The Egg Said Nothing - Caris O'Malley [25]
The duct taped me groaned. “You’re doing it wrong.”
“What am I doing wrong?” I demanded, peeking around the couch at him. He couldn’t see me, as his face was aimed towards the kitchen.
“You don’t know enough yet,” he said. “Let me go.”
“Stay on topic,” I chastised. “Tell me how.”
“It’s not just something I can tell you. You have to develop a complete understanding of this shit before you start fucking with it. And it’ll take you years.”
“That’s pretty discouraging,” I said. “And entirely false.”
“Oh, it is?” He cocked an eyebrow in mockery.
“It took you years. If I change things, I bet I can figure it out in a few minutes.” I tried to imagine exactly how to do this while he was pressed into silence. It must be possible, at least theoretically, or it wouldn’t have shut him up.
The future me had no idea what would happen if multiple versions of myself existed at once. Right now, there were two of us. What did I need to do?
Sometimes an idea hits you. You have no clue where it came from, but know it must have been from somewhere bigger than you. In this case, I felt as though time had manifested into some sort of entity, not a physical being, just something of a presence. And it seemed time was on my side. I think it didn’t like to be fucked with to serve human ends. I could be wrong, of course, but something put that brilliant idea in my head.
“You’re going down,” I said, grinning maniacally at the top of my double’s head. I stood up and headed back for the junk drawer. Throwing it open, I began sifting through it for the tools necessary to create a time machine. I found the pliers. And then an old pair of dull poultry scissors. The cupboard under the sink was the next stop; I pulled a claw hammer out from under it.
“What are you doing?” he asked with palatable suspicion.
“I want Ashley back,” I said, looking him in the eye for the first time since he’d been bound. He seemed frightened.
“She’s gone. You can’t bring back the dead.”
“You’re right,” I conceded. “But you can.”
“No, I can’t,” he insisted. He started looking around the room desperately, hoping to find a hole he could crawl into like an inchworm.
“You did it for yourself,” I countered.
He looked perplexed. “But that’s different.”
“How so?” I asked. Could one change one’s own time exclusively? Was it only possible to affect oneself by altering the past?
“Listen up, retard, I’m going to say this one more time. You’re not smart enough to understand.”
“I see.” I exaggeratedly stuck out my lower lip. I picked up the claw hammer and smashed it down on the ball of his ankle. He screamed in pain. His body convulsed as he tried to grab his ankle, but he was too well bound.
“What the fuck?” he screamed. “Why did you do that?”
“Make it happen,” I said, glaring at him.
His face was contorted in pain. “Make what happen?”
I raised the hammer again.
“No! Stop! What do you want me to do? Tell me!”
“Make me go back and stop Ashley from getting killed,” I said.
“It can’t be done,” he replied.
I gave his ankle a gentle tap at ground zero. He cried out.
There was an embarrassing scream, and another version of me ran from the bedroom, shovel blazing. A third me intercepted him, tackling him to the ground. The two rolled around the floor.
“Hold him down!” I yelled to no one in particular, and rushed to the aid of the one who seemed to have the upper hand. Together, we bound the weaker one in tape. The other collapsed to the floor, grateful that the altercation was over. I swung my foot back and kicked my exhausted double in the head, sending him flying backwards. Leaping upon him, I pinned his flailing arms to the ground with my knees and punched him in the face until he stopped struggling. Then I taped him up.
I sat there staring at the now empty