Threads of Life

Chapter One

How often do we find that a simple prank can end in confused distress? Even though stupidity has been taught a lesson for generations, the next generation seems able to take up the past stupidity to a new level without any trouble at all. It appears a common human trait to do completely irrational acts, all the time.

Which is why I have created this, my life's work. My masterpiece compiled containing the effects of the facts I have gathered. It has taken me a full year of research, but I have found it.

The truths are set straight, the machine assembled, the papers in order.

After all, it has been man's greatest hope, as well as fear, to travel through time, has it not? Well, this brings me back to the stupidity I mentioned previously.

I won't entail the details of my work, as I fear for the insanity of my current world. If everybody knew how to travel through time, my own mistake would be replayed and replayed until time is forgotten, lifetimes cross, deaths are reversed, and accidents are undone. All to the worsening of the world. The threads of time would unravel, and I would be left standing alone, completely responsible. So no, I will not tell how I created a complicated machine, that would allow me to travel through time. But I will try to explain its ethnics, so that you may understand some of the details later on.

To travel through time is, (as my analogy earlier explained) very much like a thread. There is always a constant, almost gravitational pull, that pulls us forward. To reverse this 'pull' would be to make time  all twisted and contorted. Sure, one could put it all back as it was, everything in it's place, but there would always be that curl, the kink that is unable to be repaired.

Since time is like a thread, I have no doubt in my mind that there are several threads in the universe, meaning that different dimensions would run on a different type of fiber, as well as there being a difference in how tightly that thread is wound. To disturb another dimension's time would be too complex, and difficult for me to explain; and I must admit, I don't fully understand it myself. I have set that mystery aside for a later time in my lifetime, or even in the lifetime of somebody else, somebody a deal younger than I.

People tell me that I am still young, but I cannot vouch for this. I feel extremely old, as though my study of time has affected how I myself remain and grow in this world. Though still a young, able-bodied man of twenty-four, my dark locks have started to gray already, and my eyes have lost the shine they used to hold. My friends worry about my state of health, and constantly fuss about my weight and state-of-mind. I know I cannot continue in this infernal business much longer. I need to live - as my friends say - outside of the laboratory. Outside of books. Outside of my imaginary world with just numbers, words, and questions that may never be answered. My little cosmos, existing to aid me in my evasion of true life, and to forget about the primal need for a figure beside me.

But that is why this particular project intrigued me. To search through time, I may be able to find the person meant for me. She doesn't have to be pretty, or have obtained some high-level of status, nor wit. But she does have to be smart, and kind, and she must love me, and be only mine.

My professors say that I am a very smart man, but I am not smart enough to figure out how to find the perfect woman for me. I fear that my fate is sealed, and that I...

The knock resounded throughout the small living quarters, and the young man stood from his chair, his pen lying forgotten upon the worn pages of his personal journal. Walking across his apartment, Edmund mused over who possibly could have come to visit this late. Stopping in front of the door to brush back his long, blonde hair with pale, bony fingers, he opened the door, hoping himself to be presentable.

“Mr. Breen?” The woman said, her black hair pulled back into a tight pony-tail, wearing casual jeans and a blue jacket.

“Depends.” Edmund gave a shy smile, leaning against the door frame. “Who's looking for him?”

The woman pursed her lips, looking impatient. “Mr. Breen, I have been informed of a warrant for your arrest for misuse of illegal substances.”

Edmund furrowed his brows, confused. “What on earth are you talking about?” He glanced down the hall, and saw two policemen in uniforms standing nearby. “What illegal substances?”

The woman shook her head, holding out a pair of cuffs as the two policemen came forward. “Sir, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer...”

Edmund's eyes widened, and he shouted in frustration. “I didn't do anything! I don't know what in the world you people are talking about, I'm just...”

He paused as the woman whipped out a handcuff, and slapped it on one of his wrists. Leaping back into his apartment, he slammed the door in the policewoman's face, locking it just as a fist banged against the cheap wood.

“Mr. Breen, open this door right now!” The woman called through the door, but Edmund was already racing for his window, attempting to pry it open. Partially chipped paint had been placed on the window sill, in an inexpensive way to keep the cold out of the small living space, and Edmund knew he didn't have the time to get it off. He quickly shuffled through the mass of papers on his desk, half-hearing the muffled orders for him to open the door.

“You're not taking me in, lady! I haven't done anything illegal!” He screamed, finally finding the papers he needed. Beginning to fold them, he heard the woman beginning instructions for her fellow officers to break down the door. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and Edmund leaned over, snatching up his journal from the messy desk.He ran into his bedroom, where he had shoved his twin bed into the corner to make more room in the confined space for his invention.

Standing in the middle of the room was a vast contraption, that looked vaguely like a complicated elevator. It had a silver exterior, which was covered in buttons, switches, and plugs; a full-length broken mirror was placed on the front, serving as a door. Colorful lights indicated that everything was prepared, and Edmund began to frantically press several buttons, pulling the extension cord from his bedroom wall.

Gripping his previously packed bag in sweaty palms, he waited for the door to open, apprehension causing his blood to race. He jumped as he heard the sound of his front door crashing through. He turned back, to see  the policewoman run into his living room, holding a grim-looking gun aloft.

The door to the time machine opened, making a grinding noise much like nails on a chalkboard; the woman turned, pointing the gun at Edmund. He slipped inside the machine, the door closing quickly behind him. He heard glass shatter just behind him, as a bullet made contact on the other side of the door.

The machine began moving into motion, and his insides churned. Nausea overcoming him, Edmund placed a quivering hand over his mouth, falling to his knees upon the floor of the 'elevator'. The motion stopped after a few moments, reducing to a dull whir as the minutes passed. Edmund sat down, his back against the interior wall of the machine, the intensity of recent events finally catching up to him.

Edmund breathed a sigh of relief, then began to chuckle. “That was close.”