The Pocket Watch

by Michael Shaw

  My eyes followed the ball as it dropped. It was just gravity; no remaining momentum from before I had stopped time. It bounced and settled on top of the brown leaves and pine straw.

  It seemed that the state of an object prior to time stop would not remain constant once the button was pressed. Upon contact, the physical action of forces upon the object would start with a clean slate.

  I stood, staring at the other tennis ball. Test two: precision. I returned to the tarp and picked up the baseball bat. This one was more for fun. If momentum doesn’t carry through the time stop…

  I gave a full swing with the bat and hit the tennis ball. It flew several yards before colliding with a tree. Like tee ball without a tee.

  The final test was the gun. This would be the most difficult because of the bullet’s speed.

  First, though, I needed to restart time. I.T. was at two minutes. I pressed the button. Another white flash, another jolt of pain. But the ringing in my ear stopped. Clock time progressed. I was left with a migraine.

  When I dropped the watch into my pocket, the burning sensation returned to my skin. I shook my hand in the cool air a bit and walked over to the tarp. Bending over, I picked up the thin box. This one hadn’t been open in a long time. I turned the lid over and let it fall onto the tarp. Inside was my father’s Jericho pistol and a box of ammunition.

  I loaded the weapon with just one bullet, and I aimed it forward at eye level. With my free hand, I pulled the pocket watch back out. The bullet would be fast; I knew I would have to pull the trigger and push the button at practically the same time.

  And that’s what I did. I shot with the left hand and pushed the button with the right, allowing just the slightest delay in between the two actions.

  A bright flash came from the gun, and a piercing jab to my head came from the watch. Squealing in my ears. The clock stopped.

  I looked forward. At eye level sat the bullet in midair. I couldn’t help but grin. A tail of smoke also held itself perfectly still behind the slug. It was incredible, a physical manifestation of a freeze-frame photograph. I left the gun on the tarp, picked up the baseball bat once more, and approached the bullet, walking through the dissipating smoke.

  The bat dragged behind me through the leaves, whose sounds were made much more present in the odd silence. Everything was in the foreground of my senses in this timeless time I was having.

  My original plan had been to try to interact with the bullet safely from a distance. To merely touch it with the bat. But now I was inches from it. I circled it with my steps, viewing it from all angles. I had not gotten used to this yet. I stood there, just imagining what all could be done with this contraption that had been left in my forgotten box of stuff.

  I lifted my fingers to the bullet. What followed was not my smartest idea; I had fired guns before, and I had studied what happens when a bullet is fired. It’s hot. Granted, it loses the heat quickly, but I had just paused time. My intuition told me it would still be hot. But if momentum doesn’t continue in a time stop, what happens to temperature?

  I touched it with my index finger, and I immediately snatched my hand back. “Ouch.” I shook my hand and blew on it after the sting. But it wasn’t bad. Had I contacted it longer, it would have been worse.

  The bullet immediately dropped to the ground, just as the tennis ball and keys had done.

  I knelt down, looking at it. Results seem to be pretty consistent. I lifted the pocket watch, braced myself for the flash, and pressed the button.

  I was ready for it. I was ready for the hit to the skull. What I wasn’t ready for was another moment from my past to return to my head. I wasn’t ready for another scene of history to force my attention backward. I wasn’t ready for another memory.

  ∞

  I sat in a white office. The walls just like a hospital’s. This was another place I hated. Not because it was a bad place; I just didn’t like being there. I remember this. I was sixteen.

  The detective leaned forward in his seat. “Now, Jon,” he said in his most empathetic tone.

  My head stayed down. I fiddled with my thumbs and kept my hands in my lap.

  “It’s been quite a few years. But as you know, some new evidence has come up. Mr. Spade told us that you had seen it first. Is this correct?”

  I nodded, my eyes on the floor.

  “So, you also remember that the police caught the man before he was able to escape.”

  “That man you caught was not the same man.” I suddenly looked up at him. “And he didn’t try to escape.”

  He tilted his head. “What’s that?”

  “The man you caught didn’t try to leave. I know you didn’t get the right one. The man I saw looked different.” I lowered my head.

  He sighed. “We’re trying to figure out a lot right now, buddy. But the man who killed your parents is not around anymore to answer the questions for us.”

  Not around anymore. They tried to shield the “difficult“ parts from me. But I remembered. I could watch the news, just like anyone else. It was on every station back when it happened. The door to the office was locked when the cops arrived. They burst through and saw a man standing in the room. He tried to pull a gun on the officers as they entered, but one of them shot him before he could pull the trigger. The bullet killed him. What I didn’t understand was why the man would lock the door and wait there. Plus, he didn’t even look like the one that I had seen in that office.

  “I just need you to describe the man you saw to me,” the detective said.

  “I already did. A long time ago. Why didn’t you pay attention to it then?”

  “I know, I just-”

  “Was it because I was six?” I leaned forward. “Did you just think I was so traumatized that I described my parents’ murderer incorrectly?”

  He opened a notepad. “I need you to do it again. Please.”

  I sighed and looked back down at the floor. “Tall. Dark clothing. A long cut across his face.”

  “How old would you say he was?”

  I bit my lip. “I don’t know. Fairly young I guess. Twenties.”

  “Really?” He took out a pen and clicked it.

  I watched him scribble down some notes. “I know what you’re going to ask,” I said. “But I just told you. They got the wrong one.”

  He stopped. His hand hovered over the pad.

  I crossed my arms.

  He and I shared a long stare. Finally, he reached over to the desk next to us. My eyes went back to the carpet.

  The detective picked up a folder with a few photos inside. He took out one and gave it to me. “Jon,” he exhaled. “I want you to look at it again. Are you absolutely positive?”

  I held it in front of me with both hands. The man in the photo lay dead on the floor of my father’s office, a gun cradled in his right hand. His left hand lay on his stomach, and a ring was wrapped around his finger. His face was old and wrinkled. Gray hair on his head. Peaceful eyes.

  “Yeah. This isn’t him,” I said, handing it back to him.

  The detective received it quietly, a bit of frustration in his eyes.

  “The man I saw was younger,” I explained. “This guy’s really old. Much older than the man that killed my parents.”

  “Okay, well-”

  “I mean, why didn’t you do this ten years ago? Why didn’t you believe me ten years ago?”

  “Son, the murder weapon-”

  “This man did not kill them. And I don’t know where he came from… but maybe he was an accomplice or something. Maybe the real guy ran away and left him to take the fall. But I know with certainty that the person in this photo did not kill my mother and father.”

  “Jonathan, there’s no evidence that points to the presence of a second man.” He pulled out another photo. A shot of the entire room. “The killer used your father’s own gun on him and your mom. His prints were even on the handle. And the bullets match with the type of gun that was fired on them. There’s no mystery here.” />
  My teeth clenched tightly behind my lips. I breathed in through my nose and made eye contact with the detective. “Then why are you asking me about it?”

  He leaned back and crossed his legs. Taking a deep breath, he rubbed his temples with one hand.

  I pointed at the picture. “Look at my dad. He has a knife in his hand, and there’s blood on it.”

  “I know, Jonathan. He used it to defend himself-”

  “To defend himself! Yeah. So did you find any knife wounds on your guy?”

  “Well… no. We didn’t. Listen, son, I understand what you’re saying, but-”

  “The man I saw had a cut across his face!” I pointed at myself, tracing a line across my skin with my index finger.

  “I understand, but you need you to calm-”

  “You only got half of the operation!” I erupted. “My parents’ killer is still out there. I said it then and it’s taken you this long to figure that out?”

  “Son, I-”

  “Stop calling me son!” I clenched my fists.

  He held his breath.

  “No one calls me son anymore,” I breathed. “No one can call me son anymore.”

  He signaled outside to Jason, who was just on the other side of the door, listening. He came in and picked me up. Literally, he picked me up from my seat. “Okay, Jon, that’s enough.”

  “Thank you for your help, Jonathan.” The detective held his hand out. “Trust me, we’re doing the best we can to make sense of this.”

  “Do your job,” I bit as Jason pulled me out of the office. “You know he’s still out there.”

  “Jonathan,” Jason rebuked me firmly.

  On the car ride back home, I just stared out the window. Jason tried to scold me, but he didn’t say much.

  I looked down at my left wrist, and I stared at the QRI code, tattooed over the place where pulses are checked.

  QRI codes were a fairly recent part of our society. It was the government’s greatest dream: a universal identification system. In 2027, it had been implemented as law in the United States. Everyone was required to receive an identification QR code - an image that looks like an odd pixelated square - on their wrist to verify their own identity. So, the name became QRI code, for Quick Response Identity. This was to combat the recent rise in fake drivers’ licenses and passports, which were becoming easier and easier to counterfeit without any noticeable discrepancy from legitimate identifications. But of course, at the time, all I knew was that I had to have a tattoo on my wrist.

  The scan code soon became coined as “the Mark.” Everyone needed one in order to be counted a real citizen. It also made a wallet almost unnecessary; scanning one’s Mark could be used to make transactions with any credit or checking accounts, as long as a PIN or other password could be entered. Scanning a Mark was simple. By the time I was a teenager, smart phones had caught up to the system by implementing a Mark scanner into their camera application. This way, anyone could verify someone’s identity.

  Just like dollar bills, Marks were made in a specific way, so as to prevent fakes from slipping in. Every Mark was made in a QRI Center, a government building similar to a DMV, along with the long lines. These marks were made with a special type of ink that is difficult to replicate. Any Mark not made with the correct ink would not pass when scanned.

  Sitting in the car, I thought over everything intently, and I rubbed my Mark with my thumb.

  “Don’t do that,” Jason said, glancing over at me.

  After several minutes of silence, I spoke up. “What’s his name?”

  “I told you. He’s detective Brandon-”

  “Not him. I mean the guy they caught. The guy the police killed.”

  Jason hesitated, but he replied nonetheless. “Peter Simmons.”

  “The old guy’s name is Peter Simmons.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he work for Luna?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did he do it?”

  “I thought you said he didn’t do it.” We approached a red light. Jason slowed the car down to a stop.

  “He didn’t do it himself. But he definitely helped.”

  Jason looked down at me. He noticed my stern expression. “You’re handling this differently than I expected.”

  I looked out the window. “What did you expect?”

  He closed his eyes and reopened them slowly, accompanying the action with a deep breath. “Jonathan, I know it was ten years ago tomorrow. I get it. It’s tough. I miss them too.”

  I watched the red light turn to green.

  He put his foot back on the gas, and we cruised forward. “But it’s been so long now…” he continued. “We can’t dwell on it forever. It’s not going to change anything.” He pulled us up to the driveway. “It’s not what your parents would want.”

  I said nothing in response. I could feel Jason’s eyes on me as I stared forward, past our house and into the forest.

  He finally broke his gaze and turned off the car.

  I opened my passenger door and walked off into the house.

  As this memory ended, another one came into view.

  ∞

  It was later in the day. I sat on my bed. The picture of my mother, father, and I, sat in my hands. I looked at my phone. 11:59 pm. Turning my attention back at the photo, I stroked my chin, thinking about my conversation with the detective. About the man found at the crime scene. The possibility that he was still out there. I was angry. I was frustrated.

  The time turned to 12:00 am. I lowered the picture onto my lap. “Happy anniversary,” I mumbled.

  I received no response. Our three faces just stared back at me. Eternally happy. A snapshot of something that would never be the same again. I wished for that timelessness. I wished for immutability. Something only the faces in a picture could be.

  The way I had thought about grief was that tears were fine if no one was looking. If you were a man, you couldn’t let anyone see them. That was what I’d learned from my dad. That was the way he had always done it. So I allowed the tears this time, here in the quiet. I let them pass, while I sat privately in my room. That way no one would see. No one would know that ten years hadn’t done anything for me. No healing, no restoration. Only scarring.

  Everyone has weakness. I tried to be strong by hiding it. But it only made me feel weaker.

  Chapter 4

  When the flash ended, the first thing I felt was the watch. It sent pulses into my hand, right arm, and throughout my body. The pulses matched the ticking of the seconds as they went by. Time had returned.

  I took a step. An immediate feeling of nausea hit me. I stopped myself and kept balance. I need to let go of the watch. I tried to release it. But I couldn’t. My fingers were locked around its mystical face, refusing to loosen. I had lost entire control of my right arm; the watch adhered to the cradle of my grasp.

  I gripped my right forearm with my left hand. Its pulse was strong, like a heartbeat. I moved my hand down, grabbed the watch, and tried to claw it out of my right hand. My elbow joint straightened. My entire right arm locked up. I couldn’t let go of it. Or maybe it just wouldn’t let go of me.

  I finally pried my fingers underneath the pocket watch. I managed them in between the steel and my right palm, and I pulled. I yanked it out of my hold. The sound of something tearing hit my ears as the watch was released, and an immense, sharp pain grabbed my hand. My eyes fluttered. My feet suddenly gave out underneath me. And then I fell over.

  I blacked out.

  ∞

  I awoke on my stomach, lying next to the tarp. The pocket watch lay a foot or so out in front of my face. My vision spiraled as I returned to moving time. The ringing in my ears was gone; the pain in my head was not. I rolled over and got up on my knees. As I did, my insides jumped. I puked involuntarily onto the ground. The heaves sustained longer than I expected. But eventually, my system finally settled, and I fell over. I landed on my back.

  Heavy breaths. Mouth breaths. And
groans. I turned my head to the side and looked at the watch. “What are you,” I barely said. Slowly, I reached my hand out and grasped it.

  The moment that I grabbed the watch was different than when I needed to let it go. When I held it, I felt better. I felt at peace.

  I felt strong.

  Eventually, I was able to rise to my feet and reorient myself. I gathered my things and headed back into the house. Once inside, I checked the time on the watch. When I had done the first test, it was 8:16. Now, it was noon. I had been knocked out for hours. Pausing time had ended up wasting time for me. I guessed that was ironic or something.

  I went to the restroom. Looking at myself in the mirror, I knew something had to be done about how the pocket watch was affecting me. My eyes were bloodshot again, and my arm strained, veins popping. My right palm was the worst. It had small irritated areas with characteristics similar to minor burns. Fortunately, it wasn’t my left arm. That way, my Mark wasn’t affected at all.

  I splashed water onto my tired face. Maybe this is a good sign not to use it anymore, I thought. But I was fooling myself. There was no doubting that I was going to push that button again.

  The anatomical makeup of the device was intriguing to me. What did it look like on the inside? I wanted to pull it apart and see how it worked, but at the same time, I didn’t want to risk anything by messing with it.

  I got a few things ready for my interview the next day. After another shower, putting together my portfolio, and laying out my clothes, a text popped up on my phone. The time showed 2:00 pm. The text, from Alex Nelson. I unlocked my phone and read it.

  “Back in Sacramento. Late lunch?”

  ∞

  Alex and I had always gotten along well. We were both the only children in our families, and we were into the same nerdy things. We basically became brothers in high school. He had lost his dad at a young age, too, but he still had his mom. His father’s death was actually even more mysterious than my father’s. We at least knew what happened to both my parents, but Alex’s dad just died. He went missing, and eventually, everyone presumed him dead. I didn’t know which one I would rather choose: knowing the horrible way someone I loved died, or having them slip away into inscrutability.