One Way Ticket
Matthew Ryan Fischer
I was told that “…this gun is magic.” I didn’t know what that
meant at the time. I was told I had a real gun, but I needed this gun. That was
important. I tried to hold on to that. Keep it in focus, keep it in the front
of your mind, I told myself. There would be some reason for it, I was sure. But
only if I could remember.
Stay close and follow the path you’re used to. Words to live by.
The unknown here will kill you.
The man was well dressed with a flat stomach I was jealous of. His
jacket seemed to glow or shine, and he had an unbuttoned vest on underneath. It
looked like there was something strapped under his arm, but he never opened his
jacket enough for me to see. He had a plan though. Protection. A locket on a
chain. Maybe a pocket watch. Maybe a container full of pixie dust or some other
such sprinkle meant to save his life if need be.
I was told to follow and to stay close. And I tried. I tried. But
a blink sometimes is more than a blink and a second can be infinity. The scenery
changed with a whisper or a stray thought. The guide was gone. Not my fault.
Not my fault. Didn’t matter.
She was trapped, I was sure of it. I didn’t know why or what her
loop was. Something in her mind. Something in space or time. Or someone playing
a terrible trick on her.
My magic couldn’t help her. Whatever had done this to her was something
beyond my reach or understanding.
“It won’t… It can’t… It’s not real…”
A poor mantra, but a mantra all the same. Repeat it enough and
maybe you’ll believe it, I thought. Whatever hell the poor woman was living, her
words alone were unlikely to change it.
Why was I here again? To save myself? To save someone else? Did I
have a way out? Something was nagging at me and I was pretty sure there was
something else I was supposed to think about.
There was a gun in my jacket pocket. Not my gun. But a gun. I was
obviously worried about some danger of some sort.
“Don’t--”
I heard a gunshot. Not my gun. My gun was in my pocket. I could
feel it against my arm when I pressed against my jacket. But who shot?
A woman held a gun, knowing she had to break the loop. She only
saw one way out, and that was to shoot him. She held the gun and fired.
For one second, she reached out to stop herself, stop what had
happened, what she had done.
One second was not enough. The gun fired and the window closed and
the loop began again.
She tried to tell herself “Don’t shoot…” but only had time to start
to scream “Don’t--” before the gun fired and she watched in horror as her other
former self shot him in the head.
The loop repeated. The loop continued. Over and over, she saw no
way to stop it, no way to change it. All she could do was relive it. One second
of time, one second back and over, but she always made the same mistake. Her
past was impossible to prevent.
There was a man, a guide, someone who showed her the way, gave her
a word or two to say. The man had told her the road was difficult but the road
was possible. Why couldn’t she remember what he had told her? What was she
supposed to say? “Don’t!” was not enough. There was something else. Something she
couldn’t remember.
Maybe the man would come back. Maybe the man would help her
escape. The loop couldn’t be broken but the loop could be sidestepped and she
could maybe just skip over it. If only she knew how. If only she hadn’t shot
him. If only she hadn’t been given the gun. It wasn’t her gun. It was someone
else’s. But she couldn’t remember where the man went or why he gave it to her
or what she was supposed to do. All she could do was repeat and watch and
repeat and watch as the horror continued.
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