Perfectly Timed Read online

  Perfectly

  Timed

  Perfectly

  Timed

  JAMIE CAMPBELL

  “Time travel is such a magic concept,”

  Matt Smith

  Chapter 1

  I am a missing person. I have been gone so long from my home that I no longer consider it my home. My family are still there, they still eat dinner together every night, my brothers still fight, and my mother still does her needlework by the fire. But I no longer belong there.

  I belong nowhere.

  I can stand in the middle of the house, I can shout and scream, I can throw a tantrum. Yet no-one hears me, no-one sees me. I am a ghost of my former life but I am still alive. I want to be a part of my family. I want my old life. I just don’t know how to make it all stop so I can start living again. I want to go to school, I want to break curfew, and I want to be normal.

  I would give anything to be normal.

  The now familiar pull tugs at my chest. It fills me with dread as it threatens to take me away. I want to stay where I am, staring at my house and my family inside. I want to plant my feet on the ground and stay exactly here. Right here.

  But I can’t.

  The force pulls me away and I am useless to stop it. I tumble through time. It only takes a moment as everything flashes with a bright white light around me. I have to close my eyes to stop being blinded by it.

  I don’t know where it is taking me this time. There is no rhyme or reason where I am transported to. All I know is that I end up there with no way to escape until it pulls me away again. I spend my entire life waiting and expecting the tug. I can’t settle, I can’t make friends, I just have to wait.

  In the beginning it wasn’t like this. I would land in a strange place and immediately try to fit in. I would try to make friends so I wasn’t so alone and I could feel like I was connected to something. But that was a long time ago.

  Now, I know better.

  If I connected to something, it only led to loss. I would be pulled away and never see them again. Connecting led to pain and I wouldn’t make that mistake anymore.

  It has been years since I have spoken to another human being. The last one was a woman that reminded me of my mother. I thought perhaps I could talk to her and tell her how much pain I was in. I was pulled away before I could finish the first sentence. From then onwards, I didn’t make that mistake again.

  There are some days when I can’t even remember my own name. It’s Ella Breeland, I think. When I am pulled back to my own time, I see my face on the missing person’s posters. It always reminds me of who I am. But it doesn’t really matter anymore.

  I am the person that doesn’t exist. I don’t want to be causing my family that kind of pain but I have no way of telling them I am all right. I lost that ability four years ago when I was twelve.

  The white light subsides around me and I frantically look around to see where I am. I have to be quick, sometimes I land in the middle of danger. On several occasions I flashed into war, surrounded by swords, guns, or grenades. Other times, I have flashed into the middle of a crowded street with cars dangerously close to running into me.

  I may be a ghost, but I can still be hurt.

  Today I am in a field, it’s difficult to tell when or where, it just looks like a whole lot of green grass in all directions. I guess I’ll have to walk until I hit civilization. A cool breeze whispers around me, sending a shiver coursing down my spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. I will need to find a sweater or blanket at some point, once I figure out where I am.

  Mountains are all around in the distance, it looks far from my home. If I had to guess, I’d say I was in Europe somewhere. What time period is anyone’s guess. Without seeing people, I can never tell. The way people dress and act is always a good indication of what the decade is.

  Flashing into a new place used to be a lot more difficult when I was new to it. People were able to see me then, they would ask questions about my clothes or wonder why I spoke differently to them. I had to learn quickly how to blend in.

  Now, it was never an issue.

  People didn’t see me anymore. When I disconnected from humanity, I somehow became invisible. I can now walk freely anywhere and nobody sees or hears me. A living ghost, that’s the only way I can describe it.

  It has its benefits. I don’t have to change my clothes anymore, I can wear whatever I manage to liberate from a store. I can take food and supplies without being seen and I can sleep wherever I like without being disturbed. Like I said, it makes my life easier.

  But there is also the downside, like with anything.

  I can’t talk to people. I can’t ask for help or have a conversation with anyone. Sometimes I am so lonely I think I can’t breathe anymore. But that is what I wanted, right? If I don’t talk to people, I can’t get attached and then suffer the loss when I am pulled away. It’s a double-edged sword.

  This field seems to go on forever. I can’t remember the last time I slept so I wasn’t fit for a trek to begin with. I just want some food and a warm place to curl up and sleep. I don’t think that is too much to ask but apparently it is.

  It is dusk by the time I reach a village. I am so relieved I want to cry at seeing the road into town. I didn’t think I could walk for too much longer and I was not guaranteed to find anywhere by nightfall.

  I pass more and more people the deeper into the village I walk. They don’t bother me, I’m invisible to them. The only thing I have to remember is to keep out of their way. I may be a ghost but I’m still solid. If they were to run into me, we would both feel the impact. The only difference is they would be confused about what happened. I would just be sore.

  The women around me are wearing gowns down to the floor, their hair is perfectly pulled back from their faces. Feathers adorn their hair and bustles bounce around their waist. I have gone back in time again, I would guess perhaps the late eighteen hundreds.

  I’ve become somewhat of a historian since I started being pulled away. I used to have no idea about history, I didn’t really care. It all happened so long ago, I could never see what relevance it had to my life. Which is kind of funny now, considering I’m living it. I had to learn it quickly, especially when I first started and people could see me. If I didn’t know how to blend in, I stood out.

  And I really didn’t want to stand out.

  I strain to hear the conversations around me to see if I can pick up on what language they are speaking. It’s out of curiosity really, it doesn’t matter where I am. I don’t need to blend in anymore, but I still like to know where in the world I’ve been pulled to.

  It’s French, I’m sure it’s French. The language is flowery, the accent’s beautiful, even if a little mumbled. I can’t tell what they are saying. I only know English, but it doesn’t matter. All it means is that I’ll have to be careful when I find something to eat. I don’t want to end up snacking on escargot or something equally as horrifying.

  Thinking about food reminds me how hungry I am. The markets are closed in the village square so I have to find a house or café for dinner. I normally prefer to stay away from people’s houses. It feels like stealing when I take something. Which it is, but I only take what I need. I may be disconnected from the world and left to bounce around through time, but I still have ethics.

  I’m still a good person.

  At least I think so. To be entirely honest, I don’t really know who I am anymore. My name is Ella Breeland, that’s about all I know. I have to keep repeating my name to myself, to remind me that I am a real person. I’m real to me, even if to nobody else.

  Music filters from the doors of a restaurant. It will be as good as any place to find food. I enter, not caring if anyone notices the door swinging open
by itself. I used to worry about it, but that was ages ago now. I may be responsible for a few ghost stories being passed down the generations.

  Inside is like nothing else I’ve seen before. The lights are dim, emanating from lanterns dotted around the walls and candles placed on tables. There is a bar on one side and a stage on the other. A woman with the most perfect red hair is singing soulfully in front of a piano. She’s putting everything into the song, every emotion she has. It’s mesmerizing.

  I stumble through the tables, trying to avoid the elbows and heads of those seated. The food looks really good on their plates, it makes my stomach grumble. I don’t want to take anything from them, so I look around for the kitchen. The food has to come from somewhere.

  I watch the waiters, they all come and go from a set of doors next to the bar. I tear myself away from the performance and enter the swinging doors. Four men in white chef outfits are frantically moving about the kitchen. I have to stay on my toes to avoid colliding with them as they buzz about.

  The sultry voice of the redhead still reaches my ears, even though now muffled. She’s probably famous in the village, she’s good enough to be.

  I find the stash of food in the cold box and help myself to some fruit, bread, and cheese. I don’t trust the look of anything else. There is some brown mousse concoction and raw parts of animals that make me want to gag with just the sight of them.

  I leave the kitchen through the back door, not wanting to return to the restaurant. Everyone is having a good time, I don’t want to be around such happiness. Once, I would have reveled in the romance of it all, found a dress and joined in. But then, just when I got involved in a conversation, I would be pulled away. It sucked, plain and simple. Now when I get pulled away, I don’t care, it’s just another place.

  Looking around, it is almost completely black outside now. The sun has bobbed down behind the mountain range and the moon can only filter so many beams down to light my way. I have to blink several times to adjust to the darkness.

  Across the field is a barn with one solitary light inside. It will do for the night. I cross the yard and enter, careful not to startle the animals and cause unwanted attention.

  Animals can see me, you can’t disconnect from them. It’s the reason I like staying in barns. They are normally warm and dry, I can usually find a blanket and some water. If it’s a stable, I can usually find some fruit to eat too. They may be rotten but when you’re desperate they taste sweet.

  The barn holds a horse and a few goats. I pat them as I walk past. It’s nice being able to touch a living thing. My favorite place to flash to is wherever they have pets. If I go back too far in time, they don’t have them. I love being able to snuggle up to a family dog, they are usually happy to see me.

  “You’re beautiful,” I whisper to the horse, it blinks back at my touch. She’s a beautiful white color with grey dots. Her pristine coat tells me she’s well taken care of, someone obviously cares deeply for her. That makes one of us.

  I find a clean stack of hay and the horse’s coat that will do as a blanket. I lay it over the hay and settle down for the night, eating my stolen food. As far as times go, this one hasn’t turned out so bad.

  I sleep until mid-morning. I’m not sure exactly what time I awaken, but the sun is high in the sky so it has to be close to noon. That was another thing about time travelling, it was like the worst case of jet lag imaginable. I never knew what time it was so I got used to just eating and sleeping whenever I felt like it. Sometimes it meant sleeping in the middle of the day, sometimes it meant wandering around in the dark.

  At times, I would get pulled away while I slept. The white flash that always surrounded me would be the only indication of what was happening. I’d land somewhere and have to deal with the new surroundings as well as a lack of sleep.

  I replace the horse’s coat where I found it and step outside. The sun is shining and it’s quite warm, hotter than the previous day in the hills, anyway.

  People are walking in the street in front of the same bar where I had stolen my food. The ladies’ long and ornate dresses really are beautiful as they stroll along, talking and laughing amongst themselves. The men are quite good looking too, very dashing in their long pants and jackets. Everyone looks formal, done up. I feel very underdressed in my simple purple dress. My knees and arms are showing, I would cause a scandal if they could see me.

  I want to get the smell of the hay and horse off me so I walk around the village until I find a stream. Using a bath in one of the houses would be tricky and I would probably get caught before I even got in so the cold stream will have to do.

  I look down at the water, it appears clean enough. I take off my dress and hide it between rocks on the bank. I feel naked in my underwear, out in public. I know they can’t see me but I still feel so exposed. It’s why I can’t bathe naked, I have to keep my underwear on or I wouldn’t be able to do it. They might get wet and soggy but they need washing too so it all works out.

  When I am pulled away, I only take with me what is on my body. That includes clothes and whatever is in my hands or pockets. I didn’t think to have soap in my pockets when I was pulled away from my last place so I have to make do with just the water to clean myself.

  I finish in the stream and sit by the bank while I dry off. The sun feels good on my skin, it’s been too long since I’ve just sat and enjoyed it. My friends and I used to go to the beach all the time, we would spend hours playing in the sand or in the water. The last time I did that was probably when I was about nine or ten.

  Before it all started.

  When I am as dry as I’m going to get, I put my dress back on. I need food so I head toward the marketplace I saw in the village yesterday. The stalls had all been closed then but I know that would be the most likely place to get something to eat.

  In my experience, markets are always a busy place in any town, no matter what country or time. They are a good place to take things and not be noticed. On the other hand, they are also really difficult to avoid running into people. Thankfully, the brush of an unseen person can easily be explained with so many people around.

  My instincts weren’t wrong.

  The marketplace has dozens of vendors and three times the number of people bustling about. I can walk around easily amongst them without worry.

  I stop at a stall of fruit and smell, taking in the divine scent of the freshness. They have everything; strawberries, blueberries, grapes, and cherries. I take a handful of each, using the paper bag they have gracefully left out for the paying customers. If I had money, I would pay. I don’t feel comfortable stealing.

  I bite into a grape as I start walking again. Some of the artworks the street vendors have displayed are truly stunning. One of the artists is making a charcoal drawing of a child sitting for him. His mother and father watch on in delight as his likeness becomes apparent on the paper. It’s sweet but it only makes me think of my own family.

  Sometimes, when I’m around people for too long, I can’t take it any longer. I think it might be better if I disappear altogether. My parents already consider me lost, they wouldn’t know I had gone for good. They probably already believe that anyway.

  It’s normally when I have those thoughts that I get pulled somewhere else. It’s like a cruel joke, when I’m depressed about time jumping they make me do it again. I have no idea who is the one pulling my strings but they have a sense of humor, I’m sure.

  I sit on the bench and watch the markets while I eat. I have to keep alert for anyone intending to sit too, but everybody seems to be busy with their own lives.

  The fruit stall vendor hasn’t yet noticed the missing food I took, thank goodness. Hopefully he will never realize and know what he had lost. I wouldn’t want him being angry or accusing any innocent people.

  A guy approaches the same vendor. He’s cute, it’s probably what catches my attention. He’s tall, probably a good foot taller than myself. His ink-black hair hangs loosely around his face. I
f I had to guess, I would say he is around my age—sixteen. I couldn’t be sure though, it’s hard to tell in the different eras.

  The guy looks around suspiciously and picks up a handful of cherries. Before he can pay, he takes off and disappears into the crowd. I quickly look around but nobody else has noticed him. He has gotten away with stealing. I’m annoyed at him for doing so, despite the fact that I did the same thing. My situation is different, I have no choice. Everyone else does.

  Suddenly staying in the marketplace doesn’t seem as appealing anymore. I spend the afternoon walking around the village, exploring. I am careful not to run into anyone and my presence largely remains unknown to all.

  Overall, the village is quite cute, like it exists in a snow globe. I would enjoy it if I was on vacation instead of being held captive by the time monsters.

  As darkness starts to fall, so does my mood. Nights are always the loneliest times. During the day I can pretend I have a home to go to and a family to embrace. I can’t do that at night time, my reality confronts me starkly with no escape.

  I find myself standing outside the same café as yesterday, the one with the music and food. My hand rests on the door handle, daring me to open it and enter to join in the festivities. I hesitate, unsure whether I can handle it again.

  But the soft voice of the redhead creeps out through the cracks and I can’t resist it any longer. I’m probably torturing myself but I enter anyway, taking a deep breath to prepare myself.

  The place is quieter tonight, only half the tables are filled. I don’t know whether it’s a weekday or not so I don’t know if that is why the patronage is down. Still, it doesn’t seem to faze the singer, she trills her sultry tales to those that are here, and not to those that aren’t.

  I sit on a stool at the bar and turn around so I can watch her. The dress she wears is a deep red, as vibrant as any in my time. It probably cost her a fortune, if she bought it herself. I’m guessing she probably gets a lot of gifts from possible boyfriends. Or suitors, to be more time-appropriate. She is probably liked more by men than women, I’m guessing.