Thursday 21 February 2013

The Time Traveller

Another one from the 'archives', also from the same 2007 notebook as the two previous stories and, like Underground Tigers, this was written on my commute.

The Time Traveller

He wished his train was a time machine and that he'd end up just over a month ago, but he would remember what he knows now.  He hopes that when he reaches his destination it is that place that he used to stay at, that small village he had begun to resent.
    How could a place blind him so much?  Was it selfishness on his part, the need to 'make something' of his life, to prove his parents wrong?  Why had he run so far?
    Now all he could do was listen to his life fall apart over the telephone.
    But in the underground there is no signal, it's almost like the conversations never happened, it's almost like nothing exists.
    He wills the train to go faster until that low hum and clatter of transportation rises into a high squealing pitch that only dogs can hear.  He hopes that the next stop will plunge him into daylight, that outside those windows he will see the familiar fields and trees of the countryside and not the old stale tiles of the Piccadilly line.
    Everyday he is reminded of everything he has lost and he is forced to trace the journey back, in his mind, toward the first domino that toppled.  He remembers how they met, it was hard not to in that town, but it stills feel miraculous, fateful.
    Where did this fog come from that clouded all of this from his mind for so long?  It's as if his past is flashing before his eyes, he sees each silly moment of the relationship pass by like billboards.  He sees haircuts, burnt suits, scrambled eggs, picnics in front rooms, beach bonfires, but he also sees how distant he was, how hurtful he had been and now he can hate himself for he sees that was not how he felt.  Well, that is not how he feels.
    He had pushed her away before and that time around his time machine had worked, it had been a coach then, perhaps that was it, he needed a smaller vessel?
    No, there is something tragically permanent about this time, something sickeningly inevitable.  It no longer feels like an emotion but a tumour, and for all the guilt it may incur he pities himself that he may curl up into a tiny ball and wither.
    Soon she will be far away and happy, her eyes will be opened to the optimism of a world without him, he thinks she knows it exists already and is eager to see what else it has to offer her.  This is why he needs a time machine.
    He has failed at this attempt of life, he has lost and the damage feels irreparable.  If the machine doesn't work then he will battle wearily on, but shall most probably be forced to watch from the sidelines, as if imprisoned in an invisible cage, as someone else lives the life he can now only dream of.
    He can envisage their first flat together, her and this better man, he can picture their furniture and dining set, their books and records, the view out of the window, he can smell his cooking and feel the way he kisses her cheek in the morning, he can sense the tender grip of his fingers curling round hers as they watch television, and he can hear her laugh at his bad jokes and silly voices, or when he does a puppet show with the teddy bears.
    Now he sees further into the future, as if floating over everything, detached from his body.
    He can see them making love, how warm their bodies are, how he holds her and she feels safe and special, touching her hands to his chest and being comforted by the distant drum of his heartbeat.  He can see the conception of their first child, it's a girl and they name it Freya like she always wanted.  They start looking for a house as the pregnancy begins to show, they're engaged now and soon after the child is born they'll be getting married.  The wedding will be held outside, it's a beautiful day, and her father and mother will love this man, they'll be as proud of him as if he were their own son.  Not long after there is a brother for Freya on the way, and the time-traveller watching overhead can hear her thoughts and, for the first time in years, she thinks of him.  The child is a boy and she remember what he would have called his son, but she dismisses this notion as quickly as it arrives and that is the last time she ever thinks of him.
    So that is all the time traveller sees before he is stirred by the unsteady rocking of the tube train, there is no lullaby and goodnight being whispered softly in his ears, yet he longs to bawl and cry like a baby.
    Has he just had a nightmare?  He hopes so.  He hopes he will soon realise that the past two months were all a bad dream and he's on his way to London Victoria, he has to catch a connecting train, he's been for a job interview.  Or perhaps he didn't move so far away, and after work he's on his way over for dinner and to watch a film.
    The truth climbs over his back, crashing down upon him with the unnegotiable force of a wave.  He is reminded of drowning, of feeling trapped in the ocean, being held in its unchanging grip, stuck between the safety of the shore and the deep, murderous depths.  That is where he is now, between life and death.
    He begins to suspect that this underground train is transporting the recently deceased from the waking to the after life.
    He closes his eyes, they're wet with tears, and he longs the sound of the pre-recorded announcments to silence and for the sensation of movement to cease and the smell in his nostrils to expand, like cinemascope, and be the distinctive aroma of a hospital room, and, even though he cannot move, he will be elated to realise that he is in a coma.  Yes, if he had slipped underwater all those months ago and had not died, but been pulled to shore where his condition had stabilised, and, though people would be sad, it may have just saved his life.
    How funny, he thinks, that drowning might have saved him, that if his life had taken that turn then he might not be dead now.  For the one and only time he will find comfort in the idea of a cold, sterile hospital room.
    But it's hot, like a warm, clammy bath and he's brought back to this train, this journey that lasts forever and, most cruelly of all, takes him closer and closer to her.  Maybe he should continue, forget his job, just arrive at her door, fall to his knees and beg her to turn back the clock, wipe the slate clean and let him wrap his arms around her and weep.
    Tears will fall from his eyes, tracing the shape of his face and dribble into his mouth, perhaps they will fill his lungs and he will drown.  His mind is alive with possibilities, he suspects he's been looking in the wrong place, that the time machine is not a vehicle or a transport outside of himself, but it is himself.  He is both the time traveller and the time machine and he is fuelled by sorrow and despair.
    He lets himself cry, he drinks his tears, but he struggles to force them into his lungs, and they unhappily fall into the safety of his gullet.
    He considers filling a sink, but knows he could not cry enough and the cruel heat of this early summer would evaporate any he tried to collect over time.
    Perhaps a full bath laced with tears will do just as well?  He feels a great surge of hope as he stands undressed, watching the water level rise, and he is pleased by the temperature as he climbs in.  Neither too hot or cold, like in the fairytale, it is just right.
    He finds it surprisingly easy to sink underwater, opening his eyes wide and seeing the ceiling with an odd sense of clarity.  He did need a transport after all, but smiles because he never would've guessed it would be a bath tub.
    Now he finds it easy to relax and open his mouth, the water doesn't scare him as it pushes impatiently down his throat, and it feels like the soft and romantic massage of a lover as it fills his lungs.
    He closes his eyes.
    He must be travelling, he can feel himself being buffeted as if he's still on the train.  He can also feel himself flying, as if he has departed from his body once more.
    Yes, he thinks, he is travelling through time.
    He can see again, he can see her and she takes his hand, applying a small amount of pressure, enough so that he knows she will never let go and she leans close to him, he's lying down, his eyes are shut but underneath his eyelids he is staring ahead and now he can feel her breath upon his ear, and her free hand strokes his hair, pushing it away from his eyes, her voice, though it is cracked and fragile, she sounds like she has been crying and has almost exhausted every syllable she could ever utter, but she has saved enough breath for one last sentence, and his skin grows cold as she speaks to him for the final time.
    She is with him now and he is happy, perhaps he has not failed after all, because before everything goes dark and silent he can hear her say 'I love you.'


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