Memories

I slide my hand across the cold metal dome of my time machine. The final formula programmed in after decades of testing. It will work this time. I pulled my chin down, taking my glazed eyes away from the grid of browned saggy ceiling tiles. When the time comes I can tour my invention, earn generations worth of funds. Not yet.

I drag my thumb along the base of the HMI initiating a travel prompt. Probably shouldn’t go too far. We can start with thirty minutes.

2073 - 09 - 22

21:32:00

The HMI auto-populates Friday. On a second display near the top of the machine, the weather is shown for the coming day.

I lay down on the old MRI bed before I activate the sequence, finding the most comfortable spot. While traveling, my body will be left here unmoving for the duration. I don’t want to come back to a body too achy to get up.

Patting down my pockets and removing my jewelry, I verify all the metal is gone from my body and set outside the room. The powerful magnet in the machine is critical to sending back my full, intact, consciousness.

I return to the panel and submit the input. I watch the three minute timer tick away, my mind drifting away to the wrongs I can finally fix.

My skull rattles back to center as the sixty second alarm initiates. I crawl back into the tunnel, ensuring I have my hand on the callback device giving me autonomy on my return to the present.

The tone of the alarm grows deeper at thirty seconds and further at ten. As the sequence reaches zero, my eyes close and my body fades to sleep.

—

I come to, sitting in my stained cloth office chair, stuck in one of the ruts created by the years-long broken caster. My body moves on its own. All the things I was doing. I leave my body to its agenda except my eyes as I cut them to the news I purposefully left running. Just after 2130. It really worked.

I felt my eyes begin to well. I push in the center of my palm activating the callback, scared that the small effect of the tears would keep me from entering the formula right this time around, still unsure how my changes will truly adjust the future.

—

My eyes open, tears now fully running down my cheeks, slowing as they enter the tight curls of my beard. I remain for a quarter hour, letting my mind wander in hundreds of directions until my excited jitters fade.

Finally rising to my feet, I scan the room for any changes my short journey may have made. Finding nothing, I return to the HMI pulling the logs for what time I came back to present. As I hypothesized, the full duration of my trip reflected in real time. I have to be careful never to stay too long and allow my already poorly nourished body to wither away.

I leave the office, walking across the floor to what has evolved to my bedroom for the last decade. The week old seafoam paint helps calm what I couldn’t after my return. The white sheets suspended across the ceiling wave against the breeze of my oscillating fan.

The sandy brown office cabinet squeals like a passing gull as I pull open the bottom drawer. I retrieve my photo album, binding split nearly to its last edge. I flip to the tab marked 2035, my birthyear, the three rings bending in varying directions forcing an elaborate dance for each page turned.

I feel the warmth of my tears return to my cheeks, blurring the image of my father. His unmanicured black beard peppered with bright white strands curling over his thick taupe upper lip. He is looking down at me cradled in his arms, teeth exposed in a wide smile. The bags under his eyes prove he was tired, but his expression would never reveal it.

I chuckle seeing how much lighter my skin was so freshly born. Now I have the same camel brown flesh as him. I lift my gaze to the small shower mirror in the corner of the office.

“We really do look alike, Dad,” I say aloud as I stare into our dark hazel iris.

I drop my head back trying to keep the new tears from falling, instead letting them collect against the walls of my eye socket. I blink them away, scattering the warm liquid into my ears. Returning to the album, I flip to the year 2051, the last year with pictures.

It’s the two of us again. His beard is fully white now, tightly trimmed. The umpire mask tilted up on top of his head casts a shadow across his face, but the same beaming smile of joy leaks through the picture. His arm sits upon my shoulder. My uniform is covered in dirt from sliding into home plate securing the victory for our team, the Raptors. I am leaning against my crimson bat, one cleat atop my black helmet on the ground. This was our last game together.

I close the book and set it beside my bed. Turning on the sound of waves from my ancient sound machine, the beach environment fully taking hold as I try to sleep through my anticipation.

“I’m coming, Dad.”

—

2051 - 11 - 09

10:45:00

Thursday. Butterflies scatter through my stomach as the alarm rings the final ten seconds of the countdown. My eyes close as I drift to my time traveling sleep.

—

I stand outside the open door to what will be my office in the future. The ceiling tiles are dry, a crisp white surrounding the dust covered return vent. My father rolls around in his green office chair, rising to give me a hug, my heart bursting in the warmth. If my body wasn’t pressing forward in the present time, I would stay here forever. As my father releases me to run to the bathroom, I try to follow, finding myself unable to follow outside the office, the area now appearing as a deep blur. Instead, I slap at the chair sending it through a few revolutions. I can change things, but only where I was?

My father returns, closing the office door.

“Just have to do one quick meeting and we can head to lunch.”

I nod as I look at the clock. Three minutes pass before I abruptly stand grabbing my father’s arm. He looks back at me startled.

“Dad, please come with me.”

“I told you just this one meeti–”

“No! You need to come with me now. We have to go right now!” I watch the concerns envelop his face as the tears envelop my own.

“Ok son. I am coming. Grab your jacket.”

He turns back to his computer to lock it. He reaches up to grab his coat from the hook. No.

“Dad, Stop!”

“Son, I said I am coming, hold on.”

He bends down to tie his shoe, a moment I know too well. No.

“Dad, Pl–”

Three short blunt knocks on the wall match with three wet punctures.

“Help! Somebody get help!” I fall to the ground, broken. Nothing changes. My father’s eyes glaze as the blood seeps into his white shirt from three new holes in his chest. I still kneel over my father sobbing, looking at the holes from the exterior wall the bullets came through. I hear the same scream when the receptionist opens the door to the growing pool of crimson.

Unable to ingest anymore, I use the recall.

—

I jump up as soon as my eyes open, stumbling to my hands and knees. As my world settles, I rise back at the command panel verifying the time and date. I drop the countdown to a single minute before submitting and laying in the machine.

—

As my father hugs me I try to pull him to the corner of the office where we can just sit. I strain, my mind grunting to do anything to avoid this fate, but I am unable to control my body. Even through the fear, the memory of the hug briefly lets my old broken child feel safe. When my father leaves, the auto-piloted body slaps the chair as I had done on my last visit. Confused, I reach out to stop the momentum. As my hand nears, I am stopped by an unseeable force. When the chair stops, I unintentionally shove the chair back with the force I was applying to the invisible wall that no longer holds me back. I kick at the stack of unopened reams of paper, spilling them over the floor.

Father returns, and again I relive my nightmares. My body makes the same moves. My mouth pleads the same words. My father’s eyes drain empty just the same.

—

My father hugs me again. I allow the full horror to play to see what has changed. I watch as I slap the chair. I watch as my body moves to stop the chair, halting inches away. I watch my body push the chair once it is done. Again, it kicks the paper.

Everything keeps happening as I remember. Exactly as I remember. What I changed in my visits I can no longer change?

I look around the room for any insignificant object. I grab an old coffee stained mug from behind his monitor and place it in the trash. Before I lose my father again, I return home.

—

After I kick down the paper, my body grabs the cup from behind the monitor. I command myself to chuck the cup at the wall, drop it on the ground, set it back down. Anything different than placing it in the trash. I watch, helplessly, as my past self bends to set the mug in the bin.

Internally, I begin to sob. I can’t change anything.

I watch my father fade away as countless demands are ignored and blocked by invisible entities. I stay staring at my lost father through burning eyes until darkness consumes me.

—

I wake back in my present time. My stomach groans for food. Now my body sends me commands but I choose to ignore it.

I eventually rise and check the logs. Eight hours have passed since my last travel. I don’t fully know how my trips affect the body yet. Maybe I should get food.

My footsteps echo through the hallway like wet meat slapping the cutting board. I place my hand on the fridge handle and drop my head.

Each time I go back, I remember more. The more I remember the less I can change.

I’m so sorry, Dad.