originally posted on cohost (rip)

when you were six years old you were sat on the edge of the leather couch, uncomfortable as it dug into your tailbone, your eyes glued to the cartoon dog on your television. the other day your mother had pushed the couch all the way to the end of the living room, and the television to the other end, in the hopes that you might stop sitting so close to the tv screen. you knew this.

mom left for work and came back at night. found you sleeping on the cold floor before the tv screen. your eyes were red and wet.

she took you to get your eyes checked the next day.

.

you’ve always lived with this, pressure behind your ears and a dormant headache in the back of your head. chalk it up to bad habits. your mom stopped taking you to the glasses store after you were ten. the last time you went with her, she drove you back home in the dark, and you busied yourself reading a novel in the back seat.

pressed up against the window, just waiting for a streetlamp to pass you by. a flash of light, a glimpse of words. you don’t remember the dialogue, just the feeling of the prose. you flipped pages in the dark, you held your breath waiting to see what was going to happen.

.

when you’re thirteen, you get into a minor accident playing soccer with your friends. all you remember is a singular image of the ball right in front of your face, frozen mid-air in your memory like a freeze frame in a movie. you swear you could make out every scratch and groove of it.

it knocked the glasses right off your face, left a nasty bruise on cheek and sent you stumbling back. kids clamored around you, even kids you didn’t really know that well. which was weird. you felt fine. yeah your cheek throbbed a bit… but it was warm, and you could feel your heartbeat in it.

your glasses, on the other hand, they were broken. the right leg of it snapped off. you didn’t even try taping it back on. the rest of the day felt quicker somehow, as if being projected in a blurry haze made your memory of it foggier too.

.

seventeen years old. you should be studying for your math exam tomorrow but you can’t stop watching the clock. the one your mom hung up on your wall, it has no numbers, just thin silvery lines that shine even in the dark. the second hand does this thing where it wobbles a bit, as if it’s hesitating, before ticking.

clocks don’t feel fear, but this one does, you’re pretty sure. under your intense scrutiny, it’s picked up its pace, and then slowed down to compensate for it, but it’s not accurate in its tricks. sooner or later, its mistakes are going to pile up until it’s a whole minute ahead.

.

“you’re not really that smart, are you?”

you blink at the guy sitting next to you. he’s tall and lanky and always smells a little bit like sweat. a straight A student that plays violin in the school orchestra. you don’t really know him, but you never really thought the two of you would get along. and it’s starting to look like you’ve predicted correctly.

“what’s that supposed to mean?” you ask.

the guy looks apologetic, all of a sudden. “uh. i don’t mean to be rude. it’s just, everyone says you’re pretty smart, but we’ve been sitting together all semester, and i’ve rarely seen you pay attention in class.”

you stare at him.

his shoulders tense. “ok, that was really rude of me.”

he seems so genuine it catches you off guard. you think about laughing it off, cutting him some slack. instead you swallow and say, “people say i’m smart?”

“… yeah?”

you indulge your ego for a moment, let that sink in. and then you feel it twist into something else. you think you’re probably making the same expression the guy is, right now. shame-faced. “they’re right,” you tell him.

he sits up straighter. “what do you mean?”

you regard him for a moment. that’s when you notice that the two of you are the only two people in this classroom. the clock reads 12:05. everyone’s left for lunch, and you were so caught up in your thoughts that you didn’t even notice, and this guy stayed to let you know it was time for lunch.

huh.

you decide to let him in on a little secret. “i know something,” you tell him. you lean in a little closer, and he leans in too. “i know something that nobody else knows.”

.

the tv screen is lit up with numbers, numbers running in vivid technicolor. you and rosa (that was his name, rosa) are building a time machine, and it is vital that this first prototype goes well. the two of you have spent a little over a year working on this. and you, well, you didn’t make it into college.

it doesn’t bother you, honestly. your mother seems disappointed but she doesn’t mention it around you, only when she thinks you can’t hear. you’re getting tired of your relatives calling to lecture you—worse, console you—about something that isn’t even a problem.

higher education doesn’t matter much these days, they tell you. we’re living in the 21st century. people can be successful in all sorts of different ways.

you’ve been working on this time machine with your best friend rosa for a year, and if this doesn’t work, if you don’t end up with anything to show for the time that you could have spent studying in school, you’ll have run out of time. thinking about this makes a sick black feeling in the pit of your stomach.

your glasses (or maybe it’s some kind of astigmatism, you couldn’t care less) make the light of the television extend and blur together. squinting, you look over at rosa, who’s typing furiously into his laptop. he makes a final keystroke, looks up at you, and gives you a thumbs-up.

“ready?” your voice comes out a rasp. you clear your throat and say, loud and resonant, “ready?”

“this is gonna work,” rosa assures you.

“i know it’s going to work,” you say, and you step inside of the tv.

.

for a split second, a terrible thing happens. you held your breath but you can’t exhale. fear, real fear replaces your time anxiety: the machine worked, but it worked the wrong way. time has stilled, and you’re caught in the fluorescence. eyes red from a lack of sleep, tears frozen on the iris. you can barely see anything. this is how it feels to drown.

then you’re panickedly clawing your way out of the tv.

rosa catches you before you hit the floor. the light from the screen colors the ground around your shadow. you watch it wobble and pulse. you hear him telling you to breathe, in and out. in and out.

“that…” you’re still trying to catch your breath. you lean back and look up at rosa, whose face is scrunched up in what’s probably a million questions he’s holding back. you wave your hand while you try to finish your sentence. “that didn’t work.”

his face falls. “it… didn’t?”

“no,” you tell him. the two of you watch each other. now he’s the one holding his breath. the parallel makes you grin, despite yourself. that makes rosa look even more confused, and now you’re breaking out in laughter.

“it didn’t work.” rosa repeats, unsure.

“it didn’t work!” you tell him.

“but, what—“

“but it was awesome.”

you turn and look at the thing the two of you made. a mess of cables and plastic, glowing garishly. you can’t believe you thought this thing could make time travel a reality. you can’t believe you even got rosa to go along with this whole plan. you probably really annoyed his parents. you’re pretty sure you annoyed yours.

but look. this messy thing, it's wonderful.