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Timeless Chapter 8 by Shrita Vemuri

I think of the times where I was little and I had a crush. His name was Charles. William Forrest Charles. He went to my middle school at Rivendell. He was a tall, skinny boy with a dimple on his left cheek. His strawberry blonde hair was formed in a buzz cut. He was the most caring, gentle, and sweet boy in the entire school.
Linc. He’s all I can think of lately. I can’t believe when Camilla was being taken away by the Grongula he was the guard I pushed. Out of all of the people I could’ve pushed why did it have to be him. The thing is. The guard I pushed didn’t look like him. So how did he know about that moment? Did he disguise himself and really was the guard or did he just plant another freaking camera. I sigh.
Definitely a camera.
I examine myself in my mirror. I am wearing a blue lilac dress and Linc is besides me. We are not in my cell though. We are at my home. My Father is besides me as well and my Mom is crying. I wonder what’s going on.
“I do.” Linc says.
This was our wedding. What it was supposed to be.
My Father turns my way.
“Do you or do you not Bree wish to marry this soul?” I stand there still as people throw bouquets of white, blue, and red flowers. America.
“I don’t.” I hear myself say. The flower throwing stops. They dissolve like ashes. Linc takes out his gun and points it at my Father. He falls. Next my Mom. She falls.
“Stop!” I say. “Can’t you see that this won’t make a difference!”
“You should’ve thought about that before you said no.” he aims at my siblings. They are gone. Then himself as he smirks.
“I’ll let you suffer with the loss alone.”
I hear only my breath. My body is ragged. It was all a dream. Linc would never do something like that. Would he?
It’s 9:00. At least it feels like it. I am laying down on my cell bed, restless. Three guards pace outside the bars yet none of them is Linc. I sigh. I should get over him by now. I toss and turn in my bed. Maybe I was just uncomfortable. After all the slicked covers inside the pale white cell made me shiver. The mattress was nothing like my mattress at home. Fat and paddy, made of memory foam. I yawn. Goodnight Mom, Father, Johnny, and Camilla.
I feel as though all I do these days is sleep. Then wake up and eat. Then sleep. Then wake again and eat. Then sleep. Then eat. Then sleep. So basically all I do is sleep and eat. Maybe 64.9% sleeping and 35.1% eating. It’s my fifth month in this prison cell, rotting like my Dad’s stinky old quesadillas that he always made during Thanksgiving week. Our main goal during that week was to make the best reason to confront our Dad with and say why we are not eating his moldy quesadillas and can you really blame us for hating them? I mean the cheese was all gooey and stringy like and the tomatoes were singed brown. I just want to throw up at the thought of those things going into my mouth. One week Johnny didn’t take his so called homework seriously. He ended up having to eat two of Dad’s quesadillas. He ended up missing school for a week because of this weird mold that was growing inside his stomach. Trust me it was disturbing. I’m the one that saw the x-ray.
My life is meaningless and timeless. I’ve been thinking about dying. I mean without me the people of the future wouldn’t have a wicked solution to wipe out the people of the past like me for eternity. I mean why would they want to do this. After all wouldn’t they be people of the past as time went on? Wouldn’t their children kill them as well? How is this the path to a better life? How does this help anything? What is on their mind anyway?

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