Time Isn't Real Pt. 02

CW: questionable consent; rape mention; death

CHAPTER ELEVEN - THE NOTEBOOK

The video ended, and left me with a frozen image of my father on the screen.

He'd said so much already, and yet it was only the first of five separate USB sticks - each, I assumed, were video files.

Everything I know, he had said. And what information he'd given me already - about the power, about Hugo. That I had someone in my life who was pretending to be a friend when they weren't.

Hugo wanted the power. He wanted to achieve it through me, and the earlier he did it the better. For him. Which meant there was a good chance he was already putting things into place.

I closed the box, containing the other four memory sticks, and rubbed my eyes. It had been a long day, already, and the lull of sleep tugged at the lids of my eyes. Only, I reckoned I would struggle to sleep tonight. The heavy weight that had been laid in my stomach wasn't going anywhere soon, and I knew that it was only a matter of time until it caught up with me, the same way it had my father.

Matter of time. Funny, Brooke. Real funny.

The smell of the pizza we'd gotten on the way home wafted into the air, and I felt a swell of hunger go through me; there would always be time to come back and go through the other videos in the morning. I was here for the weekend - why rush all of the world-shattering information into one evening?

Then, I got a text that reminded me that I didn't, in fact, have all the time in the world.

H // Just checking in! Just got off the phone with your mum - sounds like you found some new stuff of your dad's. If there's anything in there helpful, you be sure to let me know, okay?

H // FYI your mum helped me out by giving me your student flat address - I'll drop by after the weekend so we can talk everything over. Probably better than doing it over text, yeah?

My stomach twisted. He knew where I lived, where Shannon and Kloe and Ryan were. If he talked to them... if he talked to Shannon, would she tell him? Would he work out that she knew?

If he did, what would he do to her?

I paced the room, weighing up my options.

Option one - I stay here, watch all of the videos and learn how to turn back time. Then, I go back by a day, to before Hugo knew anything about anything, and start over, maybe using that advantage to get ahead of him somehow.

Option two - I go home tonight, before I look at anything else, and come clean to Shannon. She saw something, and if Hugo shows up asking questions, she'll want to know. Fuck knows how bad that would go.

Option three - I eat pizza, sleep tonight, and hope that everything's fine!

I sat on the edge of my bed. Option three was naive. Option one leaves people at risk of someone who, according to my dad, is so set on acquiring this power that his big plan is child-murder.

Which left two. I go home. I come clean, at least to Shannon, and she finds out what the fuck happened with her and Byron.

However... if I was able to go back, I could stop that from happening. Undo the trauma I accidentally put her through. I could start over, not just for me, but for everyone.

I stood, and returned to my little desk, opening the box and putting in the next USB to mum's laptop. The grey brick whirred as the fans span, filling the room with an uneasy, unending noise.

What came up on the screen was another video file - a much longer one. When I opened it, I saw my father, leaning back in his work chair, the light on his face being very forgiving to the blue in his skin, and the frailty of his demeanour. Backlit as he was, he looked almost angelic.

He held up a small brown-leather notebook,

Showing it to the camera like it was the holy grail.

'This,' he said, his lips pursed and his jaw tight. 'This is the most important thing in the universe to me. The first time I travelled backwards, it was a three-minute trip back. A test, to see how possible it was. It turns out - very. The issue was, as is the issue for each of us... the nature of our gift means we have very little to gain from those who came before us. Knowledge, perhaps. But not tutelage.'

He opened the notebook, turning it to a page near the start.

'That first time, I had this notepad in my hand. Not for any reason - I had been jotting down some thoughts, and I realised that I made a mistake. I spelled my own name wrong. And, I thought about pushing the entropy of the universe back a moment or two so I could do it again. When I did... and I know I did. I watched the clock on the wall... I found myself three minutes in the past. My notepad was back on the table, and when I opened it to correct my mistake, lo and behold, it was still there.'

He dropped the notebook out of the shot, so it was just me and him looking at each other. Well, I could pretend that was the case, anyway.

'It's a tricky game,' he said. 'As soon as you're born, I could no longer go back. When you inherit your powers from me, you are locked out of going any further back than that. But as soon as you travel back in time, Brooke, you become what I call a fixed point. A point that stands outside usual cause-and effect.

'For example, for those three minutes, when I had gone back in time, I had a memory of the clock being ahead of what time it was. I remembered the future. The only way to do that, is by not adhering to the law of time. What I didn't bank on, was that by holding the notebook when I wound the clock back, it would become fixed as well.'

He held up the journal. 'This has notes within it of every life I have led. Every secret I have. And I leave it to you.'

I paused the video.

While there was a heavy emotional process going on right now, seeing my father's face for the first time in years, I was certain I wasn't missing anything there. He had left the notebook to me - but it wasn't here.

I checked the box again, just to make sure I wasn't being stupid, but nope - definitely wasn't there.

'Shit,' I muttered.

'What?' came my mother's voice, making me spin towards her. My back, and the back of the chair, would have been blocking the box from her view - but nothing could have stopped her from seeing her dead ex-husband's face on the screen. 'Oh... Sorry, Brooke. I didn't mean to...'

I closed the box, quietly, and turned to her, standing. 'The box had some messages for me. Things he wished he'd said.'

Her face hardened. 'Prick could have tried while he was still here.' Then, when she saw my face, she sighed, opening her arms. 'I didn't mean that. Oh, my love, I'm sorry.'

Again, it was strange - this was the most I'd ever gotten from her. She had, for so long, resented me. Blamed me for everything that went wrong. I was second place only to dad.

And now she was hugging me.

'The rest of that pizza still there?' I asked, and she nodded.

'Come on. He'll be here when you get back,' she said, putting her hand on my back and leading me away. 'And... Brooke, I know that I shouldn't ask, but... did you get anything from it? From seeing him, like that?'

I shrugged as I closed the bedroom door behind me. 'I don't think I found what he wanted me to.'

She accepted that, even though the truth she heard wasn't the truth I meant.

* * * * *

After dinner, which was as quiet and awkward as could be expected, mum tried to get me to watch one of those awful BBC Four documentaries about a band from the seventies I'd never heard of before. I gave her a line about being exhausted, physically and emotionally, and she accepted it and let me stalk away back to my room.

It was true, of course, on some level. I was exhausted. But I was also... itching. I needed to get back to Shannon and Kloe and Ryan. Hugo knew where they were, and he knew I wasn't there. If he caught on that I was onto him, it could spell trouble.

So, without opening another one of those USBs - I didn't need mum snooping on me - I crawled into bed and tried to come up with a plan.

It didn't come, though. There was too much in my head. Too much noise, from being back here, and being buried under an avalanche of new information. The notebook, Hugo's real motivations, the fucking time-travel. It was ludicrous.

And yet, beneath all of that, there was something else. Something that reared its head when I let myself drift, closer and closer to sleep in the wee hours of the morning, my dreams starting to encroach in, and my hands slipping to my chest, and the gap between my hip and my underwear.

I still haven't cum since fucking Bryson.

That disgusting, awful brute of a man had the cock of a God, and he thought it meant he could do whatever he wanted. He almost had. And when I stepped in, I had exposed myself to Shannon, giving her a glimpse of what was really going on.

But all of that trouble, all of the lies and secrets, paled right now in the memory of his member filling me like some heroic pillar of sex. Thick and hard and powerful.

Fuck, if I had thought about it more, I should have locking him in some custom-built coffin, with a hole for his mouth and another for his cock. Take away everything about him, and he was the perfect guy. Handsome and hung.

The 'rapist' thing was a bit of a downer, of course, in reality. But, in the dark of the night, between my sheets, and as my fingers found the parts of me that made me shudder and hold back moans, I was more than happy to indulge in the mixture of fantasy and memory.

So, as I writhed beneath the weight of my duvet, wearing nothing but my panties and a tee that caught on my nipples as I humped my own digits, I dragged myself closer and closer to orgasm, the building pleasure coming on fast and heavy. A deep, well-needed release to what had been a pressure-filled day.

'Oh shit,' I hissed as my muscles started to lock up, the waves of pleasure crashing over me in a long-overdue tide; I whimpered into my bottom lip as I fucked myself, the difficulties of the day evaporating as I let myself cream to the thought of Bryson's monstrous cock.

'Hmff,' I groaned as the orgasm subsided - not enough to completely undo the stress I was feeling, but at the very least it gave me a moment of peace as I basked in the afterglow.

Then, as I realised the world around me had fallen silent, I remembered what exactly happened now when I came.

Time had stopped.

I smirked, my libido surging again at the thought of my self-pleasure stopping the world dead, and even though I knew that, at some point, I'd have to get back to my flatmates and keep Hugo away from anything that would give him access to me, tonight was mine.

If nothing else, I could always use my dad's recordings to figure out how to rewind time, and try again.

I sat up, the bedsheet stopping in mid-air as I pulled it off myself, and slid out of bed. Still in only my now-dampened pants, a pair of socks and a plain white tee, it was strange that I couldn't feel the cold on my skin. Like everything else, it had stopped. Obeying my pleasure.

I slipped out of the room, conscious that it was that - my pleasure - that kept me in control. So, as I went through the house, I made a point to avoid my mother's room and every now and again slipped my hand into my underwear, stroking the sensitive wet folds of myself, making me groan as I masturbated throughout my childhood home. It was grotesque, and lewd - and I kind of loved it.

No one would ever know. No one could.

Hell, it occurred to me that, by eating every pussy and sucking every cock I fancied, I could keep the world stopped from here back home. I could walk home, spending days in this lusted-up haze, using pleasure as pit-stops between travel.

I wondered how many people on this road, right now, were fuckable.

I knew I needed more. More than what had already happened. More than the lack-luster orgasm I had managed through the same means as everyone else - wanking under the sheets after 'going to bed'. But I wasn't just anyone. Not any more. This power... it meant I was free to do what I wanted, to play how I wanted, so long as I didn't hurt anyone.

And so long as no one found out.

CHAPTER TWELVE - THE CRUSH

Through the front door, and out into the street I wondered, my skin not reacting to what should have been baltic cold. There was rain, hanging in the air, suspended in time. As I walked through it, I collected water across my face and clothes, soaking me in a whole new way.

And, as I looked around, trying to remind myself of any eligible bachelors within walking distance, I saw across the way a very welcome sight; my childhood crush.

Lorna Derring.

Well, childhood crush might be misleading - for most of it I had no idea it was a crush. For the longest time, I thought I just liked her. I basically discovered my bisexuality by staring through my window and seeing her; I saw her take off her bra when she was eighteen, the summer before I left for Uni, and it just about changed my life.

And, right now, she was in front of her window again, 20 years old, and looking out at the street. In fact, if I wasn't mistaken, she was looking straight at my window.

Creeper.

With a smirk, and remembering what her tits had looked like, back-lit by the soft orange of her lamp and across the street on a summer evening, I slid my finger across my clit, and allowed the lust to make my decision for me - and to keep everything frozen until I was done.

Her back door was unlocked, which seemed unsafe. Anyone could break in with the intention of, I don't know, taking advantage. Either way, I slipped in under the cover of frozen time, and almost skipped through her house. It was a mirror image to mums, with all of the rooms on the wrong side, but it was easy to navigate my way through and find my way upstairs.

I spotted Lorna's dad in the living room as I skipped past, asleep with a can lodged between his thighs, and the TV frozen on a frame of Family Guy. He wouldn't be a problem.

Up the stairs, each step made my nipples graze against the material of my tee, sending little shivers through me that, I knew, were helping me keep the silence going. So long as I couldn't hear the rain, I knew I was safe.

And then, suddenly, I was in Lorna's room. Her bedroom was open, and inside the darkened space was nothing but shadow-covered furniture, all falling away in my focus aside from Lorna herself, who stood looking out at the street, leaning over her own desk that sat beneath it. From the glow of the streetlamps flooding in, I could see that this wasn't a child's room anymore, and I tried to remember if mum had mentioned anything about Lorna in the last few years. Whether she'd gone to Uni as well, or if she'd stayed at home, maybe worked from this desk.

The bed, as I passed it, seemed unmade, which was unlike the rest of the room. It was all clean surfaces, topped with amenities that cast shadows and glinted in the white-yellow light, the rain speckling the window as she peered out.

She was beautiful. As beautiful as the day she'd revealed my sexuality to me. Her face was a picture of soft features, aside from a sharp jawline that put Olivia Wilde to shame. Her lips, illuminated in the street light, looked plump and soft in profile, and her eyes caught a melancholy expression as she looked out into the road.

Her body was... immaculate. It was impossible to deny that, as leery and objectifying as I knew it to be. The hourglass figure, and a waist that cinched her in the middle, letting her butt, clad in soft pyjama bottoms, speak for itself. Her top was a thin vest, and by the way she leaned I could tell the last few years had done nothing to make her bust any less impressive. I was jealous, and horny, and in awe, all at once.

But, as I followed her eyeline across the road, I saw that she wasn't just staring openly out into the rain.

Across the road, I could see my own window, the blind open and the light drifting inside as it had here. In fact, I could see the shadow of my desk, and the top of my laptop reflecting the rippled, rain-muddled light, and, behind that, the bed. Her window, as it was placed, gave her the perfect vantage pint to watch me right back.

And, all of a sudden, I found myself wondering if, those years ago, she hadn't known I was watching when she shed her top in front of her window.

But, as I watched her, I felt that pressure building; the threatening of the end, of the world catching up. Of Lorna coming back to life, seeing my mid-climax self vanish from my bed, and appear behind her.

And so, through absolutely no selfish motivations, I allowed myself to drop to my knees behind her bent-over rump, my fingers slipping into the elastic of her pyjama bottoms, and pulling the fuzzy grey bottoms down. Her curves were revealed to me in the low-light, and her lack of underwear became apparent as I was able to see the glistening of her wetness. Like rain on the window, she reflected the lamplight between her thighs, and I wished beyond wish in that moment that I could smell her.

In lieu of one sense, I tested another; my palms smoothed out the warm, firm flesh of her backside, my thumbs reaching in to the crease where her thighs meet her sex, spreading her pink folds wide. As she was bent over, having watched me fuck myself to orgasm, and being frozen in that instant, I pressed my tongue to her wet sex; the musk and bitter-sweet of her flower soaked into my mouth as I tasted her, that first splash of pleasure washing over me like the warmth of alcohol.

I moaned as I ate her, slathering my tongue and lips over her wetness, her juices smearing my nose and chin as I had my way with her. I wished beyond anything else that I was able to fuck her for real. To hear her moans as I sucked her clit, or to feel her fingers thread through my hair to urge me onwards. At the very least, to look into her eyes as she came on my tongue.

As I tasted her, I sat back, and watched a strand of wetness stretch from my lips to her pussy, and I looked at the tight knot of her arsehold. With a tentative heart, I kissed her pucker, and found her tasting clean - in fact, it was soapy, and I wondered if she was fresh out of the shower. Either way, within minutes I was working my tongue into her tight hole, as my thumb stayed on her clit and I threaded two fingers into her slick channel, fucking her unmoving, gorgeous figure, knowing the only thought in her mind as I went was of me.

She's going to think of me as she cums.

I smirked, and wondered whether she was done. If my assault on her sex would be enough to make her orgasm to the thought of me. So, with a final, loving kiss, with a dab of tongue as a thank-you for her show way-back when, I sat back. I stood, pulling Lorna's pyjama's up as I went, before sliding her hand from the table to her sex, and slipped her middle finger into her slit. Then, as a parting gift, I pulled up her top, and gave myself a view of those hanging tits, and committed them to memory.

Then, with a rush in my heart, and the taste of Lorna on my lips, I skirted my way back out of the house, across the road in the rain, and back into my own bedroom as fast as I could.

Then, as I crawled back into my bed, I shifted until I could see her - the blur of Lorna's image through the glass and the rain; the glow of light on the pink of her nipples almost indistinguishable from the rest of her.