Chapter Text
You know the feeling when you wake up in the morning, at first thought you’re incredibly peaceful, happy the sun is - at last - streaming through your blinds in January. Then you sober up and think wait, this is a suspiciously calm morning? This is also the point where you realize your alarm hasn’t gone off: you’ve overslept.
This is my morning. January 5th, 2021.
I’ll have you know that I just moved into my first apartment a few months ago. I’m 20 years old, I have a fairly normal life: a close circle of friends, a decent job, and supportive parents. Nothing odd so far, right? Ah, let me get into detail.
See, what struck me a few hours ago wasn’t that my alarm hadn’t gone off, but more so where my phone was. I imagined I’d forgotten to set the alarm the previous day. I shrugged it off. My phone, however, was not where I’d placed it.
On a stressful morning, you eventually say “fuck it” and get going, with or without missing necessities. You just don’t have the time.
And that’s what I did. I rushed out the door and locked it with the keys I still had, thankfully. Here’s another fucked up part: my car’s gone. It wasn’t where I parked it, in my spot. My assigned spot in the neighborhood parking lot. On top of everything that had been wrong, I had to laugh. I walked up to where I’d left my car twelve hours prior, stopped in the middle of the outlined rectangle, and just stared. I blinked, stared, did a 360 spin as if it’d magically appear, and yet - no car. I noticed another thing that was off: all the other cars were old and I didn’t recognize them as my neighbors. Older models of Hondas, Toyotas, and Jeeps - you name it. I didn’t think of it as a big deal at the time. Now I do. Frankly, I’m scared shitless.
I’m at a coffee shop, writing this down so I know it’s real. I keep pinching my arm to check if I’m awake or not. I’m still hoping it’s a dream but I’m dreading the upcoming bruises will confirm it’s not.
Details. I need to write down the details. Here are some: I walked back inside to turn my whole apartment upside down in a search for my phone. I didn’t find it. Do you wanna know something else? I didn’t find my computer either. At that point, I was freaking out, thinking someone had broken into my apartment while I was asleep and taken my stuff. And in that case, also concluding why my car was gone. Skilled thieves know their shit, and they’re good at it. It had to be it.
As calm as possible, I went to knock on my neighbor’s doors. No one answered until three doors down. I knew for sure that there’s where that old man lives, but instead, an elderly lady opened. I asked if I could borrow her phone for a few minutes to make some phone calls. She let me in and without blinking, I brushed past her, spotted the phone and I dialed my parent’s number. It wasn’t odd that her phone was an old house phone: she was, in fact, elderly. Elderly people still have those, right?
“The number you're trying to reach is not in service.’’
Those are the words I kept hearing over and over, no matter how many times I called or double-checked the numbers. The number wasn’t wrong. Not in the wrong order nor the wrong amount.
Taking a deep breath, I tried stabilizing my shattering reality, dialing another number. My friend Kat. Do I even have to tell you where I ended up dialing that number?
Then, in the middle of my crippling anxiety and profoundly confused state of mind, I dialed my boss’s number. I had to tell her I’d be late. I can’t get fired - I have bills to pay.
And again, the number wasn’t in service.
Hands trembling, almost dropping the receiver to the floor, I thanked the old lady, excused myself, and walked out. I didn’t even hear what she said to me. I could barely register I was walking, putting one foot in front of the other.
More details: instead of walking back to my apartment, I headed straight for the bus stop to go downtown. I have to clarify that this was at 8:30 in the morning, and I’d just woken up. I was sure my hair was still in a bird’s nest and I looked like a homeless person. Words can’t describe how disorientated I was.
The bus came and I stepped on. Holding onto the straps of my backpack as if to hold on tight to my world as I knew it, I didn’t bother taking a seat. Some people side-glanced me, some didn’t. I had to hold on as the driver picked up speed, and I accidentally bumped into a guy. Excusing myself, I noticed the freestyle in his hand.
Yes, correct: a freestyle. Those music devices that played CDs back in the 80s and 90s. Again, I wasn’t alarmed. Vintage is in. I had other things to worry about.
I think I have to mention where I live to make it all clearer: I’m from a small town in the state of Minnesota. It’s exactly what you’d imagine a small town would be. Vacant, abandoned, full of small-minded folks, and boring to death. Houses getting broken into, cars being stolen, barely happens here. I didn’t recognize the freestyle kid either, and I’d never - ever - seen him around even though we seemed to be around the same age.
I saw my stop up ahead and listen to this... as I’m about to get off, I glance down at this one guy’s newspaper. The date said January 5th, 1999. It’s a miracle I managed to stay upright on my feet.
This is where we’re at. I’m currently in a world I'm not born into yet. My parents don’t even know me. Hell, I bet they haven’t even thought of me yet. Why? They met in December of 1999 at a New Year’s Eve party.
I did bring myself to walk by my parents’ house, and it’s not their house. The name on the mailbox said Coleman. My last name is not Coleman.
I’m trying not to look too suspicious as I write this, hands still shaking and tears stubbornly watering my eyes. For the first hour, I hid in a bathroom stall, bawling my eyes out. I had to silence the convulsive sobbing with a hand over my mouth any time someone walked inside the restroom.
You might be thinking, “the newspaper could’ve been a prank”, or “I saw the wrong numbers”. I thought so too at first, even resisting the temptation to snort as I got off the bus. But trust me - I’ve asked. And asked, and asked again. Each time I've asked, I've received this funny look. You know, that look people give the main character in a sci-fi movie when they ask what year it is.
I have heard people describe their life-shattering experiences; losing a partner, a friend, or a parent. Feeling as if they’ve been pushed to the ground and beaten with a bat, one bad experience after the other just railing on. My question is, what the fuck do you call this? I’m scared. I’m terrified. Why am I here? Technically, I don’t even exist. I don’t know anyone. I don’t have parents nor friends. My friends’ are not born yet either.
I think I’ve been here for too long, acting too weird. The barista’s glancing at me from time to time. Maybe I’m just paranoid, imagining things. I don’t have anyone to turn to. If I tell anyone I’m from 2021, they’ll put me in a mental ward in a straight jacket.
Where do I go from here? What do I do? Do I have any money? Why do I still have my apartment? Ironically, the speakers start taunting me with the tunes of Today by The Smashing Pumpkins. Today is definitely not the greatest day I’ve ever known.
Suddenly, my heart drops. That sucking feeling you get when missing a step on the stairs or can’t find your phone in your pocket.
The Smashing Pumpkins. A name pops into my head.
Dylan. Dylan Klebold.
Eyes widening and heart drumming in my ears, I realize what year I’m in, and what month.
America’s worst school shooting hasn’t happened yet - the one criminal case I’ve studied religiously since I was 16.
Suddenly, it’s like my face is pulsating, my heart beating so hard it physically hurts my chest. I glance at the barista again and I meet her narrowed eyes before she averts them. She’s definitely staring.
Without further thought, I slam my notebook shut, shove it inside my backpack, and hurl out the door. My parents’ faces flash by inside my head again. To be cliché, my whole life is currently flashing before my eyes. I’m desperately trying to walk and act normal but as I wander down the street, I'm reminded that no one knows me here. It’s 1999 - I’m not alive. No one has ever seen my face, and I don’t look like anyone they have ever seen. Reality comes crashing over me again like a bucket of water along with all the millions of questions that both infuriates me and shatters my heart into pieces: what am I doing here and why? Why me? And how? How do I get back, who do I talk to, what do I do?
Spotting an alley up ahead, I speed up the pace and take a sharp turn around the corner, and to my relief, find a dumpster to hide behind. Giving in to my weak legs, I crash down to sit on the dirty, cold ground. The missing piece of not being able to pick up the phone and call or text someone aches gravely. I don’t feel real. Nothing feels real. Short attacks of laughter break the sobbing - I’m going insane.
I suddenly feel strong hate towards everything. The state I’m in and why I am where I am. The crying stops and cumulative anger replaces it. I’m fed up with crying: how has that helped me the past six hours? Jack shit. Drying my cheeks with my damp sleeve, I struggle to stand to my feet again. My butt is cold, my clothes are dirty and I don’t think I ever felt worse in my life. Stupid, privileged idiot, never knew real pain until now. Self-loathing ensues.
“I have to stop feeling bad for myself, I have to stop feeling bad for myself,” I whisper manically into my hand cupped over my mouth. Pulling myself together, I straighten my back, wiping my cheeks.
I need to find a mirror of some sort. There’s no way I can look even the slightest sane right now. The reflection in the huge glass windows of a shop does the job of mortifying me just great: my hair is far from cute and my eyes are swollen from the crying. No wonder the barista was staring: I look as lost and homeless as I am.
Another heart-dropping, odd realization hits me: Eric and Dylan are alive. Most likely in class, going about their day. To the person reading this - I can understand how this thought might seem absolutely irrational. Why would she think of two complete strangers in the midst of being thrown back 22 years in time? Well, you see, in the middle of every irrational aspect of it, it is perfectly rational and sobering. It’s something I know, something that grounds me. A place to start.
Now, another question might surface: wouldn’t the most rational thing be to contact family and friends? How could I? What do I say? “Sup guys, it’s just your unborn daughter calling to let y'all know I need some help, would you mind?” There’s no way. I could probably try once or twice, and then they’d call the cops. Maybe send me to jail for harassment.
Calling my future grandparents would be even worse. What do I do? Lure them into inviting me into their house and befriend them? And what friends are there to talk about? The sperm cells swimming around in their father’s balls? There’s just no way.
Shifting my mind to autopilot, I head to the nearest gas station to clean myself up in the bathroom. I use my fingers to brush out the nest and ease the swelling around my eyes with cold water. After a good fifteen minutes, I look decent to face the public. I’ll have to do something I’m dreading: go back to my apartment. I need money to pay for tickets. My birthday was three months ago, and I know I have a birthday card laying around somewhere with money still attached to it.
I take a sharp, unsteady breath. If I’m here now, where am I in 2021? By now, I must be reported as missing. As much as I’m here, I’m also not there. On the verge of tears again, I shut that compartment of my brain down before it’s too late.
The bus ride back is dull. I’m numb to my surroundings. The sheer fact that I’m in another decade doesn’t phase me one bit. I hate it here. I want to go home.
Stepping off the bus, I try to ignore looking at my apartment building in the distance. A car’s parked in my spot now, and I hate it too. Kicking at pebbles on the ground, a person in the corner of my eye causes me to look up. What I see is a face so familiar to my own that my heart almost stops - my mother. My mother in flesh and blood, twenty years less wrinkly.
My feet are frozen to the ground as my heart pounds against my ribs. Light-headed and nauseous, I come back from a state of trance, only to realize she’s looking right at me on her way to a car. Her car - parked in my spot.
I kickstart myself to escape the situation, cold sweats creeping down my back. I skit around the corner to the building and don’t stop until I’ve reached the backyard where I’m hidden. With an unstoppable reflex, I throw up in a bush. I sit on the ground for twenty minutes after that. Again. The sun rays break through the clouds, adding to the pounding headache and it annoys me to no end. Putting two and two together, I catch my breath. She's the one living in my apartment. Why did she never mention this when I moved in?
On wobbly legs, I stand up and peek around the corner. The car’s gone. She left. Good.
Quick movements take me up the stairs even though my knees are about to buckle. I hurry past the three doors before mine, stopping right outside, and rip the keys out of my pocket. They fit. They fucking fit. Cracking the door open just enough to peer inside, I recognize it as I left it. The carpet in the foyer, same furniture, same floors, and wall paint.
My head is spinning. I can’t wrap my head around this. None of this is the slightest scientifically possible. Rushing around like a scared rabbit, I wreck through the closet to find none of my clothes. This clearly wasn’t my apartment from the start - it never was.
The only gut-wrenching thing I recognize is the scent of a perfume lingering in the air. It’s my mom’s. Uncontrollable sobs convulse out of me as I rip random pieces of clothing off the hangers to grab with me. Moving from room to room, I search everywhere I can for money - drawers, jewelry boxes, cabinets. What I manage to find and leave running with are 230 dollars and the backpack stuffed with my 30-year-old mother's clothing. That’s it. I don’t glance back once.
Welcome to the first part of my journey. My mission is now to get to Colorado. To be bluntly honest, I have absolutely no clue what I’m going to do there. And you know what? That adds nicely to the rest of my current hell.