A soul-tearing screech. Everything flew everywhere. Blood exploded in a fountain of crimson. They had to get to the hospital. Everything would be alright! They had to be alright! Her skin grew pale, all life fled from her eyes. Her breathing slowed, slowed, and stopped.
Joe woke up slowly, his bones aching with the remembered pain of decades. It had been the same bad dream he had had for twenty years, and it no longer chilled him the way it had done. Over the years, he had grown accustomed to the images, expected the visions to come. It was a spur to action, a call from the past that came to him each night. He badly needed a drink.
Joe peeled back the bed-sheets and rose carefully to his feet. His right knee was troubling him, as it often did at night, but he ignored it and headed for the stairs. The red wood of the bannister was dark with use; Joe gripped it firmly as he stepped down. The pale carpet was discoloured, the textured wallpaper torn and ragged. The house needed serious work, thought Joe. One of these days, I must get around to it. One of these days. When I have more time.
The withered carpet felt like sand beneath his feet as Joe crept down the stairs. He switched on the light and rubbed his eyes to clear away the sleep. It smelt damp and old, a thick layer of dust covered everything and heavy cobwebs hung from the ceiling, drifting slowly in the draught. Pictures hung from the walls but everything blurred together into shades of grey. In the end though, it hardly mattered.
A single bulb lit the kitchen, and it swung relentlessly to and fro like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. Each swing measured a moment lost to time, a unique, singular instant that was unrepeatable. Second by second, time leaked away. But each swing had an echo in the swing that followed, action and reaction, motion and counter-motion. With the right energy, Joe could soon make time itself recur, moments long-since passed return. Or so he hoped. Sighing, Joe turned from the light and filled his limescale-ridden kettle with water.
The clock told him it was five to six in the morning. Hardly worth going back to sleep. He never slept well anyway.
The kettle took exactly a minute to boil. Joe threw a tea bag into a chipped mug and poured vaguely clear water over it. Part of him wanted something stronger, even after all this time, but he didn’t touch alcohol any more. Now he had his time machine to finish.
