The Egg Said Nothing

Caris O’Malley

~Chapter 1~

In which the narrator lays an egg, keeps it warm and royally fucks some guy up with a shovel.

The morning I laid the egg is just a blur to me. I say laid because it seems to be the best word for the situation. I have no idea how it came out of me, but it did. I imagine it growing in my belly, slowly gathering its features from my raw genetic material. But it doesn’t have my mother’s shell. It doesn’t have my own runny yolk.

I was not hatched from an egg. Neither were my parents. As far as I know, there are no birds in my family. Nor have I ever had any sort of intimate relationship with a bird.

And yet, I found myself one morning lying there with an egg.

The windows were undisturbed; I keep them covered with newspaper for fear of being seen by my neighbors. I don’t mind the sunlight. Or the streetlamps, in fact. But I don’t like the idea of people seeing me doing anything. It’s odd, sitting on your couch eating toast while being watched by the lady across the alley.

The newspaper is taped over the whole window; it isn’t tailored in any way. It’s lopsided and too large for the mass it’s expected to cover. The effect is a bit disorienting. If you were in my apartment and looked at my wall, you probably wouldn’t expect to see several pages of the July 14 New York Times unceremoniously duct taped there with grocery store brand adhesive. But, then again, I didn’t expect to look down and see an egg between my knees.

When I woke up, I had this odd sensation. My lower half felt more sensitive. Felt exposed. If you’re the sort of person who sleeps nude, you might not understand. Or perhaps you will. Maybe that’s why you do it. But, for my own reasons, I never do. It’s uncomfortable for me. I have a healthy sense of shame about my person. Only rarely does someone come into my apartment. And if that person comes in while I’m sleeping, that person will not find me without my clothes on.

And that person will never find me in any state of undress because people do not come into my apartment without me knowing about it. And I would never let anyone in while I was sleeping. I’m not the sort of guy who leaves a key under the mat so visitors can come as they please. I have a single key to my apartment on my chain. The only other copy is buried in a park six miles away. It is in an unmarked hole. And everything I just said about the whereabouts of my spare key is a lie because I don’t want you to know where my goddamned key is.

I have eight different locks on my door. Four are where you’d expect them to be. One on the door handle, one deadbolt, one sliding bolt and one chain lock. Then there are two deadbolts on the side where the hinges are, and another deadbolt at both the top and bottom of the door. Yes, you can install deadbolts wherever you want. There’s actually a ninth lock, but I’m not saying anything about it because you’re staying out of my fucking apartment.

When I woke up naked with an egg between my legs, I looked about frantically for my pants. I found them hooked on my left foot. Due to their lack of warmth, it seemed apparent they had been there for some time.

The windows were, as I said earlier, unmolested. The locks on the door were in place. My key was on the chain and the spare—my none of your fucking business key—was safe in its spot.

Logic seemed to point to me as the source of the egg.

I went back over to my bed and lifted up the blanket. There the egg sat. If it had eyes, I’d say it looked up at me hopefully, but, since it didn’t, I’ll say instead it looked at me speckled. It was a light blue with reddish speckles. Like I think a robin’s egg might look, only bigger. But I’m not aware of ever seeing a robin or its egg, so I have no real way of knowing.

In the bathroom, I dropped my pants and performed a quick inspection. Not only did I find no feathers; I found no evidence that anything large had been expelled from any orifice known to me. There was also no soreness or signs of blood loss, which seemed necessary to lay an egg of this magnitude.

So, while there was nothing to suggest I had laid the egg, I nevertheless felt it was mine. When you lay an egg, you’ll understand.

I went over to my closet and pulled out more blankets. I piled them on my bed and made a nest, then picked up the egg—a good three or four pounds—and placed it in the middle. I considered sitting on it, but also worried about breaking it. Mother birds seem to have softer bottoms. And I’m a father, not a mother.

I wrapped it up in my sweatshirt to keep it warm, careful not to jostle it about too much. I had no desire to scramble my egg.

Picking up my phone off the hanger on the kitchen wall, I dialed a 0. The operator tends to only be marginally more useful than a librarian. At the time, however, she seemed like the best resource.

“Operator,” she answered. “How may I direct your call?”

“Hello,” I responded. “I have a situation and hope you can help me.”

“Okay.”

“It’s like this: I laid an egg this morning, and I’m not sure what to do.”

“You laid an egg?”

“Yes.”

“Like a chicken egg?”

“It’s most definitely not a chicken egg. It’s bigger. And I laid it, not a chicken. It’s a people egg, and I need to know what to do with it.”

“Is this a joke?” she asked, muffling her giggle, I imagine, with her chunky paw.

“Can you direct me to someone or not?”

“You’re serious?”

“Quite.”

“Uh, well, I would suggest calling a doctor. Or maybe the humane society.”

“Please connect me with the humane society.” I have a doctor and already know his number.

“Okay, hold please.”

The line rang. And rang. And rang. And fucking rang because the humane society, which I have since learned is the dog pound, doesn’t have an answering machine—which I wouldn’t have left a message on anyway—and doesn’t staff their goddamned establishment. Of course, they wouldn’t have known what to do with an egg. Dogs don’t lay eggs. I hung up the phone.

I walked over to my bed and uncovered the egg. It looked kind of like me, I think. As much as such a thing can look like a person. It looked like an introspective egg.

“What do I do with you?” I asked the egg.

The egg said nothing.

I reached my hands out and placed them on the shell. It was slightly cool to the touch. This alarmed me. I ran to the bathroom and grabbed a bunch of towels. I soaked them under the hot tap and brought them back to my bed. Wrapping them around the egg, I went in search of my space heater.

I found it in the bathroom, tucked behind the door. I carried it over to my bed and set it down. While I don’t own any chairs, I do own cereal boxes. I hate cereal. Won’t eat it. But I only buy things that are on sale, and cereal is always on sale. I was worried about putting the heater on the bed for fear of it catching fire. It looks like the sort of heater that would catch your bed on fire. And, while I wanted my egg warm, I did not want it to cook. So I went in the kitchen and gathered seven cereal boxes and one box of enriched macaroni product. I stacked them up and put the heater on top. I plugged it in; it whirred to life. After making sure the heat was aimed at my egg, I removed the wet towels and tossed them on the bathroom floor. The phone rang in the kitchen, so I headed for it, watching the egg over my shoulder as I left.

I picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Hey,” a voice said, sounding familiar and foreign at the same time, like when you record yourself speaking.

“Who is this?” I asked.

“Oh, give me a break. Who else would call you?”

“Lots of people call me. Who the fuck is this?” My hand felt clammy against the phone’s plastic casing.

“You laid an egg,” the voice said, the accompanying smirk almost audible through the earpiece.

“How do you—” I started.

“It’s not important. You just need to listen.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“Your interests are my interests. Pay attention.”

“Wait,” I said. “Who are you?”

“Shut the fuck up, Goddamnit,” he said, his impatience growing.

“How about you shut up? You call me, tell me to listen to you and admit you’ve been spying on me. Go fuck yourself with an ice pick!” I slammed down the phone.

Rattled by the conversation, I returned to the bedroom, sat down in front of my egg. This was too much. I had laid an egg, for fuck’s sake. How could I be expected to deal with telephone psychos and the very real issue in the middle of my bed? For lack of anything better to do, I reached out and touched it, feeling the shell with my fingers.

I didn’t experience any real tenderness toward it, more like a sense of responsibility. The egg was akin to a child, an unwilling, unknowing collection of matter, thrust into a nasty world. Imagine, for a moment, what it’s going to be like for whatever’s inside that egg. Even if it’s human, life is going to be hard. How do you explain to a kid that he was hatched from an egg? After they’re like ten, I mean. Before that, it doesn’t really matter what you say.

The phone rang. I stood up and walked into the kitchen. “Hello?” I grumbled.

“You should eat it.”

“You’re an asshole.” I hung up the phone.

Reluctantly, I left my apartment. I didn’t want to leave my egg. What if it hatched? But it was a risk I had to take. Call me negligent. I don’t know you, so I don’t care what you think of me. And, honestly, I wouldn’t care if I did know you.

As I moved along, I wondered if anyone on this street had ever laid an egg. Had anyone in the world? Had anyone here killed anyone? It’s probably more likely. On a big enough scale, everything is less weird than something else. It’s more probable for me to have laid and egg than for me to have laid a perfect twelve-inch replica of the Statue of Liberty. Which, in itself, is a thousand times more likely than laying a perfect functioning replica of Ivan Raimi.

But no one here had laid an egg. It’s lonely knowing you’re the only one living your life. When there’s no one to commiserate with, there’s no one who can possibly understand you. Even the guy who spawned the mini Lady Liberty has no idea what it’s like to lay an egg.

I fished about forty-five dollars out of the fountain in front of the bank. Not enough to cover the bills, but enough to postpone termination of services. Especially when you talk about your new baby and the effect it’s having on your finances. You can do this a lot because the electric company has no idea how many kids you have.

When I returned home to check on the egg, there was a message on the answering machine.

“Salt, pepper and chives. Add a little cream to make it nice and fluffy and eat the goddamn thing. You must destroy it. All of you—”

I pressed the delete button and walked into my bedroom. The egg was still there. I turned the egg on its axis, so that the other side could get some heat. It seemed content, that egg.

Leaving my apartment again, I headed downtown. I hit the fountain on Broadway and Fourth. Sixteen dollars and seventy-five cents.

I walked along the street absentmindedly, watching cars drive by.

After a few blocks, I turned around. Sure, a part of me wanted to forget everything, to clear my head, but there were things to be dealt with, decisions to be made.

* * *

When the elevator didn’t immediately respond to the call button, I took the stairs. They’re not properly maintained. Half of the bulbs are burned out, and the ones that function don’t really compensate. The walls are coated with cheap, dark wallpaper that only soaks up more light.

I almost didn’t see him. He was leaning against a wall, crouched down in one of the darker corners on the third floor landing. The hair on the back of my neck pricked up.

“Hey,” I said, letting him know I knew he was there. He said nothing, but stretched to his full height. He was at least as tall as me, perhaps more so. And he carried a shovel.

I quickened my pace, keeping my eyes on the stairs in front of me, certain now that I was going to get mugged in my own building. His steps were muffled by the thick layer of carpet, a stark contrast to my own on the barren stairs.

I stopped ascending and listened. His steps quickened and got louder. He was coming at me. I turned to face him and braced myself for the attack. Do I even have my wallet on me? I wondered.

Then something tripped him. He fell to a heap on the floor. The shovel clanged as the head of it broke free from his grasp and hit the stairs. Quickly, I seized the tool and leveled the motherfucking playing field.

He scrambled to his feet. I stepped back and hit him in the face with the shovel. Blood spurted from his ruptured lips, starbursting all over dollar store wallpaper. He fell to the floor, clutching his face, muffling his screams. Turning on his side, he wriggled like a snake with a broken spine. His legs kicked frantically, and he rolled around the hallway, adding his own contribution to the dirt and cat urine already residing in the carpet. I walked over to him and dropped the shovel on his writhing body. There was a soft clank as the handle collided with something in his pocket, and a slight rustling as several quarters fell out.

“Where’d you get those?” I demanded, picking up the shovel. He murmured something incoherent. I raised the shovel over my head and brought it down on his left knee. “Where’d you get those quarters?” I kicked him in the ribs. “You’re gonna steal from me, you son of a bitch? Those are my fucking quarters!” I raised the shovel again and brought it down on his chest. Then again, this time swinging it like a golf club. The edge of it caught him in the arm and ripped a gash in his flesh.

“Get a job, you piece of shit,” I said.

Crouching, I picked up the quarters. Six of them. One dollar and fifty cents. I walked down the hallway towards the stairwell. Turning back, I held the shovel like a spear and flung it at the motionless body. It hit the carpet a few feet in front of him. The end of the handle bumped his leg gently.

Still counts.

~Chapter 2~

In which the narrator falls in love with a waitress, keeps his egg warm and beats some guy to death with a shovel.

Scrubbing the blood off took a while. Somehow, unknown to me, I got it under my fingernails and in my hair. It was all over my clothes, so I just put them in the Goodwill box. I stood for a long time under torrents of hot water and even longer under cold. Sometimes I scrubbed, but most of the time I just stood there wondering how the fuck I laid an egg.

It’s pretty goddamned complicated when you focus on it. I wasn’t even paying any attention to the physical logistics of the dirty business anymore. I was thinking of the psychological repercussions. I was thinking of the moral responsibility of being an anomaly. I was thinking of how the first fish that walked along the shore must have felt.

My hands shook like microwave popcorn bags when I finally reached for my towel. The air was freezing. My egg was using my heater. I wrapped the too-small towel around me and rubbed it frantically against my skin, allowing the friction to bring some life to my frozen shell. I rubbed until I glowed, but was still cold. Walking into my bedroom, I pulled on a pair of cargo pants and a long sleeved t-shirt. I plopped down on the bed next to the egg. The force of my weight caused it to shift a bit. I reached out and righted the egg, reinforcing its position by stuffing an extra pillow into the nest.

“Hey,” I said. “How are you doing?” My eyes traced the lit edges of the egg, pausing on its spots and minute lines, searching for myself.

“What are you?” I wondered aloud. I flicked on my bedside lamp and hefted it onto the bed. Placing it behind the egg, I tried to discern shapes in the shadows. I could see light around the edges, I thought, but the solid parts just seemed consistently solid. No matter where I maneuvered the light, I couldn’t see inside. What if I were to crack it open?

“No,” I said. I shook my head and pressed my fingers to my temples, gently massaging, and pushed the thought away. Cracking the egg would destroy it. It had to hatch on its own.

But what if it doesn’t?

What if I just leave it here on my bed and it rots and I have no idea what has happened? I don’t even know how long a human egg takes to hatch. Is it nine months? How much gestation takes place before it’s been laid? Would I be waiting forever?

I had to get away.

It was dark when I left. The lights on my street are on a broken timer and don’t come on until around three in the morning. This was sometime before that. I hit the bank fountain almost immediately. About four dollars.

I went down the sidewalk slowly, trying not to think. Walking by the Laundromat, I looked up. The place was nearly empty, its fluorescent lights exposing a desert of laminated flooring and thirty-year-old machines. A single figure stood near the front door, facing the street. He looked familiar. I paused momentarily, not long enough for my feet to adhere to the sidewalk. Not long enough to consider getting caught in a conversation. Staring at my feet, I carried on.

I felt the cement beneath the soles of my shoes and the breeze on my skin, brushing gently against me like someone else’s lover. Urging me. Coaxing me. My body wandered until it found a patch of grass next to a gas station, an odd little piece of ground that seemed to resist the impending urbanization. I leaned back on the grass, the blades tickling the nape of my neck. I might have fallen asleep.

My body stirred. It climbed to its feet. The night was unbalanced, a balloon with a marble inside. Anything felt possible. If I were to lift right off the ground, I wouldn’t blink. If my egg were to hatch, I’d expect it.

I walked into Pete’s Diner. I often do. It’s the only place open all night long. Sometimes I can’t sleep and can’t stand my own company; Pete’s offers the anonymity of a public place late at night. It’s like a bus station or the parking lot of a casino. I slumped down in a booth near the door and closed my eyes.

A rustling lifted my eyelids. I looked up and saw pale blue eyes on a pale white face, framed in lustrous black hair. Her lips were like a silent film starlet’s, plump and pink. She opened her mouth to speak, lifting the curtain on straight, braces-in-high-school teeth, but one of them was chipped. The left canine. Chipped like ice crags on Everest.

“What can I get you?” she asked, flipping the page on her order pad. Remnants of food were crusted on the front of her apron.

“Uh,” I started. I reached deep in my pocket and grasped at the change. Pulling it out, I set it on the table like an offering. “Coffee?”

“Just coffee?” Her eyes met mine; I died six times.

“Um, yeah,” I replied. “And pie?”

“Pie? What kind?”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said softly. I looked away, fearful that if I didn’t I’d lose myself. Then I looked back quickly, realizing I just didn’t care. Her face was the last one I ever wanted to see.

“Okay,” she said with no hesitation. She walked away, and I watched her do so. She had good balance and control over herself. She slid more than walked, like fluid. She moved like summer wind. Her hair ended just above the middle of her back, the bounce of her step sending a shimmer like a stone skipping across a still pond. I closed my eyes then, trapped her in my head:

The waitress slid into the booth next to me. Her thigh hit mine. I felt her warmth, like a campfire in the snow. She reached out and separated the coins into dollar increments. Her fingers with their flaking polish danced across the table, bringing order to disorder. “Coffee and pie,” she said. She walked back to the kitchen and came back almost instantly. Her apron was gone, in its place a black tank top. She sat down two plates and a cup. The caramel colored coffee was sweet and warm. I slid my hand behind her neck, underneath all that hair. Pulling her close, I smelled something I couldn’t identify, something wonderful. Her lips met mine. I inhaled her exhale and ran my hand up the side of her leg to the small of her back. She let her jacket drop to the floor and eased onto my bed. I watched her come toward me, her eyes on my eyes, sky blue nightmares boring into me like barbed needles. She unbuttoned her pants, and I kicked them off with my feet. In the moonlight streaming through the window, I saw the creamy flesh of her legs respond to the chill of the room. She pulled the blankets over herself and pushed her body into mine. She touched my chest with both hands as I let my fingers explore her back, the taut, trim muscles alive just under her skin.

“Here you go,” she said, sliding a plate of pie and an empty mug in front of me. She filled the cup from a carafe, which she left on the table. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks.” I said quietly, giving her all the smile I could muster. I looked down at the pie, the gelatinous filling spilling over microwaved crumbles. I took a sip of bitter coffee. The pool of liquid in my mouth cooled before I swallowed it. I watched the waitress and took a tentative bite of pie. As I chewed, she wiped off tables, brushing errant crumbs to the floor.

The remainder of the pie glared up at me like a bad decision. Like a carpet stain. Like an impossibility.

I set my fork down on the edge of the plate. Rising from my seat, I looked in the waitress’s direction. She caught my gaze and smiled.

“Night,” she said, her back bent slightly as she rearranged the saltshaker and bottle of ketchup. I smiled back at her and turned towards the door. No bell jingled as I walked out, though I felt that one ought to have had. The air was cooler on my face than it had been on my way there. I walked across the street and paused upon reaching the other side. As I turned, I saw her pick up my dishes. Her face was as blank as if she were at work, cleaning up after a stranger. I headed home.

My feet carried me to my building. I walked straight for the elevator and was on my way to my safe haven, the place where I could sit and think. Elevator doors slid open, revealing the dimly lit hallway and—

“Oh, fuck.”

The mugger. Waiting outside my door with his goddamned shovel. He looked surprised to see me. I was surprised as shit to see him. He grinned and lifted the tool, testing its weight in his hands. He rushed toward me. I pressed the elevator’s down arrow and the doors began to close. He jabbed the head of the shovel into the elevator. Instinctively, I grabbed the business end and pulled up and away. It slid easily out of his hands.

Baffled, he looked down at his empty paws before charging me. I pirouetted out of the way, pretty fucking gracefully for a guy with a shovel, and darted out of the elevator. The asshole turned around, made another run at me. I wound up like Jose fucking Canseco and clanged that motherfucker right in his forehead. His legs swung from underneath him, all pendulum-like. He lay still on the ground.

I took a step away and helped myself to a deep breath. The garden tool felt familiar, like an old friend. I walked around the motionless body.

“Hey, you stupid fuck, apologize for frightening me so.” I kicked his leg. “Apologize or I’m gonna clang you in the fucking teeth.” He didn’t respond. I clanged him in the fucking teeth.

I dropped the shovel and bent over his face. Whatever he looked like before, he was a Picasso now. He’d have to steal a lot of purses to pay for the reconstructive surgery he’d need. I reached over and flicked him on the nose. Nothing.

“Huh,” I said aloud. “Maybe you’ll think a little harder before you try to fuck with somebody you don’t know.”

I soon reconsidered my brash statement. It didn’t appear he’d be thinking about much of anything, ever again. He couldn’t stay there, all lifeless and soaking into the carpet. Taking hold of his feet, I dragged him down the hallway. I leaned him against the back wall of the waiting elevator and tossed his shovel in after him. After pressing the down button, I watched as the doors closed and one of my problems disappeared into the bowels of the slum I called home.

Should I call the police? I wondered. Nah.

I shrugged my shoulders and walked into my apartment. Locking the door behind me, I immediately started telling the egg about the waitress.

~Chapter 3~

In which the narrator calls a telephone psychic.

“You wouldn’t believe it,” I said quickly and quietly to the egg. “She was so beautiful. Like Clara Bow.” I sat on the edge of the bed and grasped the egg with both hands. Carefully, I lifted it from its nest and cradled it gingerly in my arms.

I carried the egg over to the couch and placed it in the corner. It looked very comfortable. I hurried back to the bedroom, grabbed a blanket off the bed and wrapped it securely around the egg’s exposed surface.

Sitting down, I reached across the coffee table with my foot and kicked gracelessly at the remote.

After looking over at the egg, I flicked the television on. We sat there in the dark, the egg and I, answering television game show questions incorrectly for a few blissful minutes. I smiled, feeling like something was going right.

“Do you have questions about the future?” the television asked. “Do you want to know what fate has in store for you?”

I blinked.

“Don’t hesitate, call now. Qualified psychics are standing by.” The shot panned out to reveal a heavily made up woman in front of a crystal ball. I glanced over at the egg, stood up and ran to the phone in the kitchen. Squinting at the television screen, I punched in the phone number.

It rang.

“Thank you for calling American Psychics Limited. Please hold the line for your personal, qualified psychic.” There was a pause, then the line started to ring again. I looked into the living room; the egg was still sitting there.

“This is Madame Rain. What do you want to know about the future?” asked a thickly accented voice on the other end of the line. Eastern European, I thought. I was quiet, not knowing what to say.

“Hello? Is there anybody there?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said.

“Ah, there you are. There is no need to be nervous. Is this your first time?”

“First time calling a television psychic?” I asked. “Yeah.”

“Do you have a question you’d like answered, or do you just want a general forecast?”

“General forecast.”

“Well, okay. I sense that you’re nervous. You have a big secret that you’re keeping hidden inside. You’re going through some changes in your life.

“There’s even more to it than you comprehend. There are others who know about what you’re going through, people you don’t know but who you’ll meet in the near future. They’re aware of your situation and are looking to harm you. But you must not be afraid. You have the power to overcome the obstacles you will soon be facing.

“Your love life is picking up, I see. You’ve recently met someone? You will have a tumultuous relationship with her. Try confiding your secret to her. You can trust her. And telling her will only bring you closer. It will take more than that to scare off someone so devoted to you.

“In the very near future, you will be involved in some very stressful situations. I see that, deep inside, you have the strength and power to overcome them, but you must call upon that strength yourself. No one else is going to do it for you. It is most important that you listen to what I am saying.

“I am sorry I have gone on for so long. There was so much to tell you. Your future is most exciting. Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

“Lottery numbers?” I asked, looking for a pen.

She sighed. “Seven, five, thirteen, twenty-seven, and four.”

“Alright, thanks. That’ll do.” I hung up the phone, returned to the living room. Be honest, I thought, looking at the egg. There are people who mean me harm.

Reclaiming my seat on the couch, I stared up at the ceiling. It would be worth it if I ended up with the waitress.

“Should we tell her about you?” I asked the egg. Could she possibly understand? Could anyone? I wasn’t even sure yet if I did.

I stretched out on the cushions, placing myself as a barrier between the egg and certain doom. “We may be fucked, Egg, but if we are, I’ll get fucked first. I promise.”

~Chapter 4 ~

In which the narrator keeps his egg warm and kind of weirds out the waitress.

The egg was surprisingly warm when I woke up. My arms were wrapped protectively around it. With some shoulder work, I was able to untangle my sleeping arms from their treasure. The egg rolled lazily into the corner of the couch, safe and secure.

I moved to my bed and rebuilt the egg’s nest. The heater went back to the top of its stack of boxes, set on low. I gathered the egg and its blanket from the couch and tucked them in.

Searching the floor, I found an unwashed button-down and a pair of jeans. After dressing quickly, I went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Not much of anything.

I picked my keys up off the table, walked into the bedroom and gave the egg a kiss on its shell. I rotated it and left, locking the door several times behind me.

When I got to the street, the sun was starting to set. I had slept much later than I thought. Cutting away from the main thoroughfares, I took to the alleyways that run parallel to it, through nearby residential neighborhoods. The makeshift roadways were devoid of life, beautifully empty like a junkie on detox.

I stalked through the internal organs of the neighborhoods, one after the other, like a ghost. I glanced through windows and took note of everyday human life. As I walked, I realized where I was. Looking to my right, I saw Pete’s.

Inside, the waitress seemed concerned. Not for me, but for her safety. She bit the inside of her lower lip, betrayed only by the subtlest of movements in her soft flesh. Her eyes jerked back and forth between me and the path away from me. Her breath came slowly and deliberately, like an animal listening for a predator’s footsteps.

“Just coffee and pie, please.”

“Um, what kind?” she asked, relieved that I’d said something for which she was prepared. Her hands quickly scribbled on her notepad, too many words for what I had requested.

“Doesn’t matter,” I said and ran both hands over my hair. Staring at the table, I listened to her footsteps fade away. I didn’t look up.

For the first time, I smelled her. I can’t describe the smell. Flowery, yet somehow musty, like a beautiful woman with the soul of an old book. The plate slid in front of me. Cherry pie. She set a mug down and filled it with coffee.

“Anything else?” she asked, somewhat nervously. Her hand gripped the coffee pot.

“No,” I said, looking up at her. I met her pale eyes with my own. She looked back, and I thought I saw a hint of something other than revulsion behind her self-protectively glassy stare. As though she might have the capacity to understand what I felt. She gave me a tight-lipped half smile and broke the connection, walking away quickly.

I didn’t bother to pick up the fork. I wasn’t going to eat. I didn’t blow the steam off the coffee. I wasn’t going to drink.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out a twenty and laid it out on the table, anchoring it with the mug. I slid across the bench seat and stood on weak, wobbly legs. Turning my body towards the door, I started my move, walking slowly, deliberately, determined to appear, even from the outside, like I had a place to be.

Pausing in front of the door, I stood for thirty seconds or so. Through the glass, everything looked better. The place my body occupied suddenly felt cheap and transient, a temporary dwelling in a disposable world. I caught a faint reflection of my own dark brown eyes, and that was enough for me to push forward, to leave my confines and move on.

“Hey,” a soft voice said from behind me. Rapid footsteps approached. I stopped and turned halfway. I was confused. The waitress stood there, bathed in her interesting smells, looking like she just stepped out of another world. The light from the diner glowed behind her.

“I left the money on the table,” I said. My eyes fell on her shoulder—covered in the white cloth of her shirt—then moved up to her face.

“You forgot your receipt.” She extended her hand with all of its perfectly sculpted fingers. I wanted to reach out and take the slip of paper, to graze her knuckles with the pads of my fingers, just to touch her skin.

“I really don’t need it,” I said with a sigh. Her brow relaxed, as though she was bracing herself for something. Her arm was still outstretched. I looked at her, perplexed. I reached out and accepted the ticket, careful to not let my hand touch hers. “Thanks,” I said, finally.

She smiled her half smile and turned away, moving back through the door into the restaurant. I watched her figure pass by the large window before continuing on my own way.

I stopped off at the liquor store and bought two bottles of cheap red wine and carried the paper bag home quickly.

Once there, I put the bag on the kitchen counter and wandered into the bedroom. The egg was sitting where I left it, looking comfortable and cozy. I ran my fingers over its top.

In the kitchen, I took the two bottles out of the bag, opened the cabinet and pulled out a wine glass. I felt it in my hand. It was a gift from my mother. She has Alzheimer’s and isn’t aware of anything I do, so I take things out of her apartment to save them. She already threw away all of the family photo albums. My entire photographic past sits in a landfill, buried beneath diapers and coffee grounds. This glass was part of a set my grandmother treasured.

I set the glass on the counter and pulled the wrapping off one of the wine bottles. A cork. I thought for sure there would be a screw top on such cheap shit. I went to the junk drawer and took out a hammer. Tilting the neck of the bottle against the counter’s edge, I gave it a tap, sending glass flying across the countertop.

After pouring a drink, I swirled the liquid around to let the aroma escape. Then I threw back the wine like a shot and smashed the glass on the floor, celebrating my first drink like a Jewish wedding. I wiped the back of my hand on my pants and picked up the bottle. The living room seemed inviting, so I sat down on the couch and stared at the empty television, looking at the reflection of my apartment behind me in the blank screen.

I took a pull of the wine, not caring to avoid the jagged glass. My eyelids drooped. My body was warm, and, for a moment, I didn’t feel alone.

~Chapter 5~

In which the narrator has a real conversation with the waitress.

Prior to the egg’s appearance, I did almost nothing. I would sneak out at night to loot fountains to pay for bills and sustenance. Other than that, I mostly slept a lot and stayed home. Late night television was a good friend of mine. I didn’t talk to anyone. My phone was almost exclusively ornamental, and my computer was only ever turned on to play a few halfhearted games of Minesweeper.

As odd as it all seemed, my life was going somewhere. I felt a desire for human contact for the first time in as long as I could remember. And I couldn’t help but think that the sudden responsibility I felt for the egg, combined with all the violence I had been experiencing, meant something. It was not only that my life was going somewhere; it was that something seemed to dictate its direction.

Deciding to go along for the ride, I left my apartment. I walked down the street and caught a movie. It was an old one, some cheesy sci-fi flick about radioactive weasels. I had no real desire to see it, but it would kill the requisite amount of time. As I left the theatre, I felt tightness in my chest. I was nervous. The heaviness in my feet only made the problem worse. I wanted more than anything to see the waitress again. But I was scared.

If I acted improperly, everything would be lost. All the happiness I fantasized about would be history, or rather, the opposite of history. If I did things right, I had a real shot at it.

Of course, that wasn’t going to be easy. I had no evidence at all that the waitress dug me in any sense of the term. I didn’t even know if she was interested in being a casual acquaintance, let alone a life partner. All I really knew was that she was beautiful, and I wanted her to spend her time with me. It didn’t seem so much to ask.

By the time I made it to Pete’s, my breath was difficult to manage. I was sweating profusely. Looking down to ascertain the condition of my clothes, I realized I was wearing the same ones from yesterday. It wasn’t too bad, I decided. I pushed my way through the door and sat down in the booth next to the one I ordinarily occupied. I looked around the place, keeping my head up for once, and saw a heavyset, middle-aged waitress coming toward me. Suddenly, I became very confused.

She fished a notepad out of her apron. “What’ll it be?” she asked with a slight Texas accent.

“Uh…” I stammered, looking beyond the waitress for a sign of the girl.

“What’s the matter?” She crossed her arms dramatically. Her pen waved like a fan between her fingers as she gave me an exasperated look.

“I’m looking for someone,” I croaked.

“Looking for who?” She turned around and ran her eyes over the entirety of the establishment. “Ain’t more than a handful of people here.”

“Well, waiting for someone, actually,” I replied. Then I exhaled, realizing that the universe was not going to change just because I wanted it to. “The other waitress. The one who usually works at night.”

“She quit. Can I get you something while you wait?” she asked, a little more patiently. “Could be a long time.”

“Coffee, I guess.”

“Coming right up,” she said, disappearing into the kitchen. I suddenly felt tired. This whole thing was going to be a waste. The effort, it seemed, was just too much.

I laid my head down on the table and closed my eyes. The tabletop was cool against my cheek, and it felt good to just stop moving. It seemed all I had been doing was moving from place to place, from emotion to emotion. I had experienced ranges of feeling I didn’t even know I had.

A thin plastic box with some weight to it fell onto the tabletop. I looked up to see the waitress—my waitress—standing there, covered insulated paper cup in her hand. She set the cup down in front of me. “It’s just a little cold, I think.”

I looked into her eyes, not believing what I was seeing. “That lady I just talked to said you quit.”

She swung down into the seat across from me. “I did,” she said nonchalantly.

I was starting to feel as though I was losing touch with everything real. “So, what are you doing here?”

“I thought you’d be back tonight. Seemed a pretty sure thing.” She tugged at a strand of hair in front of her face and twirled it in her fingers, eyeing it carefully. She let it fall and blew it away from her mouth.

“I…” I didn’t know what to say. To admit is to go out on a limb, and limbs get sort of thin the farther away you get from the trunk.

“Right. You come for the pie. And the coffee,” she said sarcastically. “But you never touch any of it.”

I felt my face get warm. “Ah, yeah. That’s about it.”

“Can I be honest with you?” she asked, sounding serious.

“Yes,” I said.

“I think you like me. I think I can tell. I brought you this pie and coffee because you don’t like what’s here.” She paused, gesturing with her hands toward her offerings. “And you look really familiar. Like I used to know you or something. What’s your name?”

It seemed like such a basic question, one we should be past by now. But I was also dying to know hers. To have a word in my vocabulary to indicate what she was.

“Manny,” I said.

“I’m Ashley.” She extended her hand across the table. “Want some pie?”

“Yes,” I said, meaning it more than I’ve ever meant anything in my life. “What kind?”

“You’ve never cared before. I don’t see why it should matter now.” She unrolled a napkin, sending the utensils inside scattering across the table. She picked up a fork and stabbed at the pie. Pulling up a forkful of pinkish purple goo, she brought it to her mouth.

“Point taken.” I reached across the table and picked up the spoon lying in front of her. I jabbed into the hole she had made and pulled a glob into my own mouth. The sweetness and the tartness attacked my tongue like breath must hit the lungs of someone saved from drowning. I lifted the paper cup and took a sip. “This is hot chocolate.”

“Yeah, I hate coffee,” Ashley said.

“Me, too,” I admitted.

“You do? Why do you always order it?”

“You never gave me a menu. I had to guess,” I said. I searched her face for her thoughts.

“You could have asked.”

“I don’t think you’ve seen yourself,” I said quietly.

“What?” she asked, suddenly interested.

“You’re ridiculously pretty. You know that. I had a hard enough time simply not staring,” I confessed. “Attempting to speak to you was completely out of the question.”

“You’re talking to me now,” she said. “What’s the difference?”

“There’s no difference. I’m terrified right now.”

She smiled. “I quit my job yesterday. But I showed up tonight, with pie. I get bored easily, that’s true. But this is your audition. Wow me.”

“See, that’s the sort of thing I’ll always fail.”

“You’re not competing with anyone, and I already like you.”

“Why?” I asked. “I don’t get it.”

“You’ve got something going on. I have no idea what it is, but it leaves you all angsty looking. It’s kind of exciting. You look troubled, but I don’t get that it’s for the normal reasons,” she said. “And you’re hopelessly cute.”

My face warmed. “I’m glad you came back.”

“I’m glad you said that. What are you going to do with me?” she asked, a loaded question if I had ever heard one.

“What do you want to do?” I asked.

“Uh uh. Make your move,” she said.

“Let’s think about it. We could go get something to eat. We could wander around the streets. We could go to my apartment and watch late night TV with the sound off,” I said. “Or we could go down to the Laundromat and eat garbage out of the vending machines while freaks and weirdoes wash their clothes.”

“Let’s go,” she said, folding the cover back over the pie. We slid out of the booth. She handed me the pie, and I picked the hot chocolate up off the table. I followed her out the diner, falling in love with her hand as she waved goodnight to the waitress I met earlier.

“So what do you do?” she asked, looking up. She was tall, but shorter than me by a few inches.

“I don’t work in the traditional sense,” I said wearily.

“What, are you a writer?”

“No, nothing so noble,” I said. “You ready?”

She nodded.

“I sneak around at night, well, usually at night, and gather coins out of fountains,” I said slowly, watching her face for judgment.

“Like rare coins?” she asked earnestly.

“No, like quarters. Mostly quarters.”

She burst into laughter. “Like spare change? You collect people’s wishes? And you spend them on yourself?”

“They’re not wishes,” I said. “They lose their symbolism once they hit corporate water. At that point they either become extra income for people who don’t need it, or they can help me get along in the world.”

“I see,” she said. The idea didn’t seem to bother her, and for that I was thankful.

“What are you going to do, now that you quit Pete’s?” I asked.

“Pretty intimate with the diner, eh? Pete’s. I don’t know. I don’t really care. Maybe I’ll rob fountains.”

“That’s certainly a way to go,” I said.

We approached the Laundromat and paused to look at one another before we went in. It was as if this was a step of some significance, rather than just a way to pass the time.

“After you,” Ashley said, holding the door open.

“Thanks,” I said. I walked through the door and waited for her. Together, we walked over to the vending machines. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a fistful of change. She laughed and couldn’t stop. I started, too. Leaning into the machine, she slid down to the floor. I dropped down next to her.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said.

We sat there for a while, our knees touching. I stood up and pushed some quarters into the machine and received two bags of chips. Sitting back down, I handed one of the bags to her. I popped mine open.

“You’re kind of cool,” she said.

I was rather surprised, as that was the last impression I would have gotten from any time spent with myself. “I don’t think so,” I said, laughing at the idea.

“Not in a traditional sense,” she said. “But, you know.”

“No, I don’t,” I said. “But that’s okay.” I chomped down on a chip. The door opened, and a middle-aged woman walked in with a bag full of clothes. I looked over at Ashley, but she was staring into her chip bag, fishing around with a single finger.

The woman hefted her clothes—already color-sorted—into the machine. She poured her detergent in, closed the lid and sat down. She reached into her bag and pulled out a magazine. I couldn’t see the cover.

“I hate the whole chips,” Ashley said. I turned back to her.

“You like the crumbs?” I stood and walked over to the second machine and deposited some coins, retrieving my Coke after it fell. I plopped down next to Ashley and cracked open the soda. The cold carbonization of the first sip felt good in my mouth.

I leaned back and looked over at the middle-aged woman again. She was beginning to stand up. Her dark hair was limp and her face looked tired. She stepped up to the drink machine, put a few coins in and pressed a button. Nothing happened. She pressed it again. Still nothing.

“Damn,” she said, and put her hands in her pockets, searching. I reached back into my pocket and pulled out a quarter.

“Here,” I said. I held out the quarter. She smiled and took it. Ashley looked up.

“Thanks,” the woman said. “You guys look nice together,” she said once she sat back down. “I can see that you really love one another.”

Ashley smiled at her. She reached over and took my hand in hers. She raised it confidently and kissed it. My heart pounded in my chest as her moist lips pressed against my skin.

“I sure hope so,” Ashley said.

~Chapter 6~

In which the narrator gets lucky.

“What are we doing?” Ashley asked, tossing her hair off her shoulder. The moistness of her hand felt good against my skin. My hand squeezed hers, doing its best to prevent her from pulling away. We walked down the empty sidewalk, junk food on our breath, stars above our heads. Going back the way we had come, there was no sense of finality. Wherever it was that we were going, we were still going, coasting along on energy already spent. Drifting came easily. I already felt as if I was in a dream.

“Let’s go do nothing,” I suggested. “My place is only a few blocks away and I have a couch there. It isn’t very comfortable. There isn’t any food. But I have a TV and basic cable. It’s included in the rent.”

“That’s what you want to do with me? Watch TV?” she asked, mock offense playing across her delicate features.

“It’s not just watching TV,” I explained. “This, my friend, is the middle of the night. The shows we can find are not the same as those offered in the daylight.

“We don’t have to waste time with the steroid-budgeted feature films shortened for time and content. We get to see Teen Wolf and The Breakfast Club and Weekend at Bernie’s Two in their entirety, with swear words expertly replaced with overdubbing.

“We get to watch the entertainment equivalent of a transitional object, and can fall asleep with our teddy bears clasped tightly in our arms and Molly Ringwald’s words dying on our lips.

“And all of this while the rest of the world sleeps. They dream their little dreams, toss and turn in sweaty sheets, and we’ll be awake. Do you realize the effect that will have on us? Instead of air, we’ll be breathing dreams.”

Ashley shook her head. “You and your dream theft. First it’s wishes, then it’s dreams. Don’t you find it strange you steal those things that are most personal to others?”

“I don’t steal,” I pointed out. “I never steal.” We walked along in silence for a brief time until we came upon my building, looming like a giant with scoliosis.

“Here we are.”

“Here?” she asked.

“Yup.” I pulled the front door and held it open. “My little slice of paradise.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said. I followed her into the building, breathing in her scent. I felt lightheaded. “Going up?” she asked, pointing to the elevator.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. We rode the elevator up.

Once it stopped, we walked the short distance down the hallway. I dug in my pocket for my keys. Then I paused.

“Wait a second,” I said. “That’s 312.”

“Is that not where you live?” Ashley asked.

“No, it isn’t. I live in 412.”

She seemed confused. “Do you know who lives here?”

“No,” I said quickly. “Let’s go upstairs.” I turned toward the elevator, Ashley following close behind. Why did I go to 312? On tonight of all nights?

“Now, this is where you live, right?” Ashley asked, standing beside 412. “Because if you don’t actually live anywhere, I’m okay with that.”

“No, I really live somewhere,” I said. “There’s a door and a few windows and a few rooms. It’s a shithole, mind you, but I do live there.” I set about unlocking the locks.

Ashley watched me work my way through the system. “Paranoid?” she asked.

“You have no idea.”

The door swung open. I reached around it and flipped on the light. “After you,” I said.

She walked in. Her eyes jumped around the blank walls, pausing where things should be but weren’t. “So, you live here?”

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Live as in just sleep?” She paused. “How much time do you actually spend here?”

“More than I should,” I said. “Too much.”

“And what do you do?” she asked.

“I have delusional fantasies.”

Ashley walked over to the living room window. “And what do you look at? Headlines?”

“I don’t spend a lot of time looking out that one,” I said. “Or any of the others, to be honest. You know, I don’t know what I do. But, in the recent past, I’ve spent most of my time here. I’ve been in a rut. Things haven’t been going that well.”

She turned to face me. “How come?”

“I can’t even answer that. It hasn’t been any worse than any other time, I guess. It’s just me. I’ve sort of lost the will to do anything constructive with my time. But I think I’m getting it back.”

“Oh, because of me, I suppose,” she said. I scanned her face, finding some trace of sarcasm.

“I think so,” I said.

She scoffed.

“After knowing you existed, I realized I needed to change. I wanted to be the kind of person who could talk to you. Yesterday, I wasn’t.”

“You talked to me yesterday,” she shot back.

“Not really,” I countered. “I barely said anything.”

“You could have.” She walked away, turning her head towards me as she moved. It was true, I could have. Much like I might have stolen a Mondrian painting.

She sat down on my couch and threw her left leg up on the coffee table, the blue of her denim jeans looking almost gray in the light. “So, you’ve got me here. What are we going to do?”

“The remote’s around there somewhere,” I said. I watched Ashley look for it.

She looked up at me. “I can’t find it,” she said.

“Probably lost in the couch cushions. We can do this the old fashioned way.” I walked around the side of the couch and kneeled down in front of the television.

“What are we watching?” she asked, staring at the screen.

“No idea. Doesn’t really matter,” I said.

“Doesn’t really matter? After all of that shit about the quality of night time programming?” Her eyes accused me, but her mouth begged me to quit being so awkward and just do what came natural.

“No. Not really.”

“What kinds of movies do you like?” Ashley asked, chewing on a fingernail.

“Horror movies,” I said. “Bad ones.”

She turned to face me, crossing her legs. “Do you have an all-time favorite?”

“Weasels Rip My Flesh, hands down,” I said. “It’s really awesome.”

“Sounds like it,” she said.

We both turned to the television. It was at a commercial. My eyes wandered, drifting back to my companion.

“What?” she asked, catching my stare.

“I just want to see what you look like up close,” I said, shrugging.

Self-consciously, she brushed a piece of hair behind her ear. She appeared slightly uncomfortable.

“Hey,” I said softly. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing,” she said. “What about you?”

“I was just thinking there’s something about you that I really like. I’m so happy to be getting to know you.”

She spread her fingers, and my fingers went over their periphery, creating an outline in the empty space. Suddenly, she pulled away. “Do you think this is going too fast?”

“Too fast?”

“I mean, it’s just been a couple of hours.”

I grew more worried with each breath I took. “And what have we done?”

“It’s more about how I feel,” she said.

“How do you feel?” I asked, terrified.

“I feel like I’ve known you forever,” she said. “But then I realize I don’t even know you. I mean, how much can you learn about someone over the course of a few hours?”

Her words hung in front of her like storm clouds. Thunder rumbled in the distance. “Maybe that sort of thing doesn’t matter,” I said.

“I just wonder about tomorrow. Will we look back and realize how retarded we were being?”

“We’ll just have to see, I guess.”

“Yeah, I guess.” She laid her head down on my chest. My fingers ran through her hair. It was silky, soft and perfect. I inhaled deeply, capturing as much of her smell as I could in the hope that, as my body used the oxygen, some part of her would become a part of me, so that when she’d walk away tomorrow, my heart destroyed and this day forgotten, I would have something.

But, for now, she was sleeping lightly on my chest. I felt her warmth pressed up against me. Her feet were curled up behind her, tucked protectively in the couch. My dungeon looked much more welcoming because of her presence. I never wanted her to leave.

I felt myself drifting away, happier than I could ever remember.

* * *

“Hey,” I heard a voice say. I opened my eyes a crack. The room was bright with light. It looked foreign, and it took a moment for me to remember where I was. And then to remember that last night’s situation hadn’t been a dream.

“Hey,” I replied, looking at the face just inches from mine. She seemed excited. Her breath smelled of chips.

“It’s morning. And I still like you,” she said, smiling sleepily.

“You do?” I asked, almost in disbelief. Her face moved toward me in slow motion and, before I knew what was happening, her lips were on mine. They were soft and delicious. I responded in kind, and ran my hand over the small of her back. I tried to visualize what I felt, then realized what I was doing and brought my attention back to those lips. She pulled away and stood up. With her help, I joined her. She leaned against me and removed her socks. Her fingers dug into my chest.

The pressure lessened, and she moved away, pulling me along backwards with both hands. She paused to kiss me again in front of the window. Holding her hips, I urged her on. She turned around and grasped my left hand with hers. She pulled me toward the bedroom.

There she tore at my shirt buttons, unfastening them frantically. I grasped the bottom edge of her long sleeved t-shirt and helped it over her head, exposing pale skin to the sun’s scrutiny. I felt as though my heart had stopped, so I brought her close to me to catch my breath. Looking at so much of her was hell on the senses.

She reached down and unbuttoned my pants; I reached down and unbuttoned hers. We shimmied out of our restraints and stood there, inches away from one another, her in her black bra and matching underwear, me in my striped boxer briefs.

She pushed me backwards gently, but forcefully. I fell down on the bed. She crawled over me. I watched as she approached, her skin folding and stretching in delicate creases. I put my hand on her rib cage and slid it down to her stomach, my wrist at an awkward angle. She kissed me hard, and I felt her teeth behind her lips. I put my hand on her hip and traced the line between her underwear and her skin.

“What’s that?” She kissed me again; I squeezed her thigh, digging my fingers into her fleshy posterior.

“What?” I breathed in her breath. She licked my lips like they were Popsicles.

“That.” She pointed.

“Oh, that’s my egg.” I grasped the back of her head with my free hand, letting my fingers tangle in her hair.

“Your what?” She flattened herself across my body. So much of her was pressed against so much of me.

“My egg.” I threw my weight to one side and flipped us over.

“Oh.” She hooked her thumbs around the waistband of my underwear.

~Chapter 7~

In which the narrator experiences true happiness for a brief time, then finds his egg smashed on the floor.

My eyelids were heavy when I awoke. They didn’t want to move. Of course, there was no reason for them to; I was content to be exactly where I was. But I wanted to see where I was again. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t asleep on the couch by myself, my arm only numb because of the awkward way I was lying.

Opening my eyes, I saw what I wanted to see. It was beginning to darken as the late afternoon sun started to leave the room, perched nonchalantly on the edge of the window like an overfed cat. I felt Ashley’s chest swell and fall with each easy breath, the soft skin sliding underneath my arm. I couldn’t help but squeeze her tighter to my chest.

The added pressure to her body roused her. I was far from disappointed, as the sound of her voice would be quite welcome. I felt an active need to have her eyes on me, just to be the focal point of her moment. Every second I spent with her was a second she could never take back.

“Hey,” she said, snuggling into my chest. I ran my hand over her smooth stomach, allowing it to rest there.

“Hey,” I said. “You’re still here.” Her face was turned away from me, but I could tell she was smiling.

“I am,” she said. “How do you feel about that?”

“I’m pretty fucking thrilled, to tell the truth,” I replied. Her laugh warmed the room even more than the lazy sunlight. “How do you feel about it? Any reservations?”

“Nope. I feel wonderful, but I think I’ll have to go soon,” she said.

“I’m not throwing you out,” I offered.

“No, but I’ll have to get up eventually. I have to feed my fish.”

“Your fish?”

“Yeah. A slimy orange swimming thing. It lives in water.”

I suddenly wished her fish had died a long time ago. “Oh, that kind of fish.”

“Yeah, that kind.” Holding the sheet to her chest, she rolled over to face me. She bit her bottom lip. “What do you think of me?”

“I think you’re perfect,” I replied truthfully.

“Even though we just met and I’m here in your bed? You don’t think…” she trailed off. Her hands gripped the sheet more tightly now, as if everything that was going to happen was contingent on the next string of words to be expelled from my mouth.

“I think you’re an incredibly strong person,” I said. “And I see this is something you would have rather had gone differently. But you’re willing to take a risk on something as fleeting as a feeling, and I think that’s awesome.”

“But what if going so fast ruins us? What if I’ve just severed any chance at a real connection?”

“What is a connection?” I asked. “Is it some defined number of months? Is it knowing someone’s shoe size? No, it’s something bigger than that.”

“I guess you’re right,” she said, hopefully resigning herself to the idea.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” I reasoned. “Let’s throw convention to the wind and scatter its ashes like some old dead aunt. And when anyone asks, we’ll say we’ve been together for a year. If that lady in the Laundromat thought it plausible, why shouldn’t it be?”

“That sounds pretty good,” she said, looking quite relieved. Gently, I nudged her face upwards with my forehead and found her lips. Whatever her brain wouldn’t accept, I tried to explain to her through her mouth. She kissed me softly, but pulled away suddenly. “My god, my breath must be awful.”

“It’s good,” I said, moving in again. She clasped her hand over her mouth.

“Sweet, but no.”

She slid away from me. When she got to the edge of the bed, she looked down and reached her hand out, gathering her underwear from the floor and putting it on under the covers. She stood and started her walk around the bed. Her underwear was riding up slightly from where she had pulled it on so quickly. With every step it rode a little higher. Absentmindedly, she adjusted it as she scanned the floor. She found her bra near the door, turned away from me and put it back on.

Still, the view I had was near perfect. Ashley’s body was outlined in sunlight, giving me the opportunity to commit the shape of it to memory. She lifted her jeans from the floor and climbed into them, smoothing the fabric with her hands.

She looked at me as she picked up her shirt, aware, obviously, that she was being watched. It seemed as though she was telling me that what I was doing was okay. Good. I was no longer willing to pretend I wasn’t staring, that this infatuation hadn’t completely taken over. She raised her arms above her head to put her shirt on, stretching her torso in a way that was probably almost as satisfying to her as it was to me.

“I’m going to go,” she said, smashing my heart with a giant cartoon anvil.

“When am I going to see you again?” I asked.

“Later on tonight. You’ll be up?” she teased.

“I’ll set my alarm.”

She walked over to me. “Turn your head,” she commanded. I obeyed, grateful for the opportunity. She kissed me so softly on the cheek I wasn’t sure it had actually happened. “I will see you later.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” I listened as she walked away from my bed and towards the front door. I rushed out after her, locked all the locks and went back to the bedroom.

My egg was smashed all over the floor, its shell broken. Amid the destruction, there was a disc, nestled safely in a protective plastic case.

“Motherfucker.”

~Chapter 8~

In which the narrator learns the true meaning of the egg.

I knelt down and picked up the disc. Turning it over in my hand, I looked for some identifying mark. What the hell was it? I stood up and walked over to the bed to sit down.

What did all this mean? How in the world did the egg break? It was so safe in its nest. Looking at the eggshell fragments hurt physically; this was something I cared for. I nurtured it and looked after it. I kept the fucking thing warm.

Standing, I gripped the disc tightly in my hand and walked over to the computer. I put the disc in the drive and gave it time to load. After a few seconds, a window appeared, asking me if I wanted to play the content on the disc. I confirmed that I did and waited. My media player popped up and began loading an image. It was sort of grainy, but I could make out my front door, the back of my couch, the television. This video was filmed right where I was sitting. On my webcam.

I looked at the small camera accusingly. It came with the machine, but wasn’t the sort of technology for which I’d found any use. Apparently someone had. I waited a few seconds and watched as a figure sat down in my chair.

It was me.

“Holy shit,” I whispered. I didn’t do this. I hadn’t made this.

Had I?

“I know what’s going through your head right now, but do your best to stop thinking,” my likeness said.

Let’s see what I’ve been doing in my sleep, I thought.

“What I’m about to tell you is really, really fucking hard to believe.”

Oh, you’re kidding. This seems pretty straightforward. I’m fucking nuts.

“The timeline for all this shit is going to get confusing, but I’m going to go really slow. I made this video at 7 p.m. tonight. If you’re wondering, it is about 6 p.m. where you’re sitting at the moment. Look at the time on the computer.”

I looked. 5:43 p.m.

“Yes, seven o’clock tonight is about an hour and change in the future. Take a moment to accept this as a fact.”

An hour from now? How could that be? I looked out the window; sunlight still seeped through. I turned around to see how it draped across the couch like a glowing stain. I faced the computer screen again. The couch was dark. It was nighttime whenever the video was made. Either that, or the window was covered. But why would I lie to myself? Forget everything I know, that’s what I’d said. Fucking listen.

“Okay, good reasoning,” my mirror said as soon as I had made a decision. “I am making this video slightly in the future. I, myself, am from a good deal farther into the future. About twenty years, in fact. I look exactly like you do now because, when I came back, I had to make my appearance in a pre-existing form. What this means is that, in about an hour, you will make this video.”

That’s easily verifiable. I just needed to wait an hour.

“Now, I need you to go into the kitchen. I’ve written you a letter explaining everything. It’s in the refrigerator.” My double reached over, grabbed the mouse and clicked something. The video ended.

Too weird, I thought.

I walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. It was two days prior that I was last in there, and there sure as hell wasn’t any letter. But there it was: a neat stack of papers sitting on the top shelf. I reached out and picked them up. They were written in my own distinctly sloppy handwriting. There was a date at the top: February 2, 2046.

I shook my head and closed the refrigerator door. Walking out to the couch, I stared at the papers, baffled. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. This was fucking crazy.

Okay, I know this shit is absolutely nuts. You’ve watched the video, so I hope you’re starting to get what’s going on. I made the video so you’d have more evidence that what I’m saying—what you’re saying—is true. I know you’ll come to accept it because, well, I’ve lived it. Anyway. Moving on.

In the near future, you’re going to undergo a very significant change. You’re going to be hit with the biggest idea of your life, which, coincidently, is the most important achievement of your generation.

At around eight o’clock tonight, Ashley will knock on your door, looking for affirmation that everything that has transpired between you is true. You’re going to reassure her, as you will for the next month or so. She’ll grow to understand your feelings for her and will become more secure. As it turns out, she really loves you. She was stricken, apparently, by the way you looked at her in Pete’s. Although she’s fucking gorgeous, she’s never had anyone look at her like that. Gents have lusted after her and tried to claim her, but none have simply appreciated her. You’re going to change her definition of masculinity.

And, coincidently, you’re going to change how virtually everyone sees gender. In about ten years. You’ll plant the seed in about five, but it will take time to germinate. I’m getting ahead of myself.

Tonight, you and Ashley will leave your apartment. You’re going to get in a cab and go to her place. While you’re there, you’ll watch a movie. It’s a shitty horror movie that she’s picked out just for you. It’s ridiculously sweet, and is the point at which you accept that she really likes you. After the movie is over, she’s going to take a phone call. It’s her mother, and it’s going to take a while. While you’re waiting, you’ll find yourself wandering around her apartment. That musty smell you like? It’s books. Her apartment is covered with them. You’ll pick one up. It’s called A Vindication of the Rights of Women. You flip through it and randomly open up to a page. On that page, you’ll read something revelatory.

When Ashley gets off the phone, you discuss it with her. You gain her perspective on things and formulate an idea. A rough version of the idea comes out of your mouth, and Ashley is going to think it’s brilliant. She’ll make you sit down and write it out so you don’t forget. The next day, you’ll work on it some more. You’re going to make several trips to the library, and you’re going to start talking to strangers, to anyone who’ll listen.

Eventually, you’ll put these thoughts down in a book. It’s going to be published and reviewed by all the right people. It’s going to be a phenomenon, and you’re going to be credited with creating a new theory of gender relations. This will cause a great power shift that results in gender equality the likes of which the world has never seen. Actual balance will be close at hand, and you’ll be heralded as the savior of the contemporary family when the divorce rate plummets.

Why don’t I tell you what this revelation is now so we might get to this whole great thing faster? Because it must not happen.

Fringe groups will emerge, claiming you’re disrupting the natural order. Your opposition will be few in number, but will be starkly radical and violent. Their actions will result in the death of the third female president of the United States. This cannot happen.

Her death, you see, brought the process to a halt. She was the only hope this country had of changing things for good. She was killed at a tumultuous and critical time in the movement. If she lives, your idea—our idea—might be realized to its full potential.

I have taken steps to ensure your ideas will be realized—just not by you.

Then what is it you have to do? You must ensure certain events don’t happen. You must not make it to Ashley’s apartment. You must not read that book. As insurance, I have to insist on some drastic measures.

This is going to be the hardest thing you ever do, but it will be the last.

You cannot live. If you die, a certain chain of events will be prevented. It’s too convoluted to go into detail and, honestly, I don’t have all the links yet, but it is essential that they be stopped now. Nothing of any significance has happened yet. It can all be prevented.

Ashley cannot live. Tonight, the two of you will conceive a child. He will be the leader of the movement that opposes you. He will be the presidential assassin. It’s not possible to know if your DNA is essential for the creation of the child, so it’s absolutely essential that all of the child’s genetic makeup be destroyed.

That’s your responsibility. There’s a shovel in your closet. You must kill Ashley with it. After that, do what you will. I can assure you that you will die by your own hand with no effort.

I know this is insane. But you must do it for the greater good. The world must receive the gift you have to give. Things must change.

Please forgive me for what I have written. You would have been a great man and, in some version of reality, you already are. What you must do will destroy you, but it is the only way.

You are, no doubt, wondering how I can come from the future. My latest work has been in the field of quantum physics. To explain it all would take many, many years. And, honestly, I don’t fully understand it. But here’s what I can say with some certainty:

Time is a human construct. We have control over the universe, if we choose to take it, and can freely transport back to previous and forward to future versions of ourselves. We can move objects, not just in the present time, but through all time and space as well. Again, none of this is fully understood, but it’s very real. The world is what you make of it, and there are an infinite number of places and times we might find ourselves. So much so that I have realized any notions of time are irrelevant. But what we do still matters. I believe that above all else. We matter.

In a few minutes, you’ll make the disc. I don’t know which version of you will do this. And I don’t know how the multiple versions of yourself will react in the same time as you. You must do as I have instructed. If not, I’ll be forced to make it happen.

Again, I’m sorry.

Kill Ashley with that shovel.

“Motherfucker.”

~Chapter 9~

In which the narrator kills himself with a shovel.

I decided not to look any more at the contents of the disc. Whatever was on there wasn’t going to change a thing; I wasn’t going to kill Ashley.

This couldn’t be as hopeless as it seemed. The more I thought about it, the less it made sense. I believed my future self had gone to all this trouble. There was enough evidence for me to accept it. Of course, the only other explanation was that I was batshit crazy. And that alternative hardly seemed an alternative at all, simply more of the same.

So, I’ll become someone great in the future. That was fantastic. Much better than what I was doing, that was for sure. I had no intention of killing myself now, not when, for the first time, I had everything going for me. Plus, I didn’t even know the third female president of the United States. And who’s to say there wouldn’t be some benefit to her dying? Maybe she’d inspire someone greater than herself, some stronger leader who would really set things right. Everything my future self said was still just my own bullshit reasoning, and I was wrong almost all the time.

Anyway, it seemed to me that there was plenty of time to change things. I could make sure Ashley was on birth control, for one. No baby means no rebel group leader. And, worst-case scenario, I could just not look at anything in her apartment. If I didn’t pick up that book, I wouldn’t develop any ideas. No ideas, no social change.

I started to feel pretty good about myself. I dismissed my mission and decided to watch some TV. There wasn’t really anything on, but I sat on the couch flipping channels for an hour or so. When I stood up to use the restroom, I noticed something was amiss.

My television had been on too loud to hear, but, directly behind me, I was making that goddamned video with my webcam.

“Hey!” I said. My double turned around.

“Oh, shit,” he said. “You fucked it up. Now I need to start over again.” He turned back toward the screen and started clicking the mouse loudly, like I do when I’m pissed off.

I stomped over to him. “What the hell are you doing?” It was so bizarre, viewing myself like this. To see the back of my own head intentionally ignoring me was too much. Not only was I in need of a haircut, the backside of me looked like a smug bastard. I grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. He stared at me, murder in his eyes.

“What. The. Fuck. Do. You. Want?” he growled. A vein pulsed in his neck, throbbing to the beat of an incendiary heart.

“Listen, asshole. We are not making this video,” I said sternly, and, I’ll admit, a bit smugly.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he said back to me. “This isn’t going to work. You aren’t going to change shit. You aren’t smart enough yet.” He turned back around and clicked with the mouse some more. I cocked my fist and swung a haymaker at the bastard, connecting with his ear.

“Motherfucker!” he yelled. Abruptly, he stood up from the chair and shoved me backwards. I regained my balance and charged at him, wrapping my arms around his waist and pinning him against the wall. I swung my fists into his sides.

“You son of a bitch!” I shouted, beating the shit out of myself. As I yelled, he caught me in the jaw with a lucky uppercut; my teeth clamped shut on my tongue. I cried out in pain and kicked him in the crotch. He doubled over, and I grabbed him by the back of the neck. I ran him across the room like a professional wrestler and slammed his head into the window. Glass flew everywhere; his head and shoulders cleared the frame. As I pushed him through, he spread his legs, hooking his ankles desperately around the wood. I gave him a solid kick, and he slid helplessly out the window. I heard a sickening thud and looked down into the street. Nothing was there.

Confused, I pulled my head back inside. I just threw myself out of a window. The window was broken. Glass was everywhere. It certainly looked like someone had been thrown to his death. As I leaned against the wall, trying to collect myself, my eyes focused on my computer.

And the asshole sitting at it.

“Hey!” I said.

“Oh, shit,” he said. “You fucked it up. Now I need to start over again.” He turned away from me, obviously pissed off.

“What the hell are you doing?” I demanded. My body moved automatically toward him. I noticed his overgrown hair before spinning his chair around and grabbing him.

“What. The. Fuck. Do. You. Want?” he demanded. I stared at him blankly for a moment, unsure of what was going on. Then, without my having to do anything, my body started acting, playing its role.

“Listen, asshole. We are not making this video,” I said.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he replied. “This isn’t going to work. You aren’t going to change shit. You aren’t smart enough yet.”

My fist rose in the air. I watched, amazed, as yet again it swung around and clobbered the guy in the side of the head.

“Motherfucker!” he yelled, jumping to his feet. He pushed me. With nothing else to do, I ran at him, smashing him into the wall. My sense of self-preservation kicked in, and I swung my fists blindly. I felt a little more comfortable with every connected blow. One of us, I realized, was going out that window.

“You son of a bitch!” I shouted at him. He swung at me, catching me in the mouth. Blood filled it quickly. I stutter-stepped and kicked him in the junk, pulling back slightly as he doubled over. I grabbed him by the neck, dragging him to the window. This isn’t right, I thought, but allowed my body to do what it needed. I slammed his torso through the window, sending glass everywhere. I kicked. He fell from the window. I listened for the splat I knew would come. When it did, I fought the urge to look down. Instead, I directed my body to head into my bedroom.

The eggshell crunched as I walked over it. I went to the closet and flung it open. There it was: a slightly blood spattered, mostly pristine shovel. Picking it up, I gauged its heft and walked out to the living room, carrying my new friend close to my heart.

“What I’m about to tell you is really, really fucking hard to believe,” I could hear myself saying to the webcam.

Hoisting the shovel up onto my shoulder and then over my head, I let out a horribly embarrassing battle cry. The guy turned at the sound. I brought the shovel down on his skull. His head snapped backwards; he disappeared. Dropping the tool on the floor, I sat in the computer chair.

If the space were already taken, time would be forced to change. It had to. I flipped off the monitor and pulled my webcam down, just in case I felt inclined to record a video, and sat there silently, giving myself a chance to breathe. I looked at my face, reflected in the monitor.

My future self, I knew, thought he was right, but it was painfully obvious that he wasn’t. Perhaps he learned too much and lost hold of his common sense. Whatever happened, the answer obviously wasn’t killing myself. Or Ashley.

I saw some motion behind me in the monitor, heard a scream and reflexively went limp, allowing my body to slide to the floor like a dead fish. The shovel made a muffled clang as it came in contact with the padded top of the chair. Glancing up at my own confused face, I kicked him in the nuts and wrenched the shovel from his hands. I rolled across the floor, got to my feet and bolted for the bedroom.

I slammed the door behind me and waited, listening for the pounding footsteps of someone in pursuit. But all I heard was the reassuring thud of my own little heart. Slowly, I opened the door and peeked out, fully expecting to come face-to-face with someone looking to end my life.

Instead, I saw myself preparing to brain myself at the computer chair. When the shovel came down, the sitting version of me got away. I stepped back into the bedroom and concealed myself just inside the door. I heard his footsteps and swung the shovel when they got close enough. The impact took the guy off his feet and sent blood flying in all directions. Something sharp and hard hit me in the face. I glanced down at it when it clattered to the floor. A tooth.

I ran into the living room and attacked the remaining me with the shovel. He was still confused, so it was an easy job. He took the hits like he was expecting them, almost okay with the fact that his head was flying this way and that at such odd, unnatural angles.

It was quiet in the apartment.

~Chapter 10~

In which the narrator confides in his girlfriend and experiences a shovel mishap.

I was standing there waiting when I heard the knock at the door. I looked around wearily, and then headed over to it. Peeking through the peephole, I saw Ashley.

Should I let her in? I had no idea what was going to happen and, what was worse, I didn’t have any way of explaining it to her. I didn’t want to put her in danger. It was one thing for me to be fighting this impossible battle, but she was on a hit list, too.

And what if some version of me were to attack her while I wasn’t there? She’d have no idea what was going on. She’d be totally helpless. I unlocked the door and opened it up. I ushered her inside.

“What’s the rush?” she asked, smiling.

I looked out the door and down the hallway. It was empty. I slammed the door shut and engaged all the locks.

“Someone out to get you?”

I looked at her. She was the biggest liability I’d ever had.

“Am I interrupting something?” she asked nervously. “I could come back.”

“No, no. You’re not interrupting anything.” I leaned into her and kissed her on the lips. She kissed me back, but her lips were pressed tightly together. She wasn’t buying it.

“What’s going on? Why are you carrying a shovel?”

I looked at the shovel in my hand. “It’s complicated,” I said.

“Complicated? Are you gardening in here?” she asked. “I mean, there are only so many things you can do with a shovel.”

I dropped the shovel on the floor and took her by the hand. We walked over to the couch and sat down. She looked at me expectantly, but I wasn’t sure what to say.

“I don’t know that I can have this conversation,” I said honestly. “I don’t know how to start.”

Ashley took her hand back and held it tightly against her chest. I reached out to take it back. She resisted; I gave up.

“What is it?” she asked coldly and, I thought, sounding a little hurt.

“You’ll never understand,” I said. “You couldn’t possibly. It’s so ridiculous.”

She got to her feet. “Maybe I should just go, then.”

“What’s going on with me is fucking weird, okay?” I started. “The only reason you wouldn’t understand is because you’re a sane person.”

She looked at me with intensity. “Why don’t you try me?”

“Okay. Ready?” I sighed.

“Absolutely.” She sat back in her seat.

“Here goes,” I said. “Do you remember that egg in my bedroom?”

“Oh, yeah!” Her eyes lit up. “I meant to ask you about that, but I forgot. That was weird. Do you still have it?”

“You’re going to have to save the questions for later. The egg is the most believable thing in this story.”

She mimed zipping her lips shut. I continued.

“So, a few days ago, I woke up with that egg in my bed.”

“In your bed?” she asked.

“In my bed,” I said. “I thought I had laid it.”

She laughed and raised an eyebrow, giving me a questioning look.

“Yeah, yeah. There was no one but me. My pants were off, and there was an egg between my legs. And I felt an…I don’t know…affection for it? Yeah, I guess that’d be right,” I explained. “There was no way anyone could have put it there. And it sure wasn’t there when I went to bed.

“Okay.” She brushed the hair away from her face. “Then what?”

“Well, today, after you left, immediately after, I found it broken on the floor. Smashed, actually.”

“Smashed? Did it fall?” she asked, obviously concerned. I loved her for it.

“No. It was very secure. I have reason to believe someone smashed it. But, for the moment, that isn’t the relevant bit,” I said.

“Oh.” She sat silently in expectation.

“There wasn’t any yolk or anything. Apparently, the only thing inside of it was a disc. A computer disc,” I said.

“Did you look at it? What was on it?”

“A video of myself.”

“A video? Like a bad video?” she said, grinning.

“No, perv. It was a video of me explaining something to myself. From the future.”

“The future?” She smirked at me.

“The future,” I said. “Told you. You’ll never believe any of this.”

“Sure I will. There’s evidence, isn’t there? There’s the egg, which I’ve seen, and there’s a video that I could potentially see,” she reasoned. “So what’s on the video? Flying cars and teleporters?”

“Well, it was only from an hour in the future,” I said sheepishly.

“An hour? That’s sort of anticlimactic. What were you doing?”

“Well, I was directing myself to find a letter that I had hidden for myself in the refrigerator,” I said. “Honestly, though, I have no idea what’s on the video now. It seems likely that it’s changed.”

“Changed? You can do that?”

“I believe so,” I said. “The future I told myself about wasn’t all that great, so I started changing it. I think I’ve changed it. I’m definitely off schedule, at least.”

She seemed excited. “So, what did the letter say? Can I read it?”

“No. I don’t think so. You can check the fridge for it, if you want, but the copy I had was on the table in front of you. It’s not there anymore, so I think it had an impact on the letter when I changed things.”

She stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“The fridge,” she said simply. “I’ll be right back.”

I watched her walk away, realizing for the first time how mesmerizing a pair of jeans could be. I wished I could relive that moment over and over again. Though I tried to make it happen, it didn’t. She came back with a pile of papers in her hands. She sat down again.

“These?”

“That’s them,” I said. I watched her as she read, waiting for her to reach the part that called for her execution.

“A shovel, huh?” she said when she was finished. “You know, if I didn’t trust you, I’d be worried that you were going to off me right now.”

“Nope. I refuse to do it,” I said. “That’s why I’m changing things.”

“Good call,” she said. “Well, at least we’ve got a future together. I can stop worrying if we took things too fast so long as everything works out alright in the end.”

“There’s that. You want the rest?” I asked.

She furrowed her brow. “There’s more?”

“Yeah, the strange part is coming up.” I said, cringing at the confused look on her face. “So, you remember the part of the letter where I say that I don’t know how well my selves will react in each other’s company?”

She nodded. I pointed to the broken window.

“Wow. What the fuck happened? How did I not see that?” She went over to the window, examining it briefly.

“Well, I came into the living room to find myself making that video.”

“Like you didn’t know what was happening? And you were just making a video?” she asked, baffled. “That’s odd.”

“Nope,” I said. “I was watching TV. I stood up and turned around to find someone sitting at my computer. Upon further examination, I found that it was myself making the video I had watched earlier.”

“There were two of you?”

“There were two of me.”

“That’s incredible,” she said. “What’d you do?”

“Well, I asked him—me—what he was doing. He got pissed because I interrupted him, and things got physical. He ended up going out the window.”

“You threw him out the window?”

“He was asking for it,” I said defensively.

“That can’t be good,” she said.

“You know, it didn’t seem to matter. I turned around and another one was there.”

“Another one?” she asked. “Did you throw him out the window, too?”

“Hell yes,” I said.

“And did you turn around to find another one?”

I nodded.

“And you threw him out the window?”

“Well, that would have just been more of the same, right?” I said. “I whacked him with the shovel.”

“The shovel from the closet?” she asked. “The shovel your future self put there to take care of me?”

“That’s the one.”

“The one on the floor over there?”

“Yep,” I said.

She crossed the room and inspected the implement in question. “There’s blood on it,” she stated plainly.

“There should be. I smashed that fucker good.”

“And where is he now?”

“They disappear when they die,” I said. “It’s odd.”

“So, why is there blood on the shovel? Wouldn’t it disappear with the body?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “That is strange.” I stood up and walked over to her, crouching down alongside her. Ashley scooted away from me, towards the door.

“Where are you going?” I asked, alarmed.

“Um, I forgot something at home. I’m just going to pop out for a second. Be right back,” she said, edging closer to the exit.

“You think I’m going to hurt you,” I said, not even trying to hide the offense.

“No, I, uh, I forgot something. Honestly.”

“Why would I want to do that? You’re beautiful and wonderful. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” I did what I could to plead with my eyes. Her face registered only fear.

“Please don’t go. I swear to you, I will never, ever hurt you.”

She looked me in the face, likely searching to see if I was telling the truth. I heard a sound from across the room. Her eyes went wide, and the sound of pounding footsteps echoed in my ears. There was an embarrassing scream, and I watched as the head of a shovel came down on Ashley’s face. She didn’t have time to cry out. There was a solid thunk; she fell limply to the floor. I crawled frantically over to her.

Her beautiful face was a mass of blood and bruising. Her nose was pushed into her face, clearly broken in several places. The skin around her eyes was brown and purple. Her teeth were smashed, the adorably chipped tooth lost in a row of jagged edges. I felt for a pulse; there was none. Tears streamed down my face. My beautiful Ashley.

She was dead as fuck.

~Chapter 11~

In which the narrator calls a telephone psychic.

“Come here, you bastard!” I yelled, climbing to my feet.

“Oh, fuck!” my double said. His eyes darted frantically, searching for an escape route. He knew as well as I did there wasn’t one.

“Look what you did, you bitch!” I screamed, my voice hoarse with exertion. I started toward him. He backed up towards the window and looked at it, brow furrowed in worry.

“Oh, don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not going to throw you out. I just want to talk to you a little.”

He didn’t seem convinced. I took another step towards him, holding my hands out innocently in front of me, doing my best to look like a poor, misunderstood and slightly deranged nice guy.

“Come on over here.” I gestured at the couch. “Let’s sit down and talk about this.”

“It had to happen!” he said, stumbling over his words. “You know that!”

“Oh, yes. I know.” My tone was reassuring. “That’s all in the past. I just want to talk about puppies with you. What kind of puppies do you like?”

“We’re the same person, numbnuts! We like the same kind of puppies! You don’t need to kill me,” he said. “You need to kill yourself.”

“Remind me what kind of puppies we like again. I can’t seem to remember.”

He looked nervous, scared even. “We don’t! We don’t like a certain kind!”

“Right, right. I know that,” I said. “But if we were pressed, what kind would we like?”

“I don’t know!” he shouted.

“Oh, come on. What’s the first thing that comes to your mind?”

“Fuck! I don’t know!” he said. “Chihuahuas!”

“Chihuahuas?” I asked.

“Yeah, fucking Chihuahuas! Just get on with it!”

“Get on with what? I’m only trying to talk to you about puppies.”

“No, you’re not. You’re getting warmed up to launch into a big psychotic speech,” he said.

“I don’t think so,” I argued. “What sort of speech would I give?”

“You’re going to tell me about how we love puppies but hate ankle biters. And sometimes the things we love the most are the things that are worst for us. And, even though we love ourselves, sometimes we bite our own ankles. Just fucking get on with it,” he said.

He got my speech rather well, stole my thunder, really. I was at a loss for what to say; I had invested a lot in that speech. “So, what’s next?”

“You chase me towards the window around the right side of the couch, and I run towards the bedroom. I slip on the eggshells. You catch me, and...” he trailed off.

“And?” I asked.

He looked at his feet, mumbled something.

“What was that? I didn’t catch it.”

“You choke me to death,” he said.

“I do?” I’d considered making a break for the shovel, but now I didn’t have to. “Well, let’s get on with it then.” I started walking slowly towards him around the left side of the couch.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“What?” I asked innocently.

“You went around the wrong side! Go back!” he screamed, his face turning red with anger.

“Huh?” I asked. “Oh, look at that. I guess I did.”

“Stop fucking changing time!” he shouted and ran into the bedroom. I heard him slip and fall, then he was quiet.

“Are you okay in there?” I called out, sitting on the back of the couch, arms crossed.

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned. I heard a rustling as he got to his feet. He walked out of the bedroom, hands on his hips. “So, what, you’re not going to kill me now?”

“Oh, that doesn’t sound like something I’d do,” I said.

“You’re being a dick. I hope you know that.”

“I’m being a dick because I won’t kill you?”

“Come on, I killed your girlfriend.” He pointed to Ashley’s lifeless body. I refused to look at it; her bruised and bloody face would send me into a rage.

“Oh, yes, you’re right. You did do that. Please leave,” I said.

He looked baffled. “Leave? You’re kicking me out?”

“I think it’s appropriate, given the circumstances,” I said.

“You’re really fucking things up. You know that, right?”

I walked over to the door and opened it. “Out you go.”

“Fine. I’ll go. But you’re making a huge fucking mistake.” He stomped off into the hallway. “I don’t even know what to do now. Go to a movie? Get a sandwich? I’m not even supposed to exist…” His voice trailed off as he walked away. I shut the door behind him.

Looking at Ashley, I wondered aloud what I should do. I needed advice. I had to find someone who knew about this new agey bullshit that made it possible for me to jump through time. I needed a quantum physicist.

I sat down on the couch. My head spun. I looked back at Ashley and the pool of blood gathering on the tile in front of her face.

And then, suddenly, I knew whom to call. I jumped excitedly from the couch, ran to the phone and pressed redial.

It rang.

“Thank you for calling American Psychics Limited. Please hold the line for your personal, qualified psychic.” The line continued to ring.

“This is Madame Rain. What do you want to know about the future?” a familiar voice answered.

“Ah, Madame Rain,” I said, relieved. “What are the odds I’d get you again?”

“It was in the stars. I was expecting your call,” she said coolly.

“Oh, good. I need your help.”

“Do you have a question you’d like answered, or do you just want a general forecast?”

“I have some very specific questions I’d like answered,” I said. “Very specific.”

“Okay,” she replied, a bit uneasily it seemed to me.

“I need you to stay with me here. There’s no time to waste,” I said. “What is the purpose of the egg?”

“The egg?” she asked. “Well, the egg is symbolic of birth. Not the birth of a being, per se. No, it is symbolic of the creation and germination of ideas. The egg is a vessel for your personal evolution, and it has significance to you.”

“What kind of significance?” I asked.

“Uh, the shape of the egg has to do with your ideas. Your ideas shaped it. It could have come in any form, but it came in that of an egg. Why do you think that is?”

“Well, my ideas are supposed to have something to do with gender roles, or something like that,” I offered.

“Yes, yes. This makes much sense. You are a man giving birth to an egg. This egg is your gift to the world. The outside is symbolic for what lies hidden inside. You are the first man in history to carry the burden traditionally reserved for women. As you think and grow, you will come to understand why this revelation has to come in a disguise, why it has to be protected in a shell.”

“Why was there a CD in it? The CD wasn’t my idea. Not really,” I said.

“A CD?” She paused. “I cannot see inside of you. You are very guarded about the CD. I don’t think the most gifted psychics in the world could pry that from you.”

“Okay, then.” I took a breath. “How do I solve my present problem?”

“Which one?” she asked. “I can see many problems in your life at the moment.”

“Good point,” I said. “Uh, let’s start with the time jumping thing.”

She sounded confused. “Time jumping? Like you’re losing time?”

“Are you a real psychic?” I asked.

“Of course I am,” she said defensively. “You are very guarded is all. Perhaps you could give me a hint.”

“I did,” I replied.

“Another hint,” she said.

“Look, future versions of me are coming into the present time and trying to convince my present self to commit both suicide and homicide. How do I get rid of them?”

“They come from the future?” she asked. “How are they doing that?”

“Something about matter and energy existing in multiple times and places,” I said. “New agey shit.”

“Oh, I see. And your future self mastered this idea?”

“I wouldn’t say mastered, but he’s got the general idea.”

“You must destroy them before they destroy you,” she said simply.

“Well, yeah. But that’s the problem,” I said. “I’ve killed three of them already. They just keep coming.”

“What happens when they die?”

“They disappear.”

“Poof?”

“Yep, only silently. Sans poof.”

“Very interesting,” she said.

“Yes, it is. Now, what do I do about it?” I demanded.

“You must travel into the future and do battle with yourself,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Um, yeah. I don’t know how to do that.”

“If what you say is true, then there is some disturbance in space and time. Your future self’s knowledge should be available to you. You just need to focus and utilize it.”

“How do I do that?” I asked, warming to the idea. Following what had already happened, it wasn’t too much of a stretch.

“You must look inside yourself. Turn the lights off, close your eyes and visualize your future self. It will work. You must trust me,” she insisted.

“Okay, I’ll do it.” I slammed down the phone. It was worth a shot, and I felt it was possible.

I went back into the living room and sat down on the couch. After closing my eyes, I tried to visualize my future self: philosopher, smart guy, father. I gathered a picture and began to slide into his brain.

I was jarred back to the present by a pounding on the door. I got up and ran over to it. “Now is really not a good time!” I shouted.

“Open up!” a voice screamed. I looked through the peephole and saw my face staring back at me.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Someone saw me,” he said.

“So?”

“So, we’re changing the future! We’re fucking things up, you goddamned asshole!”

“Sounds like you’re fucking things up,” I said. “I’m just sitting in my apartment, minding my own business.”

“Do you have any idea what potential psychological damage could come about after spending a significant amount of time with your girlfriend’s corpse?” he shouted shrilly.

“Leave me alone.”

He kicked the door.

“Stop kicking the door,” I said.

He increased the frequency and intensity of his attack. “I’m not stopping until you let me in!”

“Alright, kick the fucking door then. I don’t give a shit.” I looked around. “I’ve got earplugs in here somewhere.”

“I’ll go get the super!” he threatened. “He’ll let me in!”

“You have no idea who the super is.”

“Do, too. We learn it in 2012. May. Right after our birthday, a pipe breaks and he has to come investigate.”

“2012?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He stopped kicking.

“It’s probably not the same guy,” I said.

“It is,” he responded.

“Okay. Go get him then.”

He started kicking the door again.

~Chapter 12~

In which the narrator attempts to short circuit time.

I had no idea what to do. The creepily methodic pounding on the door was getting to me; I couldn’t think, and I had to think.

Perhaps what I needed to do was figure out how to go back in time and stop myself from hitting Ashley in the face with a shovel. In hindsight, it seemed wise that I didn’t destroy the version of me who had killed her. I might need him. Though I had started to put a plan together, I needed things to be quieter if I were to do any real thinking. I picked up the shovel from the floor and leaned it against the wall, facing the door.

“Hey, fucker!” I yelled through the door. “I think I’m ready to talk.”

“You are?” The kicking stopped. “So soon?”

“I think so, yeah,” I replied. I unlocked the door and held it open.

He seemed hesitant to enter. “Really?”

“I can’t stay mad at you, can I? You’re me. We have to deal with this, and you might be able to help me set it right,” I said.

He looked relieved. “I’m glad you’ve seen reason.” He walked into the apartment. “I think you’ll see…Oh, shit.”

A look of embarrassed recollection crossed his face a second before I clanged him in the back of the head. He hit the floor next to Ashley.

I went into the kitchen and rooted through my junk drawer until I found a roll of duct tape. Then I set to work taping his limbs together, thereby preventing him from doing anything I didn’t want him to do.

Sitting down with my back to the rear of the couch, I tried to let my limbs relax. They were hesitant. Attempting to clear my mind, I concentrated on my breath. In and out. In and out. After my focus was away from the bodies on the other side of the room, I tried picturing my future self again, tried to enter his mind and take control of his knowledge. His mind was either impenetrable or I was doing it wrong.

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 roll of tape. Something had to happen now; my plan had to evolve. There wasn’t much I could do to hold off more time infiltrators. I could kill them, of course, but, honestly, it was pretty tiring.

“Listen up, you bastards,” I said, waiting until all of their eyes were on me. “Let’s think this through.”

“You need to kill yourself,” the first one said, struggling against his restraints. “And us.”

“Whoa, fuck that!” said the third one. “Kill him if he wants it so bad!”

“I said listen, not talk,” I replied, losing patience. I waited until their collective mumbling died down. “Okay. There are four of us here. None of you belong. Do any of you know about this time travel business?”

I paused, waiting for a response.

“You mustn’t do this!” the annoying one shouted. I picked up the shovel and walked over to him. I swung it down on his head.

“You must shut the fuck up,” I said to his limp body. “Now, you two. Do you know anything about this shit?”

“A little bit,” one of them said.

“Hit me,” I replied.

He cringed. “Well, you can’t do the time travel thing yet yourself. You have to attain the knowledge first. Just because you will be able to do it in the future doesn’t mean that all of your past selves can. What you need is to focus on changing the present.”

“What about Ashley?” I asked.

He paused for a moment, thinking. “Well, I think you’ve probably got a shot at that. By the looks of it, you’ve already fucked time and space all up. Why not go all out? I’d reckon you could save Ashley by killing an earlier version of yourself.”

“That sounds like a horrible idea,” I said.

“Agreed, but I can’t see any other way. You can’t bring her back from the dead. It just doesn’t work like that. But if you were to destroy yourself before you ever met her, you, or any version of yourself, couldn’t possibly kill her, could you? I guess it comes down to whose life you value more.” He struggled against his restraints. “And we all know which one that is.”

“We do?” I asked.

“We do,” he replied. “That said, I don’t think it’ll be too difficult. There are probably different versions of yourself already hunting down earlier versions. You’ve got no reason to think your particular time or self special.”

“But, if I was attacked in the past, wouldn’t I remember it?”

“Maybe. Like I said, you fucked everything up. No one is supposed to do what you’ve done. And, as such, no one can possibly know of the ramifications. I’m a version of you that is yet to be. Yet, here I am. And I have no fucking clue where you’re going with this shit.”

I was bewildered. “So what should I do?”

“Like I said, go find an early version of yourself and kill it.”

“Where would I find one?”

“Retrace your steps. I’m sure one’ll pop up somewhere.”

“Okay,” I said hesitantly. Picking up the shovel, I reached for the doorknob, but stopped. Turning, I dropped the shovel on the floor. “Just in case he wakes up,” I said. Then I left, making my way quickly down the hall.

* * *

“What was all that bullshit?” the quiet me asked the other out of my earshot. “I can’t remember any of that.”

The other shrugged as well as one can when one is bound in cheap tape. “I don’t know. Fucker was going to kill us. Had to do something.”

~Chapter 13~

In which the narrator starts to retrace his steps, but changes his mind.

I climbed into the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby. Where should I go? The Laundromat? How about the bank fountain? No. The one down the street! I could ambush myself there before encountering Ashley and solve everything.

I hit the emergency stop button. I needed to think.

No, it wouldn’t solve everything. The letter said I had put my revelatory idea into good hands, hands that would bring the idea to fruition. If I died, my ideas would still live on, and so would Ashley’s genetic potential.

I was starting to doubt my earlier certainty that my future self had gone completely nuts. Maybe what I had come up with was so important that it had to happen without me, without any chance of derailment. But, then again, what was the point of dying for a world without me? It would have no personal relevance.

Albeit inadvertently, I had already done the hard part. Ashley was dead. Why should I die, too? It seemed gratuitous. Besides, I knew myself. I don’t always think things through before I do them. Especially when I write letters. That letter could have been composed at a time when I was at an extreme, when I concluded the best course of action was suicide. I could see myself deciding that some past version would have to be the one with the balls to actually off myself.

I had to be rational and reasonable. Ashley could no longer be the mother of opposition. I had to face it; she was the wildcard. She was hot and would have no trouble procreating. I, on the other hand, never had any trouble keeping the ladies at bay. It was probably just some alteration of the past that future me had done that made her attracted to me in the first place.

And what if future me was just reacting to a broken heart? That sort of thing made people do crazy shit. What if I went to all the trouble of going into the past to get Ashley to like me, then, in twenty years, she dumps me for some reason. Could that push me over the edge?

I suddenly found myself wishing I knew more about gender relations. What are the roots of manhood? Why are women still treated poorly? How should men and women behave? What differences should be preserved? If I continued on my destined path, I’d eventually learn the answers to these questions, and I’d be able to change things. The confidence that provided carried a lot of weight.

I could avoid anything that might get in the way of my purpose. Again, I wouldn’t have children. And I already knew about the book that would get my mental gears turning. I could probably pick it up at the library.

Killing myself no longer seemed the wise option. Maybe that version of me knew what he was talking about, but I had to choose my own path. One guided by the future, not dictated by it. I just needed to hide out until all the details came together in my head.

In the elevator, I pressed the three-button. It started to descend. When the elevator stopped, I got off, walked to 312 and knocked on the door.

No response.

I knocked again. And again and again. I started to pound out a continuous beat, knowing my persistence would pay off.

And, eventually, it did.

A frail, weathered-looking woman answered the door. “Who is it?”

“It’s me,” I said.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Manny, Mom. It’s Manny. Let me in.”

She squinted at me. “Manny? Manny who?”

“Your son. Open up.” I put a hand on the door and eased it open.

“My son? Okay.” She looked confused, but let me into the apartment. Leaving the door ajar, she walked back to the living room and sat down in her recliner. She picked up a glass and took a drink of something. Her television blared loudly. I closed the door.

So far as I could tell, my mother never left the living room. All this space was wasted, really, but her monthly fixed income was more than enough to pay for both her apartment and mine. It sounds bad, an incapacitated woman unknowingly paying her adult son’s rent. But she wasn’t a very good mother. And she didn’t do anything to earn the money; it came from her ex-husband’s pension. Though I had never wanted to, I had to stay near her. There was no one else. She and I may have had problems, but I still felt an obligation to her. And if I was tethered by that sense of responsibility, she could pay my fucking rent, thank you very much.

I wandered down the hall, headed for the empty room farthest from the blaring television. The noise was too much. The old women spent all of her time with the TV on, just sitting and staring at it. Watching her waste what was left of her brain was something I no longer cared to witness.

All I wanted to do was sleep. I made it to the room and heard murmuring from the other side of the door.

I turned the doorknob with great care, gaining access to the room silently. I peeked my head in to see a figure dressed as me, sitting on a bed, watching television.

He reached out and picked up a telephone from the bedside table. My mom’s old rotary dial that she refused to update. Not that it mattered, I guess. She never used it.

“You should eat it,” the figure said, shoulders quaking with stifled laughter. Hearing me taunt myself made me feel ill.

I advanced toward him, my anger swelling like a fever blister. I grabbed the receiver out of his hand and, raising it above my head, brought it down on his face with all the power I could muster. The bridge of his nose cracked and collapsed under the force; a torrent of blood gushed from his nostrils. I wrapped the telephone cord around his neck and pulled it tight, rendering his gurgled cries inaudible.

We sat there together, in our mother’s guest room, until he went limp in my arms. I closed my eyes as his body fell to the floor. When I opened them, he was gone. All that remained of the whole encounter was the blood on my hands and a rusty old shovel leaning against the wall.

~Chapter 14~

In which the narrator taunts a fragile man over the phone and gets royally fucked up by some guy with a shovel.

The phone stared at me as a heaviness settled into my chest. Was I really going to do this? How could I justify harassing myself when I had just executed someone for doing the same? Not knowing if I would be able to change anything, or had changed anything already, I picked up the receiver and dialed my own number.

It rang.

“Hey, I’m out right now. Leave a message.”

Beep.

“Salt, pepper and chives,” I said. “Add a little cream to make it nice and fluffy and eat the goddamn thing. You must destroy it. All of you—the ones taped up on the floor, the ones lounging about in the Laundromat—you all need to go. That egg will bring you nothing but unhappiness.

“I’ll lay it all out for you. You’re going to go out, and your life is going to change. You’re going to fall in love. Ashley is her name. She’s going to love you unquestioningly. You’re going to bring her home. With her, you’ll attain a happiness you’ve never felt before. Then you’ll kill her. Like a rabid animal, you’ll crack her skull with the flat side of a garden shovel.

“Why would you do such a thing, you ask? Because she’s going to change you. She’s going to help you see the world for how it really is. She will help you develop ideas. I don’t know what they are, but they’re pretty fucking cool. You’ll change the whole country. And you’ll have a kid together, but then things will fuck up. Really bad.

So, you’ll get the bright idea you should be the one to change them. You’ll learn about quantum physics, or astral projection, or some such bullshit. You won’t be an expert. You’ll be no mechanic, but you’ll know enough to change your oil filter, enough to change a tire. But you’ll act as if you know more. You’ll overhaul the engine. You’ll try to repair a bent fender. You’ll apply some fucking Bondo. But you won’t read the manual.

“And your girl will still be dead. Your egg will be so remarkably disappointing. You’ll still have hatched nothing worthwhile. But you have the chance, even though your future self thinks it’s a bad idea. He’d rather you waste your life away and achieve nothing than to achieve something and have it not work out exactly right.

“And how do you feel about that? How can you feel? Is there a choice? That guy is you. His decision is your decision. His reasoning is yours. But, here’s the really fucking funny thing: you don’t have a choice in the matter. If you don’t do it, he can send somebody else. You’ve got the illusion of free will, but your actions are so meaningless they don’t even mean anything to you. Your existence affects you about as much as it affected your parents when they were children.

“Of course, you can try. After hearing this message, you’ll have all the information just a little bit earlier than I did. And then there’ll be two of us who can fight it, if you choose. It’s that preservation instinct. You should embrace it, though you won’t have any reason to believe me yet. Here’s something: there’s a disc in the egg. Break it, you’ll see.

“I don’t even know why I’m wasting my fucking time.” I hung up the phone, stared at it, willed it to burst into flames. It didn’t. I howled in frustration and picked up the phone, slamming it against the wall. The plastic receiver shattered.

“Manfred?” my mother called. Great. Perfect. She can’t hear the goddamned phone ring, but she can hear it hit the wall. Fucking convenient.

“Manfred?”

I imagined I could hear her creeping closer, though the din of the TV prevented any such thing.

“Manfred?”

“What?” I yelled, punching the wall. I looked down at my fist. The knuckles were dusted with white from the hole I drove into the drywall.

“Manfred, what’s all that noise?” she asked from just outside.

I opened the door. “It was just the train, Mom.”

She looked at me, her dull green eyes searching for answers.

“The train?” she asked.

“Yes, the train. It came in through this wall like it does every day. It went through the living room behind your chair and disappeared into the refrigerator,” I said, staring at the ceiling.

“Into the frigerator?” she asked.

“Yep, into the frigerator,” I replied. “You can go watch your shows some more.”

“Okay,” she said. She turned and walked back down the hall. I watched her go, her fragile frame moving slowly. I didn’t imagine she would last much longer. A few years at best. Would she outlive me? Would she ever give birth to me? Would she ever leave me at home as a child?

Could I beat her head in with a shovel? Could I go back in time and take care of her before I was born? Could I hit her father over the head with a shovel?

For the first time in years, I looked with tenderness at her white hair and her old stained sweater. Maybe her shitty parenting wasn’t her fault. Maybe my childhood mistreatment was designed to make me unable to trust. If I couldn’t trust anyone, I wouldn’t be able to maintain a relationship with Ashley. What if my fucked up childhood was only in place to prevent someone else’s?

I curled up on the floor, using my arms as a pillow. I stared at the broken phone, the empty wall. My eyelids felt heavy. They dropped. Fucking life. Fucking bullshit.

Suddenly, it dawned on me. I knew what I had to do. Forcing my eyes open, I got to my feet and grabbed the shovel, accepting the one gift I had unwillingly left myself.

I would take that shovel and go upstairs. I would beat to death anyone who stood in my way. And then I would do everything I could to reroute time, to destroy everything.

I could see myself doing it: piling up every scrap of flammable material and torching it. With nothing left of my present, the future would be mine again.

“Orange peels and gramophones!” I called down the hall as I made my way out the front door, resisting every urge to stay and hide.

“What?” my mother yelled, her voice barely audible over the television. I could see the white cotton ball of her head peeking out over the top of her chair.

“I’m sorry for making you such a shitty person!” I shouted, apologetic for all that I had done and would do to her.

“Okay,” she said. Okay. It’s as good as anything. I closed the door and made my way down the hall. I pressed the elevator button, but decided not to wait. Opening the door to the stairwell, I stepped inside.

The lighting was so poor I could barely see anything. It was no wonder that mugger had chosen this place as his hunting ground. Anyone coming up the stairs would be virtually helpless. I heard a squeak as a door opened, then a pounding from down below. Someone was coming. I looked down over the railing and saw a man with my hair and my clothes.

Holy fucking shit, I said to myself. I crouched down in the darkness and waited. I had no idea if this one was going to try to kill me or not, but had to assume as much. Self-preservation demanded that I kill myself at every opportunity. He came nearer, finally reaching the landing.

“Hey,” he said, looking nervous. His pace quickened. He was scared and likely had no idea what was going on. I stood and hefted the shovel onto my shoulder. I stepped toward him, as stealthily as possible. It was my hope that I’d be able to brain him without having to face him.

But I tripped on a lump in the carpet. The shovel left my hands; my face met the floor. With great effort, I got to my feet.

While searching his face for some sort of understanding, I missed the subtle shift his body made. I almost didn’t see it coming, the shovel flying at me. There was time to get away, but the urge was strangely lacking.

I dropped to my knees, my hands moving reflexively to my face. I pulled them away. Blood. Lots of blood. It glistened in the light, trickling over my fingers. My eyes caught my attacker’s face. He was smiling.

A weird tingling sensation overtook my body; my vision started to blur. I was screaming, but couldn’t control my jaw. Teeth chattered as I rolled and thrashed. Blood trailed over my face, down my neck and into my hair. The handle of the shovel now lay alongside me, like Ashley had for the span of a few short hours. I felt numb.

“Where’d you get those?” he shouted. I saw the shovel leave the ground.

“Whaaa mmph,” I said, and felt pressure on my knee. The shovel’s shadow moved across the wall.

“Where’d you get those quarters?” he demanded. I felt more pressure, this time on the side of my body. It was as though a plastic shield covered my ribs, and someone was hitting it with a golf club.

“You’re gonna steal from me, you son of a bitch? Those are my fucking quarters!” A tremendous impact hit my chest. The breath left my lungs. I heard his psychotic screams, muffled by the dampness in my head. The shovel tore the flesh of my arm. Blood flowed onto the carpet, a now familiar sight.

“Get a job, you piece of shit,” he said.

His shadow moved away. Something bumped my leg after bouncing on the carpet. My leg stung. Feeling seemed to be returning. I heard the elevator door open and shut.

I stared at the ceiling. My eyes blinked involuntarily as tears welled up. I had destroyed myself.

I had destroyed myself.

I had destroyed myself.

At some point, I rewired my thoughts, pirated my own intentions. I made myself a loser, a loner, unable to have a relationship with another person. I forced myself into hiding.

When I was seven, I probably killed my own puppy. I probably prevented my parents from having any other children. I made my mother abuse and abandon me.

I quarantined myself from a world I no longer cared about and turned into a blank page. Eraser shavings littered my surface; gritty gray smudges defined my life. Pretty words used to be there. Ugly ones, too.

Now there was nothing.

All of this shit was pointless. The letter. The video. The girl. None of it said anything because none of it would come to be.

My erasure was in process.

~Chapter 15~

In which the narrator sort of dies.

Try waking up in a stairwell after being beaten senseless. Go ahead, I’ll wait. Just try opening your eyes and coming to the realization that you have to get up again. Even though you know that nothing you do will result in anything, and nothing you can do or have done will ever be worth a thing. Your life is a mirage, your thoughts arcade slugs.

Do you decide to get up? To exact revenge on yourself? If your actions mean nothing, at least you can take some personal act of vengeance on the sadistic universe that spawned you only to snuff you out like a child’s first cigarette.

So, you’ve decided to get up; I don’t really understand you, but I’m with you. How do you deal with the pain? I don’t just mean the broken bones, the skin ruptures and the fact blood still pours from your face like an overturned pitcher of Kool-Aid. Have you learned nothing?

I’ve learned nothing.

I’m still trying to ignore the headache, but it isn’t going away. I place a hand out on the floor in front of me and get onto my knees. My chest hurts as I breathe, as if urging me to stop. It seems to have the right idea; it’s my brain that has the problem. It keeps driving me with its logic and its willingness to defy logic. It puts my weight on my hands, even though I’m on the verge of collapse. Somehow, it gets me to my feet.

I lean against the wall and act like someone trying to catch his breath. Gingerly, I place a hand on my ribs. They hurt. No, I mean they really fucking hurt. I swear I hear them crackle when I exhale, so I try not to do that.

I stagger forward and fall as I reach for the shovel. The impact with the ground sends shocks through so many parts of my body I can’t keep track of them. You’d think my serotonin might kick in and help me. You’re thinking of an ordered, rational universe. You need to stop.

With the aid of the shovel, I get to my feet again and step out of the stairwell. The tool is my walking stick.

My eyes scratch along the walls, thinking it perfect. Fluorescent lights, soiled carpets, smelly fucking elevator at the end. All I was missing was Saint Peter.

The shovel thumps the carpet as I lift and swing, lift and swing. I make it to the elevator, crawling along on two feet like a man almost dead. I press the button. The doors close. My eyes close.

There’s a ding as the doors slide open. I start to walk out, and the doors start to shut. They hit my shoulders and pop back open. Even this elevator, this box stuck in the same repetitive points in space, is sick of me. It wants no part of this. I continue my hermit walk and make it to my door.

I lean against it, propping myself up with the shovel. Blood still runs down my face. I try to mop it up with my shirt, but it’s already too saturated to make a difference. I close my eyes and feel the blood running down my throat. I swallow.

I take a deep breath, and the pain is intense. I double over. The pressure from the bending is too much. My equilibrium thrown off, I fall forward, my face hitting the same carpet. I vomit.

My lungs inhale. I try to stop them, but they won’t listen. The bloody puke gets sucked into my nose. I try to cough it out, but it stays, burning my sinuses.

I don’t know what I’m doing, sitting here, bleeding. I should go inside, but I’m scared of what I’ll see. Even if I’d just stumble in on the same shit I lived through, I’d still rather not see it. So I will not knock. I will not let myself in. I will stay here on the carpet and deal with myself when I come out.

I slide backwards through the blood puddle and sit up. I crawl up the wall, leaving a red trail along the chipped white paint of my front door. In a way, it’s pretty. Leaving a mark. Making a change.

The elevator door opens. I see myself, looking disheveled but healthy. “Oh, fuck,” the other me says.

I feel elation. And anger. I grip the shovel with both hands, the solid wood grain warm against my skin. It feels familiar. It feels safe.

Gritting my teeth, I force my lips into a contorted smile. Pain shoots up my leg, through my chest. Every step makes me feel more alive. My blood pumps furiously. My anger is so pure. The elevator doors start to close, but I jab the shovel forward, catching them before they shut.

He grabs the shovel and pulls it out of my hands. It feels like I’ve lost an arm. I look down at my palms, blood stained and empty, trails visible from where the handle dragged the crusted blood away. Clenching my fists, I realize I don’t need the shovel.

When I charge, he spins away from me, shovel in hand. I run into the elevator, hit my forehead on the rear wall. The resulting blood spot is cloud-shaped and puffy.

No matter. I’ll take him to the ground. I’ll crunch his nuts with my knee and render him unable to protect himself. I’ll punch him and bite him. And then I’ll choke him.

I’ll watch the smirk leave his face. I’ll watch the color go.

I run at him, eyes closed tightly. I experience pressure as the shovel hits my head. In that instant, I feel blood splatter somewhere in my skull, against my eardrums, inside my sinuses. I have a sensation of falling. There’s carpet below me. And blackness. I can’t hear. I can’t think.

~Chapter 16~

In which the narrator beats some guy to death with a shovel.

I took a step away and helped myself to a deep breath. The garden tool felt light in my hands. I walked around the motionless body.

“Hey, you stupid fuck, apologize for frightening me so.” I kicked his leg. “Apologize or I’m gonna clang you in the fucking teeth.” He didn’t respond. I clanged him in the fucking teeth.

I dropped the shovel and bent over his face. Whatever he looked like before, he was a Picasso now. He’d have to steal a lot of purses to pay for the reconstructive surgery he’d need. I reached over and flicked him on the nose. Nothing.

“Huh,” I said aloud. “Maybe you’ll think a little harder before you try to fuck with somebody you don’t know.”

I soon reconsidered my brash statement. It didn’t appear he’d be thinking about much of anything, ever again. He couldn’t stay there, all lifeless and soaking into the carpet. Taking hold of his feet, I dragged him down the hallway. I leaned him against the back wall of the waiting elevator and tossed his shovel in after him. After pressing the down button, I watched as the doors closed and one of my problems disappeared into the bowels of the slum I called home.

Should I call the police? I wondered. Nah.

I shrugged my shoulders and walked into my apartment. Locking the door behind me, I immediately started telling the egg about the waitress.

About the author

Caris O’Malley lives in Arizona with his wife and daughter. You can find him on the web at www.carisomalley.com. He’d love to hear what you think of his work. Send him an email at carisomalley@gmail.com.

Table of Contents

Start