Narrative: The Wrong Timeline

trance-pop, dark, narrative, dark ambient, industrial sound design, experimental noise, cinematic sound design, industrial trailer impact, pop-punk, energetic, male vocals, noise, industrial

STUDIO

The detector gave one clean note beneath the fern roots.

Not foil. Not iron.

I dug until my fingers touched black metal.

In its center sat a green mineral, like agate lit from within, with a handle folded against one side.

(I thought buried meant harmless.)

I turned it one notch.

Nothing happened.

Then I noticed my sandwich.

I'd already eaten half.

Now it was wrapped again.

The bruise from digging remained on my wrist.

(I remembered everything.)

That evening I dropped a bowl.

It split across the kitchen floor.

I looked at the pieces, then the handle.

One tiny turn.

The bowl was whole again.

I was still holding the broom.

I laughed.

(I called that control.)

After that, I tested it.

A missed appointment.
A message I regretted.
A wrong turn.

Turn.

Nothing important.

I made rules.

Never more than an hour.
Never for anything I couldn't fix myself.

(I broke both.)

Turn it back, I keep the bruise.
Every fix leaves one less truth.

(I should have asked who paid.)

After an argument with my oldest friend, I turned it back a day.

The argument was gone.

So was our friendship.

She answered my call politely.

"Sorry... who is this?"

In this version, she'd transferred university before we became friends.

Twenty-three years existed only inside me.

Then I tried three days.

My sister still knew me, but when I used her childhood nickname she froze.

"Who told you that?"

She remembered giving it to someone else.

Old messages had changed.
Photographs had rearranged themselves around where I'd once stood.

The world wasn't forgetting me.

It had histories where I hadn't been there.

(Forgetting was the warning.)

I drove back to the forest to bury it.

At the fence, an elderly farmer stared at the device.

He pulled a blue-green stone from his coat.

"Saw the meteor come down beyond the ridge when I was seventeen."

He looked at me carefully.

"You've been here before."

I told him we'd never met.

"Not this you."

(That was when I stopped wanting answers.)

He touched his fragment to the green mineral.

My detector switched on by itself.

Through the speaker came a woman's breathing.

Mine.

Branches moving.

Then my own voice from the day I'd found it.

"Oh... that's strange."

A moment later...

my body hit the pine needles.

The farmer pulled the stone away.

Silence.

"The handle doesn't rewind," he said.

"It kills whoever turns it."

Then it copies what she remembers into an earlier neighboring world.

Her memories.
Her injuries.
Her age.

Everything she thinks is herself.

It chooses a branch where that world's version of her has just died.

I looked at my hands.

Same marks.
Same years.

I'd never become younger.

(I wasn't travelling backward.)

(I was arriving after myself.)

The farther back I went, the earlier my other life had ended.

My friend never met me because I died before university.

My sister barely remembered me because I died before she was old enough to know me.

I hadn't repaired anything.

Each correction belonged to another woman who turned the handle...

died...

and left me her relief.

(I called it memory. It was inheritance.)

I went home.

My key fit the lock, but wouldn't turn.

Another family's name was on the mailbox.

I called my sister.

Wrong number.

No contact.
No messages.

Here, I had died before she learned to speak.

Only the farmer remembered me.

His meteor fragment let him notice when history changed.

(I finally understood why he looked tired.)

He'd been meeting different versions of people for sixty years.

I buried the device beneath the same ferns.

Covered the metal.
Covered the green light.

Then walked to the road.

I almost reached my car.

Then I remembered my sister asking...

Who told you that?

Somewhere there was a world where she remembered me.

Maybe one turn back.

Maybe two.

Maybe there was a version where I hadn't ruined anything yet.

I went back.

(I wish I could say I left it buried.)

My fingers found the handle.

Turn it back, I keep the bruise.
Every fix leaves one less truth.

(Again.)

(Just once.)

(I only need one better world.)

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The detector gave one clean note beneath the fern roots. Not foil. Not iron. I dug until my fingers touched black metal. In its center sat a green mineral, like agate lit from within, with a handle folded against one side. (I thought buried meant harmless.) I turned it one notch. Nothing happened. Then I noticed my sandwich. I'd already eaten half. Now it was wrapped again. The bruise from digging remained on my wrist. (I remembered everything.) That evening I dropped a bowl. It split across the kitchen floor. I looked at the pieces, then the handle. One tiny turn. The bowl was whole again. I was still holding the broom. I laughed. (I called that control.) After that, I tested it. A missed appointment. A message I regretted. A wrong turn. Turn. Nothing important. I made rules. Never more than an hour. Never for anything I couldn't fix myself. (I broke both.) Turn it back, I keep the bruise. Every fix leaves one less truth. Turn it back, I keep the bruise. Every fix leaves one less truth. (I should have asked who paid.) After an argument with my oldest friend, I turned it back a day. The argument was gone. So was our friendship. She answered my call politely. "Sorry... who is this?" In this version, she'd transferred university before we became friends. Twenty-three years existed only inside me. Then I tried three days. My sister still knew me, but when I used her childhood nickname she froze. "Who told you that?" She remembered giving it to someone else. Old messages had changed. Photographs had rearranged themselves around where I'd once stood. The world wasn't forgetting me. It had histories where I hadn't been there. (Forgetting was the warning.) I drove back to the forest to bury it. At the fence, an elderly farmer stared at the device. He pulled a blue-green stone from his coat. "Saw the meteor come down beyond the ridge when I was seventeen." He looked at me carefully. "You've been here before." I told him we'd never met. "Not this you." (That was when I stopped wanting answers.) He touched his fragment to the green mineral. My detector switched on by itself. Through the speaker came a woman's breathing. Mine. Branches moving. Then my own voice from the day I'd found it. "Oh... that's strange." A moment later... my body hit the pine needles. The farmer pulled the stone away. Silence. "The handle doesn't rewind," he said. "It kills whoever turns it." Then it copies what she remembers into an earlier neighboring world. Her memories. Her injuries. Her age. Everything she thinks is herself. It chooses a branch where that world's version of her has just died. I looked at my hands. Same marks. Same years. I'd never become younger. (I wasn't travelling backward.) (I was arriving after myself.) The farther back I went, the earlier my other life had ended. My friend never met me because I died before university. My sister barely remembered me because I died before she was old enough to know me. I hadn't repaired anything. Each correction belonged to another woman who turned the handle... died... and left me her relief. (I called it memory. It was inheritance.) I went home. My key fit the lock, but wouldn't turn. Another family's name was on the mailbox. I called my sister. Wrong number. No contact. No messages. Here, I had died before she learned to speak. Only the farmer remembered me. His meteor fragment let him notice when history changed. (I finally understood why he looked tired.) He'd been meeting different versions of people for sixty years. I buried the device beneath the same ferns. Covered the metal. Covered the green light. Then walked to the road. I almost reached my car. Then I remembered my sister asking... Who told you that? Somewhere there was a world where she remembered me. Maybe one turn back. Maybe two. Maybe there was a version where I hadn't ruined anything yet. I went back. (I wish I could say I left it buried.) My fingers found the handle. Turn it back, I keep the bruise. Every fix leaves one less truth. (Again.) (Just once.) (I only need one better world.)

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