The Savage

[Incomplete]

The arrow whizzed by her neck, missing by what seemed to be centimeters. With the crackle of some leaves, it fell to rest next to her, useless. She perked her head up, turning to the noise, startled, before a second arrow tore through her neck, and she fell to the ground, tossing up dirt with her landing. Aerda landed lightly next to her, first retrieving the wayward arrow, then the arrow that had struck true. The deer lay still on the ground, devoid of life. The bluejays in the trees watched Aerda kneel down, her hunting knife drawn. And the sun smiled on Aerda.

            The smell of cooking meat filled the air, a sensation that had drawn many nearer to the fire lighting up the darkened sky, yet not close enough to disturb Aerda. She sat alone, the fire casting dancing shadows as she slow cooked her prize. She scratched her nose, impatiently watching the fire as it crackled, licking her lips in anticipation. Her temporary home was already constructed, the lean-to a pathetic structure underneath the massive trees, which towered over the forest and stretched seemingly into the heavens. Unable to wait any longer, Aerda snatched the meat from the spit, and without waiting, bit into the meat. She immediately dropped the spit, yelping as the heat bit into her. As soon as the spit hit the ground, two squirrels darted in, having watched with jealousy at Aerda’s fortune. They tore off as much as they could bear to carry, and scampered off into the darkness.

            “Glyták!” Aerda cried, and screamed into the darkness, in a vain attempt to convince the squirrels to return her bounty.

            They didn’t return.

            Grudgingly, Aerda retrieved the remains of her dinner; the scraps left on the bones. She gnawed away at the bone, scraping every bit of food she could, before resigning herself to rest in her lean-to. As the embers of the fire burnt out, she heard thunder, yet there was no rain. Or lightning.

            Aerda found herself listening to the trees often; she found they gave the best advice. Papa had taught her that, the trees often know more than one could ever imagine. If they are that tall, have lived for this long, they must be legions wiser than any of us.

            Her papa had always had the best advice.

*

            Aerda enjoyed her solitary walks through nature, they let her think as she moved from stream to stream, searching for food. Her thighs ached from climbing the gnarled roots of the forest, yet she ignored their burning protests, she was too busy wondering what was happening with Impê back home. Or rather, where home used to be. He was probably playing Slayer with his friends; he usually ended up as the goliath, but he was good at being the goliath anyway. A breeze rustled through the wood, and Aerda shivered, the hairs on her arms standing on edge.

            “I’ll need to start collecting pelt,” she muttered to herself, “it will be a cold winter.”

            Her words were carried by the breeze, back to places she had passed, and places that were yet to come.

            Aerda was following the droppings of a boresai, and a large one at that. She knew it was a bit of a gamble, but an animal of that size would feed her for a month, save for the meat being spoiled. Aerda wasn’t concerned with that though, she simply wanted to find a challenge, something to do. The dung was dried, about a day old. The smell wafted to her nose, and she choked, her breath starting to form in front of her nose.

            “It’ll be dark soon,” she said.

            Aerda spoke to herself not only to remind her that she was human, but so she could still speak, just in case she ever happened upon another human. Not that the last time she had seen a human had gone well.

            As she lightly stepped along the trail, a natural road made by the multitude of creatures passing through, she heard her father’s words: “Trails mean water.”

            She was a young girl, of only eight rotations. Her father was old for a hunter, or a father for that matter, at forty rotations. And he felt it his responsibility to pass down his knowledge to Aerda, a rather unremarkable girl, she would admit. But she had the fortune of being his child, making her remarkable. His first lesson to her had been the tracking of the prey, to always know your prey before attacking. When does it sleep, he would ask, it, like us, is most vulnerable at rest. There’s another tip for you, he’d laugh, always have someone to watch your back in the wilds. Never go it alone.

            Aerda laughed to herself as she climbed the tree, her hands cracked and calloused from months of drawing, fletching, and climbing. A celebra flew from the tree, the awkward, potbellied bird tilting its disproportioned body in flight, bright green feathers falling from its mangy down and fluttering towards the ground, what seemed to be thousands of meters below the steadily climbing girl. The setting sun beckoned to Aerda, the orange and yellow colors moving like dancers before her eyes, calling her to climb higher and higher, to come closer to join them. She felt an animal, scampering up the tree to safety, because she had decided perhaps her papa’s words of caution were better heeded than set by the wayside like a broken tool.

            Her nail cracked as she reached for a hole in the tree, a naturally inviting handhold. Her hand reached in, and she found the unfortunate crack on an egg smashed underneath her searching hand. She gasped, and jerked her hand back, the shell scratching her palm. Her left arm held to a small branch, with both of her feet on a single strong branch. From within the hole, she heard a high-pitched screech, and swearing, she clumsily reached across her jerkin to her belt, fumbling for her knife. Like an arrow from a bow, another celebra shot from the whole, and while the portly bird was comically in flight, Aerda knew from experience that the teeth in its beak were much less humorous. Especially where one false movement meant an even less humorous fall back to the ground. The bird swiveled in the air, tilting to the side with a weak flap, and finding Aerda as the source of its young’s untimely disappearance. Aerda found the hilt of her knife, and drew it, turning her body to point the knife at the hovering bird. The celebra jerked down, then up again, then with a squawk, darted towards Aerda’s face.

            She drew back her face and swiped with her knife, trying to score a hit on the attacking bird. Instead, the momentum carried her forward, causing her grip on the branch to loosen, and she fell. Before she could fall, she hugged the branch below her, so that her body was facing the ground below.

            The branch cracked.

            The celebra was not satisfied with Aerda’s imminent danger, and flew down to bite at her exposed thigh. She spun, leaving her hanging from the branch, and the celebra hit the branch, and careened down, landing on its oversized beak on a small limb beneath Aerda.

            With every inch of her strength, she rotated until she was again facing the ground. Then, carefully retreating until her back was against the trunk of the tree, she pushed up with her arms, feeling her way back up. As she stood, however, the strain she had put on her body caught up to her, and her calf seized up. She gasped, and the celebra hopped to its feet, shaking its head as it clawed at the limb, preparing to take off again. Aerda slid back to a sitting position, clasping at her calf. The celebra flapped its wings, and slowly began to ascend to Aerda, screeching at the unfortunate girl. She punched her calf with the hilt of the knife, trying anything she could think of to relieve herself of the burning pain. The celebra, she noticed, was hoping to cause her quite a bit more pain. Aerda drew back the knife, looking below her at the celebra, who seemed quite amused at the turn of events leaving Aerda incapacitated on the branch, a sudden movement away from being squashed on the ground like the celebra’s poor chick. There is a reason, Aerda reflected, that we never hunted celebra eggs. They get pissed off very easily, and those teeth do not feel nice. The eggs taste great, though. The celebra grinned at the huntress, flashing its rows of sharp teeth, clamping its jaws together in anticipation of biting into her leg, snaring food for it and its children. Aerda straightened her leg, and let it stay exposed above the angry bird. The celebra flapped its wings harder, unable to wait to take revenge. Aerda jerked her leg back to the branch, and the bird angrily flapped up making eye contact with Aerda right before its head was severed, its long neck an easy target for Aerda’s knife. The body hung in the air for a moment, before tumbling down, smashing leaves and startling plenty of other animals in the tree before smashing into the ground. Aerda breathed heavily, but not heavily enough to mask the sound of the boar beneath her fight over the miniscule celebra carcass.

            She stood again, and instead of forcing her hand into the hole, instead gingerly reached in, retrieving one egg, then two, ignoring the smashed remains that had so enraged the celebra. The eggs would make for a suitable substitute for meat; they were essentially a delicacy. By now, the light had faded from existence, leaving Aerda to climb by the light of the half-moon in the sky. The rays shone down upon her figure, and any onlooker would have only seen a shadow scaling a tree of seemingly impossible size.

            Aerda decided that she would be well suited to stop at the halfway point, already dizzyingly high above the ground, more than high enough to keep from any attack the dangers on the ground below could have exposed her to. But Aerda liked being high up, and while looking down terrified her, it made her feel like she wasn’t braving the wilds alone. She may have been resting without another person to watch her back, but the trees were companion enough to keep her safe.

*

            Aerda ran, her feet sticking and squelching in the mud beneath her feet. The dirt got in between her toes, but she didn’t care. The air was cool in the most pleasant of ways, and she felt free as she tore across the village. Huts made of wood and mud ceilings blurred past as Aerda ran like the wind. She heard a crabby old woman in a hut across from her call in anger, probably at her aggressive and offensive gait, but Aerda pretended to miss the reprimand, and instead flew around, like an eagle. The mud started to slow her, however, and she felt herself slowing to a halt as the houses shot backwards. The landscape passed as if she were running, yet she stood in place, frozen to the world around her. And she became cold all of a sudden, her skin crawled around her and she stood alone, on the summit of a mountain in the dead of winter. She spun around, and beneath her were the vast forests she roamed for so long, the life of the tribe.

            And it burned.

            Smoke curled from the forest, obscuring her vision of much of the land. Orange flames licked at the base of the mountain, melting the snow into water, water which rushed through the trees. And though she was kilometers away, it seemed she could hear the scream of every dear, the frightened gasp of each boar. In a clearing in the trees, she could see her village, seconds before it was wiped out by the fire. She looked into the eyes of Impê as he smiled at her before he vanished into the devouring, hungry flame.

            She fell to her knees, and the snow cleared to leave her on cold, solid rock beneath her. Then, ten meters ahead of her, she saw a man with his back turned to her, almost two meters tall. His chest was bare, and on his back, he had many tattoos, swirling and threatening all at once, full of sharp edges and corners. His hair was dark, and braided down to his waist, it was unkempt, yet pristine. He held his hand out, and in his hand was an ornate knife, with a handle made of carved bone, and curved blade reddened by dried blood. He reached back, and in one motion, cut the braid. It fell, and the snow sizzled where it had landed. Then, he let out a guttural roar, and the mountain split below Aerda. And the gaping maw of the earth opened to devour her whole, and she was falling and falling…

            And she was falling from the branch in the dead of night, and as she groggily shook her head, she heard her arm snap as she hit a limb of the tree. She cried out, and scratched her cheek on the tree, before landing, damaged, on a particularly strong branch, letting her catch her breath. Her bow and knife were left at the top of the tree, and she knew there was no way she could climb back up the tree. She moved to sit up, and immediately screamed out, sending birds flying, flustering the leaves and breaking the dead of night. Her right arm ached in pain, and she could barely move. She struggled for air, greedily gulping as much as she could, praying to Glyták that He would free her from this pain, one way or another. Is this what it’s led up to, she wondered, dying alone in a tree, kilometers from home? She held her right arm in her left, gingerly shielding it. And as Aerda wept silent tears, a particularly enterprising vespera spider decided that her pain was not enough. It crept along the branch, annoyed that this massive creature had deigned its home unimportant enough as to barge in.

            And it crept up Aerda’s leg, unnoticed by the injured girl.

            And it sunk its fangs into her.

            Aerda looked down, to see a peculiarly large spider attached to her leg by virtue of its positively terrifying fangs. Aerda passed out, and her limp body slipped off the branch. The venom from the spider entered her system, incapacitating her as her body fell through the tree, smashing limbs and boughs indiscriminately. The branches smashed back, of course. And she fell to the ground, not quite dead, yet certainly not quite alive. She lay alone in the center of a clearing, a single clear moonray shining down on her, surrounded by nature. The animals left her alone, as she bore the signs of vespera venom.

            Evolutionary processes had taught them to avoid vespera venom. The venom, as they knew, worked its way through one’s body, turning off bodily functions as it went, leaving one incapacitated from the point of the bite, until it reached one’s head, shutting down the functioning of the brain. The bite, fortunately for Aerda, originated on her leg, meaning for now, she wasn’t braindead, only paralyzed.

            She seemed braindead, however, as she lay motionless on the ground, the toxin having knocked her out, at least temporarily. And as the thunder in the distance grew louder and louder, seemingly approaching her unmoving body, the animals ran away. This place held nothing but danger for them.

[WP] You are a villain who grows in power whenever someone says your name. The only problem is everyone mispronounces it.

wpscarborough 1 point a minute ago 

"I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?" the clerk asked. "Nos-ferrrrrrrrrr-atoooooo, you must roll ze r." the dark man replied.

The clerk scratched his head confused.

"Is it foreign? I'm sorry I just can't roll those r's like that. You know high school spanish was especially..."

"NOSFERATU, DIMWIT," the man screeched, shrill voice sending a baby into tears, "IT IS NOT ZHAT HARD!"

The manager made his way over, clipboard in hand. He patted an annoyed looking mother, then turned to the black-clad man.

"Sir, this is a grocery store. You can't do that here. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

The black-clad man suddenly rose, seemingly extending higher towards the ceiling. No longer hunched, he towered over the manager in terrifying might.

"Sir, magic tricks aren't allowed here either, you're gonna have to leave."

The man cast off his trenchcoat to reveal a dark suit with a blood red shirt and kerchief, and a white tie seemingly covered in a red liquid.

"Sir, this is the last time before I have to call security. Please evacuate the premises."

"You fool..." he muttered, "you are all fools. You shall fall to Nosferatu!"

The manager sighed, and reached for his wasteband, grabbing a walkie talkie.

"We got another druggie here, seems to be on some form of amphetamine, please come and kick him out."

Nosferatu advanced, gliding over the white floor towards the overweight, tired manager. The manager just sighed.

"Sir, one more step and I will be legally required to use force."

Nosferatu took another "step."

The manager formed a fist, reeled back, and punched the gliding entity so hard he collapsed into the rack of magazines. He shrunk down to his weak, unimposing form he had taken prior.

"Is it zat hard to say? Really?" he asked weakly.

The clerk punched the name into his phone.

Nosferatu it came.

The man rose off the floor, newly invigorated.

"You fool," he spoke, voice light as a feather, "you are doomed."

Then, he convulsed wildly, jerking in unnatural directions, before falling to the ground in front of another overweight security officer.

"Sorry about the delay, I was finishing up my bagel."

"No worries," the manager said, stepping over the limp body, "we'll just call the county department to pick him up, and he won't be a problem."

They all enjoyed a hearty laugh, except for the woman, who had suddenly fallen suspiciously silent. The men didn't notice a black mist seeping from the suit, snaking its way towards the petrified mother.

[WP] A mob chases a child through the cobblestone streets, "Asylum--please." the child says as they enter the cathedral.

Father Ricardo was not expecting the child that entered the door of his church. It was a misty Tuesday night, the quiet kind where it's generally considered rude to do anything, save for read a book under the covers. Yet here was this child, breathing heavily, back pressed up against the large wooden doors guarding the temple of God from sin.

"I need your help, sir," the child said.

It was a girl, of about six or seven. She had rags for clothes, a freckled face, strawberry hair, and an air of mischief. Ricardo didn't trust her one bit.

"Child," he said, "why are you here? Return to your parents, they will be worried about you."

Her eyes dimmed, and she spoke with a passion.

"Please, God, anything but that. Protect me please."

A knock on the doors. She ran, and ducked behind Ricardo's billowing robes. A knock again. Ricardo reached behind his back, and placed a reassuring hand on the girl's head.

"Open up, we know you're in there," a snarl came.

Ricardo turned to look at the girl, but he only saw a fleeting shadow move behind the farthest pew. He moved to open the door, only to find three burly men, dressed in suits. The lead who had been knocking had bushy eyebrows and a dark mustache, making it difficult to make out the features of his face. The others, clean shaven, made there way inside, and began not so subtly searching.

"Hello, Father," the lead said, with the slightest hint of an accent, "we come to you this night searching for a certain little girl."

Ricardo swallowed.

"I did not see a girl, sir, I have been tending the records all night."

Ricardo felt a slight pain for his lie, but he felt in this scenario Jesus might forgive his inadequacy.

"No service tonight?" the man asked. He removed his hat, placed it on the rack next to the door, and ran his hand through his greasy hair.

"Father, I'm not a religious man, though I have attended my fair share of services," he started, "because I find that religion, especially religious figures, are rather empty. Hypocrisy pervades you, if you will. The church says one thing, but the ministers decide on another. Jesus tells you not to steal, yet one may disobey simply because they wish it so. Religion, Father, tends to be a farce in my humble opinion."

The two other men had swept the pews, and evidently found no sign of the girl. One shook his head at the leader. The leader sighed, and continued.

"Forgive my anecdotes, but I find they are most effective for these discussions. For example, I know a girl who owes me something, quite valuable in fact. And I know she is quite the devout Jew, yet I find her reneging on a fairly made agreement."

The mans eyes seemed to be red, fiery. He leaned closer, his stature casting a long shadow over Ricardo.

"I know many, many people who disobey their Lord God, and they who do not repent tend to suffer. I know you Ricardo. I know your dealings with women of the night. I know your waning belief in a God after seeing the streets at night, filled with the ragged and downtrodden. So you will come to me soon if you do not rectify your ways."

Ricardo felt the eyes of the girl upon him, from behind the organ where the two lackeys had not yet checked.

"So I suggest that you deal with me... in the proper way. I will say it again. The girl owes me something I greatly desire. And should you not rightfully assist me in this, there will be dire consequences."

Ricardo, thoroughly terrified, pointed toward the organ. The leader nodded, and the two men closed in on either side. The organ played a single, haunting note as the girl tried to climb away, but she was caught, and dragged kicking and screaming back towards Ricardo and the man. Her face was bright red, and tears mixed with snot and soot creating a strange hue to her face as she cried out to Ricardo.

"Father, why have you forsaken me?"

Ricardo held his head and moved towards the pew, and sat, world spinning. The two men exited the church with the screaming girl fighting the whole way. The smell of a rose accompanied the man as he approached Ricardo, smiling the whole way.

"You did the right thing, Father," he said, watching the silent tears on Ricardo's face. He knelt in front of him, and gently took his chin in his hand. "Chin up, Father. After all you know what they say."

The man cackled and walked to the doors, and turned one last time, to cast his wicked smile on Ricardo.

"Tell the truth to shame the Devil."

And the man closed the doors, leaving Ricardo alone with his manuscripts.

[WP] The year is 1944 near the end of WWII. You jokingly wrote 'Free Wife' on your tank but never been good at spelling you wrote 'Free wifi' instead. People start knocking with weird looking handy devices in hand asking for password

The paint on the exterior of the tank was chipped, worn from the sheer number of hands that had knocked, the demand for "internet." Robert was baffled by this. He assumed it had to do with the "free wifi" he had written on the side of his tank, but he had no clue. Wifi wan't even a word, after all. At the moment, he was in the outskirts of France, not assigned to the front lines. Hitler was pushed back, a broken leader of a broken nation, using the last vestiges of strength to be a general pain in the ass.

Another knock on the side. Robert sighed. He had sat in silence in the tank, book in hand, waiting for his shift to end so he could return to the barracks. He had plans to visit the whorehouse with his regiment buddies, he hadn't seen Linda since he'd been deployed from the States. He wasn't going to do anything, but he liked knowing the option was there.

The knock returned, freeing Robert from his thoughts. He sat up, climbed the ladder, and opened the hatch. A man, wrapped in a plaid scarf, sporting rather strange glasses, peered up at him.

"You said there's why-fie here?" he asked.

"Sir, I don't know what why-fly is, and I have no intent of learning now," Robert said. The camp surrounding the two men was devoid of Robert's companions, they had all either left, or died in battle.

"I didn't say 'why-fly'. I said 'why-fie'" the man responded. He looks rather queer, Robert thought, queer indeed. The man watched Robert intently, waiting for him to do anything. He didn't.

"Do you have any why-fie?" the man asked again. Robert grimaced.

"I don't have any damn who-fie, or what-fie, or why-fie, that's not a real word and you're not a real man. This is a camp, a place for men, not for little boys like yourself. Go home to your mommy, maybe one day you'll figure out how to hold a weapon."

The man scoffed, and skulked away, holding his device in the air, searching for something. Robert slid down the ladder back to his chair, his post. Kids these days don't understand how tough it used to be, he thought. Suddenly, he heard a crash. He peeked out the hatch again, and the sky was red. Bullets rained down on him, he saw men and women mowed down as they charged towards the Germans, saw planes in the air, saw shrapnel rain down on his best friends and worst enemies. He exited the tank, and ran away. And ran and ran and ran, until now he was running towards enemy lines. He turned, and everywhere was enemy lines, advancing, closer and closer, forcing themselves upon him, beating and bruising him, and as Robert's vision grew black, he felt peaceful.

He woke up in his bed, in the hospital. A young man dressed in scrubs entered, tablet in hand, and looked.

"Good morning Bob, are you feeling any better?" he asked.

Bob blinked. He was back in the tank, accompanied by his crew. Mortars rained around him, his ears rang from the sounds of the battlefield.

He blinked again, and he was sweating, and breathing heavily. The man held his arm.

"Bob, you had another episode. We need to sedate you, do you understand me?"

He shook his head, and he was in the brothel, with a lady of the night. His every instinct screamed to leave, Linda had stayed loyal to you, don't betray her like this, but he wasn't in control of his past.

Back in the hospital, kind eyes of the queer man staring.

Back in the States. His wife screaming. Leaving. Alone. Buddies dead, family abandoned.

Hospital. The doctor standing where Bob had left him. Watching nervously, intently, with that damn tablet of his.

Sitting alone at the table in a coffee shop in London, watching young couples in love taking pictures on their phones, always asking for the why-fie, never noticing his jealous eyes as they tried to warn, to stop, to make them realize the pain they were sentencing themselves to.

"Bob. I'm using the needle now."

Needle. Needling pain. Bullets, firing. Ripping into his arm, his flesh, lying on the field, begging God for mercy but receiving none, abandoning any misguided patriotism, just praying for death, an end to the pain.

Bob, paralyzed, could only move his eyes in a desperate attempt to ward off the medicine, dispel the terrifying memories and dreams he was subjected to in his sleep. But the doctor did not understand. He nodded, and pressed a button, and Bob's eyes felt the weight of the world, and he slept.

The doctor left the room, and checked his phone. The nurse approached him, peeked in the door, and saw Bob in his comatose state.

"Did someone visit to talk to him?" she asked.

The doctor shook his head.

"He's all alone."

[WP] Death is not really immortal. He just chooses a human for replacement after his 1000 years of duty. Now, he choose you.

He found me alone, on my bed in the home. As soon as the lights flickered, and the mirror darkened, I knew he had come to take me, whisk me away into the void, where all we know is undone, all consciousness and sentience nullified. To claim my life.

To describe him is an impossible task, but I will try. He comes in a dark suit, black blazer, pants, tie, shirt. His eyeglasses are tinted; if the eyes are the windows to the soul it's obvious why he wears them. His mouth never forms a smile, only a grimace at best. He doesn't love his job, he doesn't enjoy it, it's just work to him.

He sat down in a plastic lawn chair in the corner, displacing the dust that had formed there so many months ago. He unbuttoned his blazer, and opened his mouth.

"How are you, kind sir?"

His voice oozed like molasses, lulling you to quiet repose and complacency. He didn't need to relax me though, I was prepared.

"I'm ready to leave," I said, "this life hasn't done me many favors. It's time for me to be freed."

He chuckled at this, amused by my arrogance. To think I was special enough to be freed, to no longer be aware? I was foolish.

"You have a bit longer to wait then," he said, and procured a pen and note pad from his jacket. On it was a list of names, accompanied by dates. The pad was ridiculously thick, yet fit perfectly into the palm of my hand. It went all the way back to zero, signed with indecipherable, cryptic strokes, ended with... "present." The last name, Carlos Garcia, jumped off the page.

"Is this... is this you?" I asked.

He shook his head.

"Not anymore. I'm nothing now." he took off his blazer, and laid it on the bed next to me. As he continued stripping down, he spoke.

"I've chosen you, friend. You're a suitable candidate."

Off came the tie, set onto the bed.

"Why me?"

"Look at you. Rotting away in this room, no one visiting you, not even the people paid to care about you give a damn."

His words silenced me. The polished dark shoes and dress socks were next. His face, paler than before, seemed almost translucent.

"You don't care about anyone, why should you? They don't care about you. I picked you out from a mile away, no competition."

He must have seen my face, so he continued.

"It's not a bad gig. It's a bit lonely, but that's nothing new, right?" he wheezed. His black dress shirt and pants were on the bed, along with the glasses, and all I could see now was a dark cloud where my reckoning once stood.

"Chin up. It's only a thousand years. You'll have fun. And when you're done..." the voice began to fade, "we can meet up on the other side."

The already darkening cloud vanished entirely, leaving me alone, as I had always been, in my assigned tomb.

I struggled into sitting position, and looked at the clothes. He's right, I thought, I really don't give a damn, do I?

I pulled off my gown, and began to button up the shirt. It was cool to the touch, but comforting in a strange way. The pants were next, they were hemmed perfectly to my size. I hadn't tied a tie in years, but my hands made the familiar motions, and my strength returned. I stood up from my bed. The socks and shoes were next, those came easily. I put the blazer on, my costume nearly complete. When I looked in the mirror, however, I saw my eyes, or what were my eyes. Souless. Dead. Empty. No different, I chuckled to myself. I put the eyeglasses on, and I felt... strong. Capable. In control. Then, a sharp pain in my head, to the left. Calling. Beckoning. I put the pad and pen in my pocket and walked out the door. To my left was a door, slightly ajar. I could hear their breath from outside, their ever slowing heartbeat filling my head. I walked to the door. I opened it. I entered, and shut it behind me. Perhaps an uneventful first, but Death must come for us all.

[WP] You become the first person to discover time travel, however, you can only go back in time 1 second.

I always kept the button in my pocket, for special occasions. One second isn't that much after all, but one never knows when it could be useful. I used it for minute things mostly. Maybe I burned my finger, or answered a trivia question wrong. It didn't have much practical use, but it was pretty cool. That is what my wife said. "It's nice and all, but you need to find something worthwhile to use it on!"

She was probably right, but one second couldn't make any difference.

I arrived home from the lab, button in my coat pocket, and opened the door, expecting the familiar smell of stew, or a steak perhaps, her steaks were always the best. When I entered, it was dark and silent, save for the soft glow of the television in the other room. I walked in, and saw her eyes glazed over, absentmindedly watching some reality show.

"Hey," I said, "what's up? Should I order a pizza or something?"

She looked at me, startled, and turned back to the television. Her hair was in a messy bun, the streaks of grey only accentuating her beauty. But the wrinkles on her face didn't form their usual tired smile, the quiet happiness found in suburban utopia.

"I'm sorry, I just haven't had the greatest day," she replied.

I noticed on the table an official looking document. I walked over to it, and picked it up. It was the results.

"Oh." I said.

"Yeah." she said.

I was sterile, officially at least. We'd been trying for nearly twenty years, with no hope. We had always thought it was because we married late, didn't bother with any of the pseudo-pregnancy enhancers.

"I - I don't know what to say." I said.

She just looked sadly at me, then back at the television.

"I just... I don't know. This is all I've wanted, since I can remember."

She stood up, and made her way upstairs. I grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, and sat at the counter. Sterile? How could it be possible? I was shocked. Me? Of all people... Me? I discovered time travel! I've broken the laws of goddamn quantam physics... and I can't have a kid. I coughed. I heard rattling upstairs, but I ignored it. She was understandably upset. I failed her.

Surely there's something I can do? Not with money, obviously, but maybe we can take a roadtrip, explore our relationship. We'll get through this. I heard her make her down the stairs, each step followed by a clack. I walked into the foyer.

She stood with a suitcase and her car keys.

"I can't. I just can't. I love you with all my heart... but between this and your work... I never see you. I don't know you."

I was floored.

"You don't mean that! This is a setback, but we can adapt, we always have! We can adopt a child, or have a surrogate!"

"You don't get it. I want it to be ours, not someone else's. It needs to be mine, don't you get it? It... it just has to. Look... I'll keep in touch, but only so we can try to keep this split... unmessy. But this just isn't going to work anymore."

"Where is this coming from?" I asked.

"This is a build-up, don't you get it? It's been years since we've done anything together, we never go anywhere for the holidays, I never see my friends because I'm busy making your damn dinner every night."

She collected herself, and continued.

"This just isn't right for me or you, I think you know that. This isn't meant to be, God didn't destine us for each other."

I didn't respond. She awkwardly brushed the hair from her face.

"This can't work. It never could like this. I love you."

She walked out the front door. I felt my hand instantly press the button.

"I love you, good-"

I pressed it again.

"I love you,"

Again.

"I love you,"

Again.

"I love you,"

"I love you,"

"I love you,"