By Jessica M. Felleman
I am watching his death from my window. My finger lifts away from my palm, the soft click letting me know it has reset time. I raise my eyes and keep looking for a variation in his movements, for the exact place where I could still save him. But it is too fluid, too clean. It is simple really. Now, during the hundredth repetition, it cannot be complicated, I know it too well. From the angle of his face to the slight twitch of his left pinky. I shake my right hand, my implant sore from overuse. The sirens are crying from down the street.
I'm thinking about calling the Correct-o-Time implant company to complain about how the device isn't working. I am not getting a happier result by changing the events of my life. I do not feel happy at all, I feel sick, tight and twisted in my gut. The implant glows up at me from the palm of my hand, its triangular body for the first time in eleven years looking foreign and out of place. I press it again and replace him.
His right foot pedals once, he glances to the left, eyes barely connecting with the driver of the white truck. Is he wondering at the man's expression? Is he regretting anything? All I know is that he doesn't even look the other way when the impact occurs.
He never sees the woman. Instead, he frantically keeps his eyes locked on the man, who is turning gray and cannot look as the boy’s small body is tossed past his side window. The brakes of the burgundy minivan scream. Through the slight smoke that smells of crisp and heavy burnt rubber I can see the van's front bumper stop inches before becoming level with the front of the truck in the opposite lane. The woman in the van's eyes follow the bike. I follow the movement of the boy's right arm, and the soft purple light of his flickering implant.
The red bike is torn from him. His right arm is shattered instantly and it twists towards his stomach as he stops rising up. Maybe his wiring broke then. Maybe his implant was destroyed. His left shoulder hits the pavement first, and his already cracked head bounces after it, remembering the hot and smooth surface of the mini van's hood. He loses contact with the man, he loses his shoes. Easy momentum rolls him so that he is now lying on his back, staring up at where the truck's back tires connect, legs sticking out uselessly across the double yellow lines.
Still, all I can focus on is his bloodied right hand. With the implant intact in its center, something he's probably had since he was one. His hand opens and closes, fluttering like a ladybug that has been turned over. Nothing more than disastrous and futile motion. He does not push the button.
The woman gets out. Ten cars behind the truck horns begin to complain at the now complete halt in Saturday noon traffic. A small sedan gets out of line to bypass the clot, but stops suddenly upon seeing a bright green size thirteen sneaker blocking its way. The driver parks in the middle of the wrong lane and gets out just as the woman crumples to the ground, pale hands rising to grip her blonde hair. Her van beeps rhythmically, a strict female voice rising from inside, telling her to take the keys out or shut the door. She hears neither the ultimatum nor the rising sobs of her terrified three year old from his car seat in the back.
I rewind, I replace the boy with another. I still cannot look away from his hand as the events occur the same as they did the first time, which could have been months ago. Why does he not push the button?
I replace him. But his identity does not change the event. I can no longer remember who's son he was in the first place. I am no longer sure that it matters. I grow frantic and push.
This time his left red sneaker remains on his foot. The bike is silver, the truck is navy, and the woman's forehead is trickling blood down her dark cheek. The voice spilling from the van is sweetly Spanish. I push it.
I'm watching his death from my window. I'm watching his hand. It opens, it closes, the child cries, my implant grows warmer. The rusted once pink bike's back tire continues to spin as the rest of its broken body hums from its place on my lawn.
When the sirens begin to rise up and the blood pooling beneath his head starts to run through his fingers, I stop it, I go back.
I lift my finger from the button. I am watching him ride up the street, towards the stalled Saturday noon traffic. He is fast, too fast. His white Nikes are quick blurs.
I replace him. The woman from the sandstorm minivan collapses. The boy's hand contracts, the blue bike's handle bar has cracked the truck's windshield.
I reach for the button again, my chest tight and my eyes burning. My Correct-o-Time beeps, telling me the battery is about to die. There is probably only enough energy left for one more change. The sirens grow closer, I allow myself to sit on the edge of my bed, and I do not take my eyes off his hand when I press it, an unspoken "I'm sorry" dries upon my lips.
My implant is beeping, steady and shrill, the battery has died. I can't remember what I overused it for. I get up from my kitchen table to look for the number so I can call the Correct-o-Time company and order a new battery. I hear the first notes of police sirens going off outside somewhere. As they grow louder they drown out the beeping implant. Forgetting its recent death I prod at it, and am shocked at this abnormal reaction.
"You have used up all the joy this battery had to offer you! Please call our service line to request a new one! Don't let too much unchangeable time go by! Call Correct-o-Time today to procure your deserved happiness! Remember! If you try once and fail, Correct-o-Time can help you try try try again!" The booming voice makes me jump and I shake off an ugly feeling and reach for my phone.
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