100 Years (I'm Looking Through You)

I could hear her words echo in my mind. The streetlights and cars lost any tangible meaning. It was a miracle I made it to my driveway. The silence of the suburbs made it harder to distract myself from it. The noise of the city did a better job muting brain activity.

Lost is how I would describe myself. Who wouldn’t in that situation? A relationship of almost a decade gone after one night. Most people would pray to go back a day and make it right. Going back would solve it all. I know what mistakes I made. I know what to say now. But that doesn’t matter. She’s gone. That was where my head was at.

“I don’t want this anymore.”

Her eyes were determined. Her tone, unshaken. Her voice was trying its best to communicate, but it couldn’t quite translate what her eyes shouted. We’ve known each other since we were fifteen, so of course I understood her eyes.

Every movement. Every twitch. I knew exactly what she meant when she said, “I don’t want this anymore.” It was more than a fight, or lovers spat. Much bigger than a quarrel. It wasn’t a statement fuelled by emotion. She didn’t say it in the heat of the moment. Nor was it a bout of momentary doubt. It was a declaration of something she was feeling deep inside. Something she deliberated for some time.

She needed to move on. I wasn’t going to cut it anymore. I noticed things changed after one night. One silly, stupid night. But I couldn’t help but think it started long before that. Perhaps on the day we met. Like any living thing, its mortality was decided at birth.

I turned off the engine and removed the key. The car fell silent, and the lights followed. It was darker and quieter. Colder. That was to be my life without her.

Most would pray to go back and make it right. I did at first. Though I realised, a day wouldn’t cut it. I’d need to relive my entire life to fix myself. To be better. To make her happier. It was one night but that night wouldn’t have happened if I was better. If she didn’t notice I was flawed.

I rested my head on the steering wheel. Each breath created a cloud that dissipated in less than a second. My head had felt like a bowling ball all day but on that steering wheel it was a little lighter. All I could think about was how comfortable I was. I was comfortable enough to sleep. Certainly, tired enough. As if that would make it better.

Turning back time was impossible. At least right then it was. In the future, who knows? People in the 60s watched Star Trek thinking video calls were impossible. There were so many conspiracy theories about time travellers appearing in various moments in history. Maybe I’m one of them. Sunglasses guy at JFK’s assassination. Maybe Stephen King was writing about me in that one book whose title I’d always forget that she’d remind me of.

As thoughts of time travel shot across my mind, the clouds cried. The rain was strings from the skies. The windscreen turned from transparent to translucent. My house was barely visible through the streaks of water.

Travelling back would’ve been nice. I could do so much. So many changes. She would’ve stayed with those changes. I would’ve said the right things. Done the right things. To see her smile again and smell her scent. The thought of her warmth. Our hands locked like when we were kids on a school trip.

Thoughts of hope lingered. Before I knew it, composure returned to me. Stress dissipated like the fog my breath made. Strangely, it wasn’t my thinking of her that triggered this. It was the thoughts of after her.

I was broken. I was going to be that for a long time. Ten years together. It’d take 100 years to fully heal and put myself together again. Maybe during the process, I could find someone new and forget about her. It’d be nigh on impossible but would definitely help.

Sure, the thought of love disappearing overnight would be tucked away in the corners of my mind. Feelings of joy would be riddled with an aftertaste of doubt. But that’s part of the process.

After a hundred years I’d be able to do and learn so much. I could finally take Spanish lessons. My love for Spanish cuisine won’t be restricted to the local Tapas bar. I could finally go on that trip to Barcelona. Parasol on a beach in Malaga. A lunch of fresh Mediterranean sardines and margaritas.

I’d always wanted to start my own company. Imagine that. A CEO. Who knows what I’d manufacture or sell. I’d think of that later. Maybe cheesecake. A cheesecake factory! I’d have issues with branding and copyright, but I’d make it work. Or slowly shift to regular cake. The cake factory! Okay, I’d probably still have issues.

In 100 years, I’d have no ties to anything. Having no family would be strange at first, but I wouldn’t have to deal with any of it. It all just goes. Any estranged relatives would be exactly that. Estranged. I’d be a blank slate human with no ties. Nothing but the next. I wouldn’t have to care about any of this. I would start anew.

One thing was clear. I didn’t need to go back.

“100 years forward will do the trick,” I declared.

A faint smile remained as I slowly drifted to sleep.

…

The sun’s intense glow glazed my skin and forced my eyes open. No cloud was in sight. The floor was also unnaturally dry given the downpour the night before. That’s when the cord of confusion struck me. I was moved. Not in the emotional sense. Well maybe in the emotional sense, but more so literally.

There was no steering wheel to rest my head or window to peer out of. Instead, I was on a street bench down the road from my place. One made of some kind of cherry wood that was bolted to the ground. I didn’t feel any strain or discomfort sitting which meant I couldn’t have been there for long. What animal robbed a broken hearted man and left him on the sidewalk?

An ordinary reaction would be shock and confusion. At that moment I was only curious. I couldn’t recall there being a bench on my street.

As I made my way to my home, I noticed more anachronisms to the world I knew. The lampposts were different. Each was taller, and the light source seemed more spread out. There was a yellow fire hydrant with a red top on the other side of the road. It was untouched, clearly a new addition.

Miraculously, all the neighbours sold their cars overnight. More shocking, my neighbour Craig switched his out for a bicycle. Craig, the petrol loving, security preaching, American wannabe. He would never trade a car for a bike let alone leave one out with no lock and chain.

I peered at the door numbers and street signs. There was no doubt about it. This was my street. The curiosity I had felt moments ago was slowly being exchanged for panic. It was like deja vu. Familiar but completely new. I had still not seen a single soul.

As I reached my place and grabbed the keys out my pocket, I realised the door was different. Futuristic isn’t the right word. It was still wooden with the number “67” bolted in the centre. Noticeably larger than the previous. The only oddity was the lack of a keyhole or peep hole. It was just wood. I tapped where the keyhole would’ve been and felt nothing other than wood.

Next to the door was a slab of glass that looked like a transparent, bezelless tablet. I tapped it hoping a paragraph would pop up to explain what happened to my door. Nothing of the sort happened. I tapped it again and the screen came to life. A message took centre screen saying, “Jameson-Tobbin Residence”, while a circle glowed beneath.

I repeatedly tapped the circle. A red message popped up that said, “Fingerprint not recognised.”

I tried again expecting something different to happen, but no. Another error message popped up: “Retina and fingerprint not recognised”. As I read the message I noticed a line of arbitrary numbers on the top right corresponded to an American date. The day and month were correct. The year, however, had a “1” where the “0” was supposed to be.

The cord of realisation stuck with an awesome pluck. Everything made sense. It was painfully obvious in retrospect. If it were plastered to the sky, I’d somehow have missed it until now. In all fairness, the date was right there and I mistook it for a code. Why was it an American date? I don’t know why that was the first thing I thought of when I realised I was somehow 100 years into the future.

Realisation was quickly interrupted, “Hi, could you leave it by the door please?” A conspicuous American accented voice muffled from the screen.

“Sorry, leave what at the door?”

“The pa-- oh sorry you’re not the delivery guy!” they said, sounding louder and clearer. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I um, I’m looking for a relative who lives here. Last name’s Emmerson,” I asked, testing the waters. If I magically disappeared, after a while I would assume the world would eventually assume I’m dead. And if I’m dead, then surely my family would have inherited my place.

“Emmerson… it’s a familiar name but no Emmerson lives here. I’m leasing a bedroom from the Hadrich Company and I’m pretty sure none of my roommates go by Emmerson.”

“Oh, really. No problem. Sorry to bother you,” I said walking away before bolting back. “Sorry but what's the Hadrich Company?”

“What?”

“I mean what do they do?”

“They own houses and flats and put them for rent. Are you one of those rock people or something?”

“Rock people?” I quickly pieced together he meant something along the lines of are you living under a rock. “No of course not! It’s just I’m quite forgetful when I’m stressed. And I’m stressed because I’m lost. You know how it is, haha!”

“Yeah, okay. Is that all?” they asked passive aggressively.

“Yeah that’s it– actually no, one more question. The Hadrich Company. When did they buy this place?”

“How and why would I know that?”

“I mean you live there.”

“I’m sure that information and anything else you might ask me is online. I’ve really got to get back to work now, someone’s calling me.”

“Of course. Thank you so much for your ti–,” as I was taking them the monitor shut off. “They hung up on me.”

I was left a little saddened by the exchange. A lot of time has passed so I’m not surprised my parents or sister cashed in the property. At least the place looks the same, I thought. Unchallenged legacy – even if it was as minor as the exterior design of my old house – was nice to see.

I ambled back to the street. By some sheer cosmic chance, my wish had become true. A throwaway thought has landed me stuck in a foreign habitat.

I had so many questions. The obvious ones sprung to mind first like how did I get here and what happened last night (or rather 100 years ago)? Then followed the more pressing questions such as what do I do and where do I go? Before I could dwell on any of that though, I crashed heads with a towering, weedy man.

“Sorry!” I was more startled than apologetic. I hadn’t seen anyone yet so I didn't expect to see anyone for a while.

The man was thin, yet had some muscle definition. His clothing didn’t seem too out there. A pair of grey cargo shorts and a red tee shirt that said “AKIMBO living”. That must’ve meant something here. Perhaps it was an ironic tee shirt or some kind of merchandise. A movement maybe? “Stand up for what you believe in,” type of thing. His shoes were standard panda Nike Dunks. Quite basic. I guess some popular things don’t age. Or maybe it's a ‘retro’ thing being brought back in fashion. Man, I'm old, I thought. What was most blaring about his outfit was his metallic headset. It looked more like ski goggles than a headset. Through the shimmering front glass, his blue eyes glowed.

“No sweat bro, it's my bad too,” he smiled, adjusting his goggles.

Without any hesitation, his seemingly friendly expression vanished. With his headset properly adjusted, he paced away, raising his hands at random intervals. Quick to apologise, even quicker to leave.

“Excuse me!” I said. “Could you help me?”

He paused, looking around to see where the voice came from. Obviously it was me, but he still felt the need to check. He honed his eyes to my direction and paced over. His movements were as confusing as his appearance. I tried my best not to peer at his headset, but it was hard not to wonder what he was doing on it.

“What’s up bro?” he said with a now blatant phoney smile.

“I’m a bit lost, I think.”

“Did you run out of battery? Been there myself once or twice! I never leave home without a brick,” he said, unsheathing a hefty battery from his cargo trousers.

“No, I actually left my phone in my car and my car in my driveway… which was this place, but I think I’m on the wrong street or something. Even though this is my street. I thought being here would make me feel better, but I can see that I was wrong. I’m sorry for the rambling. I’m going through a lot, I think.”

A blank expression plastered his face. I could see his bold blue eyes through his visor. They were focused on some important detail. With a laser-like intensity, he was attempting to decipher or discover some kind of a clue. One of enough importance that it could change the world forever. Maybe my world. Maybe he knew of my situation and how to get me back, I thought. I hoped. But what good would it be staring at my face? I was no-one of note. My appearance was basic. My words had substance, not my face.

“What?” he asked.

“I think I’m going through something.”

“No I meant, what did you say?” he said, his eyes glued to one spot. I floated around to see if they would track me. They didn’t.

“Are you paying attention? Are you even looking at me?”

“I’m listening bro. I see you,” his phoney smile spat a jibe. His form was stabbing.

“You don’t see me do you? You’re looking at what’s on your visor. You act like you’re paying attention but you’re not. You act like you care, but you don’t. You’re a liar and you don’t even know it. You don’t see me. You’re looking through me. You don’t know, but you only care about yourself. You really only help others to make you feel better about yourself. You live according to what makes you happy. You know nothing of sacrifice. You don’t see people, you look through them. That’s why she left you. You couldn’t say it then so I’ll say it for you now. When she asked you why you think she’s leaving, the answer you should have given was: ‘Because I’m looking through you’!”

Those words woke me in the brisk chill of my car. Moonlight shone a cooler blue, while birds far away cried in the shelter of trees. Winds called for dawn, while the sun was still finding a way to the world. In the cold, quiet dark I understood. It took 100 years and five minutes to learn.

I never saw her again. I never could tell her.

I’m looking through you.