Recursive

A sob erupts from me as a shard of glass pierces my hand. I hadn’t noticed fragments scattered across the concrete floor of what once was a lively secondary school. My secondary school. Though that was centuries ago.

I loved learning; I still do. However, back then, it had put a target on me, making me the punching bag for popular kids. So, while I loved the classes, I hated school.

On any other day, I might see the humour in the fact that, of all places, my abandoned secondary school has the strongest energetic connection. That here and now is the best opportunity I have to warn someone, anyone, about everything that has happened. But as it stands, something tells me I’ll never laugh about anything again.

My legs are numb, uncooperative. But I have to continue. So I crawl.

Outside, the lunar eclipse is visible in the inky black night, its reddish light shining through the shattered glass window frames.

I see it at the end of the tunnel, hovering above weathered books and dried leaves. A dark vortex swirls, bolts of energy erupting in all directions.

It’s already shrinking.

For a moment, I halt and study it, as intrigued by it as I was all those years ago. I’m always surprised at the lack of noise. The hallway is eerily silent apart from my cries and the crunching of glass as I remind myself to push on.

A wound in my stomach is bleeding; I must have torn the stitches open when I sprinted here, thanks to those bastards at the TTA. They’ve been following me ever since I managed to make my first leap. They’re eager to stop me. At first, I thought it was simply because I possessed knowledge they didn’t want me to share with anyone else. Not that I was ever going to.

It was a fun cat-and-mouse game back then. Vivian Rein versus the TTA.

Until I came here in 2600.

The closer I get to the gate, the more I feel its pull. It aids me, but it also drags me through the glass. It cuts through my clothes and skin, filling my nose with the sickly sweet smell of iron. Every centimetre I move is unbearable, but I must.

Slamming my hand down, I let out another sob, feeling the thick, warm liquid coating my hands.

I’m so tired. Unable to get back up because of the gradual decay that has been claiming my body since I made the first leap through time. I didn’t notice it until about a year ago. Coughs that never went away. Numbness in my fingers. Deteriorating eyesight. High ringing in my ears that can last anywhere from seconds to an hour.

Still, if I did go back, which I could have, I wouldn’t change a thing. I have been obsessed with time travel since my final year of secondary school.

I look up, and my heart slams against my ribs. The gate has reduced even further. I’m running out of time.

No one can jump through time at will. Only through careful calculation have I been able to find portals that open and close, allowing me to leap through mankind’s history and future.

I missed the last portal, thanks to those idiots at TTA chasing me down a mountain. But this time, I’m so close. I can’t fail. Because if I do, who will warn those of the bomb that was dropped a few years ago? Its radiation is slowly overtaking the entire planet, sickening and killing everyone who did not have the money to buy a place in the disgusting safe haven called Hope Point.

I never wanted to become famous, known as the person who invented time travel. That’s part of why I took my research with me when I made the first jump. Some things should not be shared. Some things are best kept secret. But this. This is the last thing I can do. Let this letter be my legacy. Let me warn the world about the impending fight. Of the world leaders who, blinded by their hunger for power and money, sacrifice many for a select few.

Two more meters. I hiss as another shard of glass pierces my palm as I slide forward.

The portal is closing fast, and I’m not sure I can still fit through it. But it is big enough for the envelope I have in my pocket. The piece of paper I’ve carried with me for many months in case it came to this.

I swallow back the tears that threaten to blur my vision and tell myself that it doesn’t matter. If time-travelling weren’t the thing to kill me slowly, the exposure I’ve had to the fallout in this year alone would do the trick. I’m dead either way.

I’m sucked forward, and it shrinks again. Too small now.

A door downstairs slams open.

No, how did they find me?

Male voices echo through the abandoned hallways. They’re coming.

If my calculations are correct, this portal leads to the same place, but in the year I went to this secondary school. The 16th of October 2028 at 6:42. A Monday morning just before school starts.

The footsteps draw closer. Rushing.

I pull the envelope from my pocket and reach out. The portal is so close. I stretch, hearing a door slam open behind me.

“Stop her!”

With a final cry, I toss the piece of paper.

A loud bang shatters my eardrums, and pain explodes across my back. But I keep my gaze on the swirling mass of energy before me. It tears at the envelope before it gobbles it up and disappears into nothing.

The school bell rings. Footsteps scutter through the crowded hallway. The warm October sun burns my skin, only amplified by the lack of blinds and the thick glass windows in this bloody hallway.

“Damn, it’s warm today,” my friend Tom says.

“Didn’t know October could be this warm,” I reply, putting my backpack on the ground while I search for the essay I am about to hand in.

“Yeah, on the news they said something about unusual phenomena with warm winds,” Tom explains.

The orange and red hues of dawn bathe the hallway in an ominous crimson colour.

“I’ll warm your seat,” he says, stepping into the classroom.

“Please don’t,” I laugh.

I move the papers and books around in my bag. Shit. Did I forget it at home?

It’s then that I notice the outlines of a crumpled-up envelope just beside the door, and I reach for it. It’s missing part of it.

I move the door to see if the other part that’s missing is stuck underneath or behind it, but there’s no sign of it.

Removing the letter from the envelope, I frown as I unfold it. Scribbled notes accompany complicated formulas that remind me of the ones Professor Dylan writes on the blackboard for Advanced Physics. Time dilation, perhaps.

“Weird,” I mutter.

At the top of the letter, I can make out a few words; I’m guessing most of the message lies in the other half of the envelope.

… TTA will come for you, be careful.

“So weird,” I add.

“You ready, Vivian?” Professor Dylan asks.

“Yes, sorry, sir. I got distracted.”

I stick the envelope in my bag, eager to take a closer look at it when I’m home.