Future Me
by Jennifer Sheridan
Future Me might have hesitated. Future Me might have her hand on the car door handle, feel its cold metal, cold seeping between her bare fingers like a ghostly tongue, and just let go, thinking, neh. On second thought, neh. I don’t think so.
There’s a crossroads there, right there, between the Past and Future Me’s, the same person up until that moment, making identical choices. Past Me, and Future Me both turning her head at the sound of leaves crunching underfoot. Upon seeing him, emerging from between two vibrant red trees, that angle over towards each other. Which will drop its leaves first? Both me’s curious, and innocent, protected by the very size of our lakeside property. Naively believing, without even consideration of otherwise, herself to be safe here in a small clearing of trees not far from the house. The dew, after all, has not yet dried on the grass.
Only later, gasping and choking against a balled-up, blood-soaked bandana, bound up in the truck of his car, does she realize she never heard his car’s engine approaching, or his tires on the gravel road. But this is only Present Me, who went on to experience things, terrible things, before she died, things of which Past Me would never know.
The Me Forever in the Present of that moment by the car door, after he said he needed help, his dog was having puppies, after he said it was close by, not to worry. She’s the one to blame. Future Me might have backed away. Made a different choice.
Perhaps Future Me feels his eyes on her back, can sense the smile drop from his lips, over gritted teeth. Future Me hears the leaves crunching amiably underfoot, unwitting, and smells woodsmoke and, faintly, bacon, blowing down from the house on the cold morning air, off of the water. And, on a whim, turns back and waves, without stopping, stepping backwards, gives a tiny see ya, no hard feelings smile. Future Me, a mere ten paces on, feels safe, but ready, if need be, to run, up to the house. Having calculated: his size and slow reaction time, the distance to the door. Knowing in her Future bones, based on the direction of the breeze, just how far her voice can carry, if he gave chase. Which he doesn’t.
And Present Me settles into the passenger seat, which is white fake leather, and dirty. A grease stain where someone else’s head had rested. But she’s bored, so bored and playing with puppies would be something she could dream about long after. And it isn’t very far. Or something. Somehow, she isn’t thinking. She isn’t thinking that the world could end now. She leans her head against the window, and imagines newborn puppies, how they look like little seals, wet and mewling. Until she notices how fast he is driving, and his thick wormy fingers inching toward her thigh.
And later, when she knows for sure that she will not survive this, feeling her limp body thrown roughly inside the trunk, this Me, whichever one she is now, imagines herself as Past Me, walking through that screen door into the kitchen. And, seeing Mother’s turned back standing at the sink, she imagines becoming Future Me, who’d have made a different, better, choice, and takes a shuttering breath.
Jennifer Sheridan is a poet and bookseller living and often staring out the window in New York City. Her writing has appeared in Spectrum, Rattle, and Hole in the Head Review.