by C J M Naylor
The door to my room creaked open, and I saw Bridget peering in through the crack. I looked at her. I'm sure the look she received said, What the hell do you want? She didn’t deserve it. I knew that. She had lost her father in the war. She knew the feeling. And on top of that, she had been left living with her stepmother—a woman who had never wanted her.
Upon seeing that I was awake, she pushed the door open and walked in. Ian followed behind her.
“You should be getting out of bed, Abby.”
I shot daggers at Bridget. "I haven't been up for long; it's still early."
That was a lie. I had no idea what time it was, and I had been staring at the mirror for quite some time.
“Abby, it’s three o’clock in the afternoon.”
I laughed out loud. It wasn't at them. It was at me. Of course, it was three in the afternoon. I was letting my life fade away, but what did it matter? Seriously, what did it matter?
“We’ve made an appointment for you,” Bridget blurted out, “to see someone.”
This time I did laugh at her. Of course, she had made an appointment with someone. Phillip wasn't around to argue with her this time. She could take matters into her own hands. It was very Bridget.
“You can cancel.”
I didn’t look at her as I said it. I continued to be drawn to my reflection in the mirror.
“We’re not going to. You’re not well, Abby,” Bridget said. “You need to see someone. You are going to see this doctor whether you like it or not.”
I was livid. I knew that my expression contained that. I looked to Ian for support, but he just stood there stoically.
“You will have to drag me out of this bed," I spat, "if you want me to go to this doctor.”
They weren't going to control my life. I was in charge, no matter what anyone said.
“That won’t be necessary.”
The accent was American. I looked at the doorway and saw a man, probably in his late fifties, standing in the doorframe. He wore a tweed jacket, and was quite thin. His expression was somber, but at the same time, it was as if he was angry with me. And he didn't even know me.
“You’ve got to be joking,” I said.
“Miss Ward,” the man said, “and Mr. Cross, I’ll take it from here.”
Bridget nodded, and Ian took her hand. They walked out of the room together, but before she shut the door, Bridget looked at me, and I could tell she cared.
“I’m sorry, Abigail.”
I heard Ian tell her not to apologize for helping and he shut the door himself. Rather angrily, I might add. Why was he so upset?
Grudgingly, I looked over at the man I assumed to be a doctor. He pulled the chair that was next to my wardrobe directly in the front of the bed and sat down. He didn’t even ask if he could. I suppose when someone was emotionally distraught, manners went out the window. He focused his attention on me.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Abigail.”
“I would say the same,” I responded, “but given the circumstances of our first acquaintance, I’m not sure I can reciprocate the feeling.”
He either chose not to respond to my curtness or didn’t care. He cleared his throat and continued.
“Miss Ward and Mr. Cross have enlightened me of your current situation,” he said. “I will tell you, that from here on out, everything we discuss in here is confidential to only the two of us. And if you truly do not want me to return after today, I won’t. I cannot force you to do something that you do not wish to do. You are an adult, and you are free to make your own decisions. My name is Dr. Aldridge. I am a retired psychologist from the San Francisco area, and I specialize in treating patients who have suffered severe trauma. Abigail, tell me, do you want to spend the rest of your life in this state? Do you think Phillip would want that? Do you think your parents would want that?”
My eyes shot daggers at him. Who did this guy think he was? Wasn’t I supposed to be telling him my problems?
“Of course, they wouldn’t,” I spat, “but they aren’t here. That’s the problem. They can’t tell me what they would and would not want.”
“Do you blame yourself for their deaths?”
“Yes.”
“But it wasn’t your fault,” he went on. “It was a result of the war, of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
He had no idea. I couldn't fathom how Bridget and Ian felt that this was helping the situation. This man did not know the world of Timekeeping and the fact that it was my fault. I had seen Phillip's death, and I had let him die. Mathias had seen the deaths of my parents, and he had let them die. We saw death as it would happen and there was not a damn thing that we could do about it. He had no idea. There was no way he could.
“It’s more complicated than that,” I said.
“How so?”
How could I tell him without telling him? I remembered the night my parents died. I had run back into the house to help them, but maybe if I hadn't done that, they would still be here. I repeated the story of what happened that night to him. How my mother had urged me to stay in the shelter. How I had deliberately ignored her requests and went for her. Maybe, she would have survived somehow if I had chosen differently? Maybe, if I had stayed in the shelter, things would have gone differently? I could hear the sirens. Their sounds were piercing my eardrums. The bombs were dropping. The house was collapsing around me. I closed my eyes because tears were starting to come. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I opened my eyes. The tears poured out and wet my cheeks.
“You cannot reflect on what you could have done differently,” Dr. Aldridge said. “If you do, then you will always blame yourself.”
Dr. Aldridge gave me a business card that detailed his location in the city and how he could be contacted. He urged me to contact him again for another appointment. I told him I had no idea how I was going to pay him. I wasn't working. Bridget was, and Ian was, but it barely supported us. The apartment was being paid for by Mathias—I had no idea how. He told me not to worry. He owed the world some favors he had said, and I could be one of them.
After he left, I sat and contemplated if it was a good idea. Of course, it was a good idea. But I had no idea how to continue living. I had Bridget and Ian—but my parents and Phillip—they were gone. How do you keep going after that?
“How’d it go?”
Bridget and I were both sitting at the table, sipping our cups of tea. Ian had made us both a cup before leaving for the American Headquarters. I looked up at her as I sipped my tea and simply shrugged. She sighed that annoying sigh.
“Can you elaborate?” she asked.
“I guess it went well,” I said.
“Did it help to talk about your experiences?”
I laughed. “My experiences?”
“I mean what happened to you.”
"Well, I'm sorry, but I can't give him all of the details about Timekeeping, and as for my own personal life, it seems you’ve already filled him in.”
Revealing the world of Timekeeping to an outsider was, as Mathias put it, strictly forbidden. I had already pushed the envelope by telling Bridget. But how could you keep something like that from your closest friend? While Bridget knew everything, the Council—upon our arrival to San Francisco— had expressly forbidden her from entering the American Headquarters. I suppose they hadn't appreciated Mathias letting her into the London Headquarters before we left. They also weren’t happy about the fact that we had to travel by boat, rather than by the Time Line, because Bridget was with us. But that was beside the point now.
I knew Bridget well. She only wanted to know what was going on. She didn't want to involve herself. I think that was one of the things that bothered me about her. She was accepting of who you were as a person, but when it came to talking about it, she didn't offer much feedback. She almost pretended it wasn't a part of her world.
“Well, maybe there is someone else you could talk to?”
I looked at her. “The American Timekeeper? No.”
“I mean, it could help,” Bridget pressed, “since he would know everything.”
“Or we could both go on pretending it doesn’t exist.”
Bridget gave me her look of annoyance again.
“Oh, don’t give me that look,” I spat. “You know as well as I do that you aren’t interested in what doesn’t involve Bridget. If it doesn’t pertain to you, you’d rather not hear about it.”
She shot me a look that said I had gone too far. Without saying anything, she removed herself from the conversation, as always. I sat at the table, sipping my tea by myself. Even after Mathias had let her into the London Headquarters, she was still a skeptic, and not only about Timekeeping. Before Bridget's father had died, she informed him she no longer wished to go to church. She told him she had conflicting beliefs. At the time, she still believed in God. But now, I wasn't so sure she believed in God anymore.
Her father had blown up at her, and they fought. After that, he was drafted, and he was killed in the line of duty. Bridget's last memory of him had been fighting with him the night before he had deployed. I think her father's death pretty much sealed her beliefs, but she never said otherwise.
I’m not a saint though. I haven’t been to church since Phillip’s funeral because I have no idea why God would allow such terrible things to happen. Why would he create someone who had to endure something as tempting as seeing when a person would die but not be able to do anything about it? The only thing they were allowed to do was view the horrible things people in the world did to each other, the horrible things they would do, and not be able to do a thing to stop it. I had no idea what to think. At least my father could have sacrificed himself if he prevented someone’s death, but I couldn’t even do that. Because I was an original Timekeeper, I was subjected to a harsher a fate—a fate that would destroy the world, as we knew it.
Drip.
The room suddenly became cold, sending a shiver down my spine.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
What was that sound? And then a horrible, rotting smell found its way into my nostrils and I had to place the tea down and cover my nose. The smell was so overbearing. I had never smelt death before, but that is what it smelt like. And then on my shoulder, I felt a hand. A cold, wet hand. My heart began to beat faster, and I began to take deep breaths as I slowly turned my neck to see who was behind me. And then I was looking into the eyes of Bessie, her eyes sunken and hollow, her skin peeling away from her body. She was soaked to the bone from the water of the Thames.
You’re a killer.
I let out a scream and threw myself to the floor, scrambling away from her as quickly as I could.
“Abby?” I heard Bridget call.
Bessie began to move forward, a puddle of water beneath her as she walked closer and closer and closer.
“Get away from me!”
And then Bridget’s hand touched my shoulder and everything disappeared.
“Abby? Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
I didn’t respond. I simply let myself go limp in Bridget’s arms as darkness fell upon me.
Bessie’s hand clung to mine. I was in charge of whether she lived or fell to the watery depths of the Thames. How can you decide to let someone live that has destroyed so many lives? This woman had murdered my mother, and for what, I still didn't know. If I let her go, then I would never know. I would never know the truth about what happened that day. But how could I know the truth? This woman had lied to me from the beginning. She had let me believe that Mathias was a terrible person, a person capable of killing his wife. Ian was there as well, telling me not to trust her; telling me to let her go.
I had let go of her arm, and she had fallen, her scream piercing the iciness of the night, to the river below. The water that she had used her strange powers on was electric. It electrocuted her entire body, peeling the skin away from her. The horrific sight haunted me.
Once again, I woke up from my deep, nightmarish sleep, gasping for air. Bessie's peeling flesh was glued to the forefront of my mind. She was falling. I had let her go. I didn't save her. I had killed her. I was a killer. I had killed Phillip. I had killed my parents. I was a monster that needed to be put down.
I remembered something I had never processed before. Ian had told me to let her go, and Bessie had looked as if she was betrayed. It was like she knew him, but did she? I had forgotten these facts after that day, and especially after Phillip had died. They had left my mind. They were more secrets that needed to be answered. But I didn't want to be a part of this world. I wouldn’t seek out the American Timekeeper. I needed to know more from Mathias; he was my only source.
CHAPTER FOUR
September 1944
Several weeks had passed, and there had been no response from Mathias. I had no idea how the international post worked, especially during the war, but there was no way it should take this long. Perhaps someone had censored it and thought it too suspicious? I doubted that. It must have gotten lost in the post. I decided to try and write another letter. Once again, as I put pen to paper, I had to be discreet and refer to Timekeeping as something else.
Dear Mathias,
Perhaps you didn’t receive my last letter? Or maybe it hasn’t arrived yet. But either way, I needed to write this because of some memories that I have been thinking about, of the night that Bessie died. I guess I just need to get some of these thoughts off of my chest. I keep reliving that night, over and over, in my dreams. I sometimes wonder if I will ever truly be rid of it.
I was also wondering if you could tell me more about my mother, Elisabeth. How did you two meet? It would give me some more comfort to know more about her. Even after everything, I found out several months ago, I still feel like we are separated by time, and that I know very little of her.
I hope to hear from you soon. I miss you! San Francisco is wonderful! I went out with Bridget and Ian the other night for a night on the town. It was great to take a break from our studies.
Yours,
Abigail
I didn’t like lying. But I didn’t want him to worry. He didn’t deserve that after everything he had been through. This was how I convinced myself that my lies were okay. I couldn’t focus on the fact that I was deceiving him. It was for his own good.
Is it? Or are you just a terrible person? Remember you have killed.
This was my voice. The voice that had always talked to me, had always been mine. But this time, it was dark and cold. Instead of it asking who I trusted, it insinuated that I was responsible for all of these terrible things. It made me want to crawl into a hole. Was I finally losing it?
You are a killer!
I put my head on the table and covered my ears. But of course, that didn't do anything.
Killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer…
The words were frantic. Over and over and over again, they poured into my head. I couldn’t stop them. I needed to stop them. This was madness! I couldn’t take the madness! I felt like I was going insane. I suddenly jerked myself up from the chair and it hit the floor.
“Shut up!” I yelled. “Shut up!”
I started grabbing things and throwing them. I had an empty cup on the table that I picked up and threw against the kitchen wall. It shattered into a thousand pieces. I picked up the pen that I had been writing with and threw it.
I was screaming at the top of my lungs, and I dropped to my knees and put my head into my hands. Telling the voices to shut up didn't do much. The
y continued…
Killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer…
Through the word “killer” being repeated constantly and my screaming, I could vaguely hear footsteps. My vision was blurring because of the tears pouring from my eyes. My mouth was salivating because I was crying and screaming at the same time. I was shaking. I felt hands on my shoulders, and I think someone was screaming at me. But I had no idea what was going on anymore. All I heard were the words, over and over and over again. They wouldn't leave me alone. Between the voices, my screams, and my cries, I think I must have gone numb. I heard another voice, a man's voice. Ian, maybe? But I didn't know anymore. It was them and me. Me and them. Me. Them. Them. Me. I didn't know; I didn't feel, them and me. Me, them, me, them. Ouch. Something pinched me. And then it was just—
Killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer… killer…