. I stop running and crouch down, covering my head with my hands, sobbing. I haven’t sobbed since middle school, when my first girlfriend broke up with me. My father told me to toughen up. Real men don’t cry like that, he said.

Right now, as the world turns white, I don’t care about being a real man.

Someone asks if I’m okay. Someone else asks what’s wrong with me. I open my eyes and wonder if this is the afterlife. Strange, I think, why would the afterlife be a busy street in New York? I take a moment to ground myself as I realize with immense relief that I’m back in my own time.

The relief only lasts a moment. I have no idea how to stop what’s coming. I don't even have a time frame. My future self didn’t look any older than my present self. From what I could tell, it was summertime, and now it’s early spring. Do I only have a few months? A year? Two? How long before global annihilation?

It doesn’t matter how long I have. What can I do? Even if I have years to work with, I’m only one person. I don’t have any kind of political power; I work in an accounting office. I can’t run around screaming about nuclear war; I would be written off as a lunatic, or arrested for disturbing the peace.

I begin to shut down. I experience frequent panic attacks. My work suffers, and I receive two write–ups within the span of three months. I stop calling people, stop socializing. My older brother visits, saying he’s worried about me. He brings me some old clothes he says I can have. I go through the clothes and nearly pass out when I see the exact shirt I was wearing in my visit to the future. I wear it every day. I don’t wash it. I don’t shower. I don’t comb my hair.

I get called into HR one day. My coworkers have been complaining about my behavior and my hygiene. My manager asks if everything is okay at home. I break down into tears and tell him that the world is ending soon. I’m terminated.

I sit at home, waiting for the day. I clutch my brother’s shirt close to my chest, rocking myself back and forth, hugging my knees. I think of nothing else besides that white hot death.

Meanwhile, the world is turning, unaware that it will soon stop.