October 8th, 1966. Seven o’clock in the evening.
Donald Richmond stared out of the window of his penthouse apartment. He was watching the streets below, his eyes darting from person to person. He liked to observe, and the noises from the bustling city underneath him served as a relaxing white noise. Like the comfort of a television or a radio, the lives of his neighbors were a tool to him––a distraction, something to pull him away from the stressors of his daily life.
From the corner of his eye, a cyclist sped into view, pulling his attention from the traffic. Donald watched as they weaved in and out of pedestrians and the stopped traffic. It was then that the brace on his leg started to ache a touch more than usual. He massaged his knee for a moment and pulled the blinds shut. That was enough distraction for one day.
The penthouse was lavish. Dark oak paneling lined the walls––that is, the walls that weren’t obscured by the countless diplomas, awards, and honors that hung atop them. A dark brown carpet covered the glossy hardwood floor that had just recently been refinished. A trophy case sat next to the window, brimming with golden idols. It was hard to tell where one trophy ended, and another began. They varied in shape and size, but they each shared a commonality: Donald Richmond was engraved across the front.
In the center wall of the living room, across from the front door, was a bare wall. There were no certificates, no awards, no plaques––only one, lone newspaper clipping in a sleek, metal frame illuminated by a lamp that hung just slightly off the wall.
“Donald Richmond: Savior of Silicon Valley.”
He looked at the paper and stared at his name, reading the same headlines, the same articles that he had read thousands of times before. Something felt different today. He reached into the deep pocket of his white, pristine lab coat and rolled something around through his fingers. He read the paper’s headline once again.
“Maybe this could be it,” he thought. “Maybe this time… it’ll work.”
He started to pull the object from his pocket, wondering what––
“Donald!” a voice called. “Where did you put them.”
He’d have to wait a few moments longer.
“Put what, dear,” he asked, forgetting he wasn’t alone.
“Donald,” she said, entering from the bedroom, “I refuse to do this with you every time I’m going out. Where are my earrings.”
“I don’t––“
“If you finish that sentence, Donald. So help me.”
“It’s the truth, Donna. I don’t know where you keep your jewelry. I don’t know how you keep track of it all.”
“You move things. I ask you every day not to move my things.”
He turned to her and raised his right eyebrow, in the same peculiar fashion he always seemed to when his wife asked him a question.
“What use would I have for your earrings, hon?” he asked.
“I’d love to know,” Donna responded. “I’d love to know what you do with half of the junk you keep in this apartment.”
“Experiments,” he corrected, a hint of humor in his voice.
“Experiments, right,” she teased. “You’re sure you don’t know? My gold earrings. You know the ones. My cab is waiting.”
“I don’t. I’m sorry, hon.”
Donna deflated.
“But I’ll look for them while you’re gone, alright?” he assured.
She gently picked up her jacket from the coat rack and threw her bag over her shoulder.
“Look for them. Please. They belonged to my mother.”
“I will,” he responded.
She kissed him on the cheek, fixing the glasses that had fallen to the tip of his nose.
“You’re sure you can’t come?” she asked.
“Any other night, hon. You know that. I think I’m close to this one. The next time, alright?”
She looked into his eyes, persisting. He matched her stare. They smiled at one another.
“Alright. Don’t work too hard,” Donna responded.
Donald smiled at her. The woman he’d loved for nearly thirty years was still as beautiful as ever in his eyes.
“I won’t.” He kissed her, sweetly.
He walked her to the door and closed it tightly. He crossed back to the window, and peeked through the blinds, watching as his wife drive off in her cab. He pulled the blinds shut and turned to the large, busy table in front of him.
He removed a large, grey sheet of canvas that was obscuring his latest invention: a metal box, with copper tubing jutting out from each corner. The tubes stretched out and folded back inwards, converging at the middle of the box, and connecting to a small, delicate transmitter. There was a red button on the front corner, freshly painted with red lacquer. He pushed on it, turning it on. Lights began to flash from every side, and the complex wiring that ran across every side sparked in ignition.
Whatever it was, it was clearly very new––and unfinished.
A slight hum began to fill the room. Donald slowly walked behind the device, observing his creation. He focused on the transmitter. There was a small, circular hole that had yet to be filled. He slowly reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, circular, golden earring, that seemed to mirror the crevasse exactly.
He placed the earring on the transmitter. The hum was getting louder. He crossed back behind the table, to a control pad attached to the machine through a mess of tangled wires. He could barely keep the pad steady; his excitement was feverish. The keys had a tactile, resonant punch when he clicked them, correlating with a small display on the front side of the device.
October 8th, 1996.
The hum filled the room.
Sweat dripped off of Donald’s brow, his eyes eager in anticipation. He slowly moved his hand to an industrial lever on the right side of the machine. He took a breath and slammed the lever down. The copper tubing began to spin, slowly at first. The hum began to raise in pitch and volume. The speed of the tubing was increasing, causing the table it sat on to vibrate. Then the cabinet was full of trophies. Then the picture frames.
The hum had become unbearable.
Donald covered his ears, watching in awe as the tubing became indistinguishable from the circular, spherical shadow it created. Flashing lights filled the apartment, wind began to swirl throughout the room.
Finally, the small, golden earring began to spark. The room suddenly fell silent. And with a blinding flash of light, Donald was gone.
~
October 9th, 1966. Midnight.
Keys clanged against the penthouse door. The lock clicked, and a figure walked inside. Donna was home. The apartment was silent. This was unusual. She hung her jacket and purse on the coat rack and slipped out of her heels. If Donald was asleep, she wouldn’t want to wake him.
She carefully crossed to the kitchen for a glass of water. As she began to drink, her eyes wandered throughout the apartment. Everything appeared normal––the trophy cases illuminated the room with their soft, golden hue; the bookshelves were organized and well-kept; and her golden earring was on Donald’s workbench, tucked inside a machine.
Now she was angry.
She finished her water and hurried over to the workbench, the heat of her anger filling the room. She studied the machine for a moment, unsure of what she was looking at. But as she reached for the earring, the machine began to hum. The copper tubing began to spin, the lights began to flash, and the wind began to roar. She ran back to the kitchen for cover, staring at the machine in horror.
There was a flash. And suddenly… Donald was there. Donna rose from behind the counter, her eyes wide with fear and amazement.
“Donald…?” she asked.
“Donna!” he yelled, turning to her.
He started to run to her, paying no mind to the brace that clung to his leg. He embraced her, holding her tightly––tighter than she had been held in a long, long time.
“What is this?” she asked, shakily.
“The future,” Donald responded.
He handed her a newspaper.
“Look,” he went on. “Look at the date. October 8th, 1996. I’ve done it, Donna. I’ve done it.”
She stumbled to a chair, the adrenaline finally wearing off. Donald guided her to it, helping her sit.
“This is a trick,” she said, stuttering. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m not, Donna. I’ve done it.”
“But… how? How?”
“Thanks to that.”
He pointed to her golden earring.
“I knew you had it,” she scolded.
“I knew it would work,” he said. “But you wouldn’t have let me use it if I told you, now, would you?”
“I… I don’t know. How is this possible? What did you do?”
Donald began to explain, but it was too much to comprehend at the moment. There were too many thoughts in her head, too many questions.
“How is any of this possible?” she thought.
She studied the newspaper, looking for any signs of fakery or inconsistency. Her eyes danced from headline to headline. Nothing seemed too out of the ordinary until her face turned white and her stomach fell through the floor.
“Donald…” she quivered. “Look.”
He crossed behind her, finding the headline she was pointing to.
“DONALD RICHMOND: DEAD AT EIGHTY-SIX.”
~
October 9th, 1966. Nine o’clock in the morning.
The sun began to bleed through the blinds of Donald’s bedroom, landing right on his eyes. He tossed and turned, but he was already awake. It was a long night. The empty bottle of scotch next to him was proof.
He extended his hand over to Donna’s side of the bed, longing for the consoling touch of his wife. But she wasn’t there. And the room was empty. He sat up in a hurry, his head pounding and his mouth dry.
He quickly got out of bed and walked to the kitchen for a glass of water. Donna had beaten him to it. She had just finished setting out breakfast.
“I’m still mad at you,” Donna said. “But I was hungry.”
He crossed to her and kissed her cheek.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Eat.”
Breakfast was mostly silent, apart from the birds chirping through the open window. Donald stood from his chair and brought the dishes to the sink. His leg was hurting him more than usual. He quickly braced the sink as a sharp pain shot through his shin up to his hip. Donna held him for a few moments, and the pain subsided.
“Are we going to talk about last night?” she asked.
“No,” he said coldly.
She looked away. After a moment, tears began to form in her eyes.
“What?” he began to soften.
She couldn’t find the words. Finally, she took a breath and went on.
“You were shot,” she said. “Shot. In the back. In our apartment.”
“You…you read the paper?”
“All of it. I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t sleep.” She handed him the paper. “Someone broke in. You were alone. I wasn’t even there.”
He held her tightly as she began to weep. He tried to maintain his composure, but it was starting to break. His hands became shaky, his throat closed up. His eyes became watery.
“I’m going to fix this, Donna. Right now.”
He started toward the machine. Donna stood, crying out in protest.
“No!” she shouted. “You’re not touching that thing again!”
“This is my life, Donna! My future! Everything I’ve been working towards!”
“You need to get rid of that thing! You’re not going back there.”
“This is our future, Donna. I need to do something. For our kids, for you…”
“We have thirty damn years to think about it, Donald! We don’t have to do this now!”
“Thirty years of stress and worry, thirty years of knowing that anywhere I go this could be the day I end up with a bullet in my back.”
“But we know when it happens!”
“Exactly. Which means I know when to stop it.”
He limped back over to the work table, his leg in a tremendous amount of pain. He groaned in agony, as a sharp, piercing pain coursed through his leg. He pulled open a drawer and picked up a small handgun from inside. Donna looked on in horror.
He grabbed the keypad and began to punch in his destination.
October 8th, 1996.
He pressed down on the red lacquer button, igniting the chaotic cacophony of lights and sounds.
“Donald, don’t!” Donna cried out.
The hum began to pierce through the silence, forcing the couple to cover their ears. Donald’s mind fell silent, and everything slowed down. He saw Donna on the other side of the room, tears in her eyes. He saw the copper tubing picking up speed as it spun. He saw the roaring winds push papers around the room and knock picture frames off of the walls. Then all he saw was a flash. And nothing else.
~
October 8th, 1996. Ten o’clock in the morning.
Donald caught his breath. He looked around to gain his bearings. He was in his penthouse apartment. It looked the same. The same dark walls were covered in the same frames; the same floor was covered in a freshly vacuumed rug. The dishware had moved, though, and it was a different color. The front door was different, too. It looked heavier. Like it was made of metal. Donald looked around, noticing that cameras were looming in every corner, over every square inch of the apartment. Watching him.
He felt his hand begin to sweat; the pistol gripped tightly in his fingers. He heard the sound of traffic, of birds, chirping in the distance. The window was open, the blinds were drawn, as they usually were. But the city looked different. The skies were darker, the air was heavier. He couldn’t quite tell why, but he––
“Who are you,” a voice called out. Donald turned pale. “How did you get in here…”
Suddenly everything in Donald’s mind began to rush. He thought of Donna. He thought of his kids. He thought of his career, and of all of the ideas he never got to finish. He thought of everything he wanted to do that he still hadn’t achieved. He thought about his future, his life, and about his death. And in an instant, before he could even look up, he turned around and fired the gun.
His ears began to ring; a muffled scream bellowed throughout the apartment. Everything was blurry. But as he regained his focus, he saw the man on the ground, lifeless. He didn’t recognize the shoes. Or the shirt. Or the jacket. But he recognized the brace on the man’s knee. And the wedding ring on the man’s finger.
There was a flash. And Donald was gone.
~
October 9th, 1966.
Donald Richmond was back in his apartment, an undefinable look on his face. He looked at his worktable. The copper tubing was black with char, and the transmitter was smoking.
The lights didn’t flash, the hum was gone.
The machine was broken.
“What happened?” Donna asked, quietly. “Did you stop it?”
Donald stared at the machine, unresponsive.
“Donald,” Donna persisted. “What did you do.”
The pistol fell to the floor.
Donald Richmond––a man out of time. Determined to make sure he was in charge of his own future. He, and he alone.
