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I don’t know how I got here or where I am, really. I just feel like I started being a moment ago and now I simply…exist.
I have a mini panic attack when I can’t expand my ribs properly, and then look down and find the reason why—a corset. Why on earth am I wearing a corset? I look farther down at my form, to my waist and down the dark blue fabric that reaches to the floor. Why am I wearing a ball gown?
This isn’t right. I know in my bones that I’m not supposed to be here. But I am here. So why not explore a bit?
It’s night, that’s for sure. I can only make out my surroundings by the candles and torches lighting up the room.
The room I’m in is made entirely of stones cobbled together to form the walls and floor. There’s a layer of dust on the bookshelf on one wall—an old wooden door that would creak if I open it stands opposite. In the middle of the room is a dark wooden table with some glass test tubes and other chemistry (or alchemy, I guess it depends on when I am) and piles and piles of old books, each stack topped with a candle.
My attention is immediately split between two places—the window and the table. Where do I want to go first? I ask myself. I decide on the window.
Then, my feet do something peculiar. They take me to the table.
Quickly, I find an open book and start to flip through to read the recipe it’s open to. The book is written from bottom right to top left, all the words reversed. But I’m understanding it perfectly as if this is second nature. What’s going on here?
The next thing I focus on is one of the candles on top of a particularly high stack of books. (I want to look closely, and can’t lean down very far in my corset.) As I gaze at it, another odd thing happens—the candle seems to be growing.
I lean down and tilt my head, trying in vain to figure out why everything around me feels wrong.
Its wax drops—which should be going down and pooling at the bottom of the metal candle stand—keep traveling upwards. The pool of wax diminishes and the candle gets taller and taller the long I stare.
What is happening. The thought is more of an exclamation at this point. A cry for help, maybe. But, to whom? I don’t even know how I got here.
I find myself gliding around the room now. The deep blue of my ballgown (I still don’t know why I’m wearing it) swishes over the floor as I walk. My unseen heels click and echo around the room, bouncing their sounds off the walls of stone. My hand trails along the wall, feeling each of the stones’ imperfections.
When am I?
That’s definitely not a question I thought I’d ever be asking myself. But i answer the thought anyways.
Between 1670 and 1550 would be my best guess.
Why does that thought feel funny? Still, those numbers are completely arbitrary. They are just values to make myself feel better as I finally (or is it firstly?) go to the window to investigate.
A medieval tower. Figures.
It definitely explains the gown, the stone, the alchemy set, the door, the candles.
But, what the tower doesn’t explain is the view I have. Everyone, all the people milling about in the village below, are walking and talking in reverse. It’s like they’re un-having conversations, undoing things that they’ve already done.
WHAT. IS. HAPPENING.
My mind screams at me to figure it all out. Figure out where and when exactly I am. Figure out why I feel all wrong ans why everything is reversed. Figure out how I got here in the first place.
There’s a creak off to my left, the squealing noise of rusty hinges not wanting to be moved.
My head snaps away from the backwards village three stories below and towards the door. In the doorframe leans a man in white converse, dark jeans, a light-weight leather jacket, and a graphic tee that read forwards “No time like the present”. Somehow, I know this is the norm for someone from the twenty-first century.
“I need your help,” he says, speaking in an English accent.
I start a rant before I can stop myself. “I don’t know where I am, when I am, how I got here, why everything feels wrong,” I gesture at myself in my gown and vaguely to the rest of my situation before continuing, “or who you are.“
He frowns at all that, about to speak before I add, “Or why you and I are the only ones moving forward. Well,” I interject my own thoughts, “kinda. I’m flip-flopping a bit…I think.”
The man grins widely and turns so his arms are crossed and his back is on the old doorframe. “Clever. Exactly why I need you.”
“What’s happening?” I ask in a meek voice. It feels like a weight just left my chest.
The man, who’d gotten off the doorframe and turned to leave, tilts his head back to answer over his shoulder. “All of history seems to be rewinding. It’s starting slowly at first, but I’m sure it’ll pick up speed as Time gains momentum.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets and faces me as I approach. “As for you…” His eyes bore into me, scrutinizing my very existence. “I have no idea who you are, how you got here, or why you’re moving forwards with me.”
“Comforting, thanks.”
He holds out a hand. “Let’s figure it out, shall we?”
I hesitate. Why should I?
Why shouldn’t I? I don’t know anything about what’s happening, and this strange man is the only thing that feels sort of familiar right now.
“What the hell,” I mutter, placing my hand in his. My other hand seems to already know what’s about to happen and bunches some of my ball gown’s fabric up.
His smile is wide and utterly contagious. “Brilliant.”
And then, we start running.