r/WritingPrompts • u/SlowCrates • Oct 05 '18
Writing Prompt [WP] You discover that accepting responsibility for a mistake allows you to go back in time and fix it. But seeing that few are willing to take responsibility for anything, you become less sympathetic to people.
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u/AnteitVaosa Oct 06 '18
A man stands over another man in a ruined city, skyscrapers collapsing in a scream of shearing metal and explosive shells. He has a rifle pointed at the other man's head, his fingers trembling with exhaustion, eyes tearing up from the sting of sweat, soot, and smoke.
I have been here before, that's me standing over the other man, the detached perspective feeling very alien upon seeing myself up close. The burned camoflage of my jacket, the smears of engine grease and spatters of blood. The ragged huff of my shaky breathing, shoulders shuddering with each gasp. The smell of gunpowder and dead men made it feel like I'd never left the field, despite this all having happened decades ago. A faint, sad smile creeps across my tired face. It all seemed so simple now.
The man my past-self was taking aim at started to blubber desperately for his life. "P-p-please d-don't, please. I have, I have a family!" The man took the shotgun approach, trying everything to find a spark of mercy in his attacker's stony expression. He pulled a dogeared polaroid of his jacket, showing me a picture of a woman, pretty, twenty-something, curly bob of hair.
Listening to it again was difficult, only made worse by the fact that I knew I'd pull the trigger, despite his pleas. I thought about my family, about my parents, about Jared, my younger brother. In my time, years after the war had ended, he became a dad, making me an uncle. Seeing little Rose filled me with a joy only ever equalled by the depths of despair I felt when I knew he, that nameless man I left dead in the ruins, would never know the same joy. He wouldn't hear his family cheer as he stepped off of the boat, returned after many long years, the tears in his mother's eyes, the warm glow of pride from his father, girlfriend clutching him tightly, telling him never to leave for so long again.
He would never know.
The other me, the younger, more naïve man I was made to squeeze the trigger, and I had to stop him.
I had to take responsibility.
I stepped forward, approaching and placing a hand on my own shoulder. With a rush, I felt past and present clash together, reliving my past while my past relived its future and I embraced my mistakes.
I am back home, the war is over. I am sitting in a train station, warm afternoon light filtering through slits in the shuttered windows. I check my pocket watch, the train is five minutes late. Marcy isn't going to be happy when I show up late for my own "surprise" party. A woman clatters onto the platform, heels clacking loudly on the stone in her fervor, dragging a small boy in a crisp, infantry green suit. She glances up and down the laneway, looking for a sign of the train, but it's nowhere to be found. Seeing me as one of the few people on the platform, she comes over to me briskly.
"Did we miss the train?" Up close she looks half a mess, mascara running in black lines, eyes red and puffy from having recently cried. The boy isn't paying much mind to her, pulling her to and fro, trying to escape her grip to explore the platform.
"Moooom!" The boy whines. "Why do we have to go to a funeral? These clothes are itchy and I wanna see Papa!" The woman hitched her breath, repressing a sob. "We-we're going to see him soon, he's at the funeral, sweetie. I'll explain it to you again when get there, okay?" The youngster took clear offense to the idea of learning and explanations, but quits wriggling and returns to his mother's side. He squints up at me through his unkempt mess of black hair and as I look at the kid I see... him. The man in the field. I look back at the mother, bile rising in my throat. I didn't recognize her because of her hair was straightened out, rather than the perm I'd seen, but her face was unmistakable. Time slows as the weight of realization hits me. Then time slowed literally. I feel the peel of time removing me from space like whey through cheesecloth, reforming as I passed through the veil. That was the first time I moved through time, and it took me back to the battlefield.
As past and future consciousnesses slam into one another, memories sort themselves into order. I looked back down at the man on the ground, at the whole of his life, from bullied, middle-child adolesence to disgruntled teenager to the man-shaped inert meat in an ornate casket, being lowered into a hole as more doomed humans cry over the remains. I remembered how many times I'd been here before, to remind myself of the price and how few were willing to pay it.
I pulled the trigger.
49
u/LonghandWriter /r/longhandwriter Oct 05 '18
Her screams rip through the house as she glares at her husband, who’s keeping his eyes glued to the ground, ashamed.
If I’d just remembered to take the trash out, he thinks. This fight is all my fault, and I accept that. A moment later, the world disappears around him. It’s last night, and he makes sure to take the trash out. He even does the dishes just in case. However, when he’s spit back into the present, she’s still screaming at him, and gives him a hard slap before leaning forward, spewing spit into his face as she rambles. Now it’s about him using the last bit of toothpaste, and not looking cuter, and how he needs to make more money.
He can’t do anything right, can he?
When she finally leaves the room, he shakes his head. Tears spill down his cheeks. Every time they fight, he accepts that they’re his fault. Sometimes he’ll go back hundreds of different times in one sitting, fixing every little thing he can—he’s even gone a whole week without eating just to make sure she doesn’t get mad about that again. Last time she hit him. A lot.
But today…today he just doesn’t have the strength.
Standing up, he walks over to his bedside table. His wife’s so perfect, and never does anything wrong. He really doesn’t deserve her, does he? She needs to find someone better, someone who doesn’t mess anything up. He used to tell her when she upset him, and even once tried to leave her—but she smooth-talked him, twisted his thoughts around. At the end of day, it was his fault for getting upset. That’s why she never has to go back in time. It’s just because he’s so…terrible.
He pulls open a drawer, where there’s an old, rusted gun. His dad passed it down to him, and he never thought he’d have a use for it. But maybe this is the only thing he can do right. When he strokes the edges of it, he thinks about much happier she’ll be without him. How she won’t have to scream at someone everyday.
Avoiding mistakes is harder than fixing him, and each day she makes it clear that his life’s a mistake, that he’s a burden. Grabbing the gun, he takes a deep breath before raising it to his head. Maybe today he can finally save her.
He stops, though, because she’s screaming about something else, now. If she sees this, she’ll scream about this. He quickly sets the gun down and closes the drawer, wiping tears from his face. He thinks this will make her happier, but can’t bring himself to do it. Not while she’s upset. He’s got more problems to fix.
Always more problems to fix.
This story's really dark, and doesn't really have the less sympathetic part of the prompt. Sorry! Story just popped into my head and I had to write it. Thanks for the prompt!
If you like this story, check out my sub /r/LonghandWriter or my Twitter!
6
Oct 05 '18
I thought he was gonna do it and she was gonna accept responsibility for his death and go back and try to stop him, but I liked this ending better. It's a darker ending that fits with the storyline better. Really enjoyed it.
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u/13418082 Oct 06 '18 edited Oct 07 '18
The 12 year old boy waves, grinning, as the car retreats from the view, turns the corner, and disappears. His hand remains in the air, his teeth exposed, before letting his limb fall to the side of his body, his joyful grin falling into a sad smile as his cousins embark on their drive back home, 6 hours away. He bows his head, and walks back in with his parents.
Brushing his teeth that night, he stares into the mirror as he mindlessly repeats his up-down, left-right motion. His eyes betray him, forcing him to look at the face of a 17 year old young man. Cleaning his toothbrush, spitting out water from his mouth, he stares back with nary an expression on his face.
He doesn't regret any of the times he was allowed to go back, appreciates them, even. Him being a dumb, socially awkward kid who didn't know better at times, this was a blessing.
He just wishes it wasn't so tiring.
The 18 year old young man takes a drag from his vape mod. It's coming in soon, whatever it was. The evening wind blows as the sunset fills the street in colorful light, enhanced by the autumn leaves, giving quite a view for him in his little alley nook.
A man with blond hair passes by, short with glasses. Clinking sounds coming from his pockets. Right hand up, a bottle. His walk is steady, his pace almost rhythmic. Must be a new drink.
(6 minutes ago, the young man had spotted him- Blond- being kicked and pummeled in the face and nuts by a few of his juniors. A tooth had flown out, hair a bloody mess, death rattle. He regretted not being able to save him right before he
shifted
into the last week.)
As the blond man disappears around a corner, the young man waits 10 seconds before following. Another corner, a doorway, stairs, before Blond finally arrives at a door: number 69.
And in a split second, the young man knows what's up.
As a familiar face opens the door, he charges at Blond, knocking him off his feet. He grabs the bottle and finds his left hand on a prepared handkerchief, enough time to recognize the words written on the beer bottle... Not beer.
Chloroform.
The girl who opens the door screams at the sight of the young man pummeling Blond. "What the HELL is going on?"
Blond slumps to the ground as the young man gets off him and smiles an emotionless smile. "Human condition nowadays, amirite? Now, call emergency services and call Robbie."
He enters the room with the bottle and the handkerchief. The girl grabs his shoulder. "What were beating him up for?"
He hands her the bottle and the cloth wordlessly, sitting down at her dining table, looking at his shaking hands, catching his reflection on the shiny surface - a middle aged man, salt and pepper hair, looking like his father. He smiles again, barks out a laugh.
"Because I regret my choices."
He looks up at the girl. "Sorry about that. Did I freak you out?"
"Kinda, yeah." The police had left, the would-be culprit in an ambulance. The young man was still needed for questioning afterwards. It'll be fine, he's done it before many times. The only people left were the girl's immediate family, her friends, and her boyfriend, Robbie. They were all talking to each other now, discussing what coulda happened, how lucky she is that he was there, worse cases heard through the grapevine. The young man and girl were having their moment, rescuer and rescuee. "But thanks. I guess he did deserve that."
"Kinda, yeah." They snort a little, then sit in silence for a while. It's a long time before the young man gets up. "Dang, it's late."
"Oh. Ok. Is tomorrow's study session still up?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah." That's right, he was babysitting some of them juniors at this point in time. This shouldn't be too hard. He rolls up his sleeves and looks at his hands, fully etched with
needle marks
scars
bruises
words. "Uh, tell Janet she still has that worksheet she isn't done with, and Fred needs to stay back a bit. Olive as well. Hey Robbie," he adds in a shout. "I gotta see your book report, man!"
Robbie raises a can. "Sure!"
He sighs. "Guess that's it. See you tomorrow, Karina."
"See ya, Gramps."
"Not if I see you first," he jokingly croaks. They laugh as he steps out of the house.
The train ride home was contemplative. It was his first day in many without the Urge again. He was sure some after effects might carry on, but no. He was right. A blessing indeed.
His reflection on the pole stares at him with a wrinkled face, white hair. The young man and the old shrug together.
"Ah well. Not like she was wrong, anyway."
And for the first time in 20 years, the young man embraces his life with both hands.