Inverted

By Noah Litle

I run backward through time, toward the mushroom cloud that will soon be my invention warehouse, thankful that the inversion suit I’m wearing wasn’t destroyed in this inferno.

The eruption shrinks over the warehouse, and the fire bursts bright before reassembling the near end of the building.

Perfect.

I run in through the open back door, which closes on its own behind me. Paper glider prototypes sit next to internal combustion engine experiments, each reverse explosion throwing flaming pieces back into order.

This is the life that was lost to me. All of it gone in this blaze. But I have one hope.

Maybe I can change things. Maybe—just maybe—the past is pliable.

I creep between the shelves, following the smoke as it backtracks. The flames have receded almost to the far wall now.

Hope fills me at the sight of my restored inventions.

Alan will be at the other end of the warehouse un-lighting this devastation soon. The destruction retracts toward a closed door, consuming less and less of my inventions as I approach.

This is the moment of truth. Now I’ll catch Alan in the act.

I open the door. A ball of fire forms in front of me and retreats from the room, leaving everything behind me unburned. I jump through the door, close it quickly, and land in hell.

Flames everywhere repair the wooden cabinets and workbenches as they retreat. A light fixture lifts itself off the floor and lands on the ceiling as I stand in the doorway, gathering my bearings.

Alan lies on the floor in front of the exit at this end, which is open. He seems to be unconscious. I pull my gun out.

This is it. I just have to wait for him to un-ignite this place. I check to make sure the gun is loaded.

Now the only thing left burning is the debris immediately surrounding Alan.

He moves, lifting his head suddenly, and blinking at me through bleary eyes.

I raise my gun, pointing it at him.

A dark figure leaps backward through the open door and hides in the shadows. Who is that? And why are they here?

A gun on the floor by my feet starts sliding toward Alan. An explosion behind him flashes, reassembling a tipped gas barrel from the debris on the floor.

I panic, firing a wild shot in Alan’s direction. I miss, and the bullet bounces off the concrete floor, through a puddle of flaming gas. The flames burst and dissipate, plunging us into semi-darkness.

The reverse detonation lifts Alan to his feet, the gun on the floor flying to his hand. He is pointing it at me.

I stop, sick to my stomach. This isn’t how it happened. It can’t be.

He retreats slowly, shouting incomprehensibly. The gas barrel sucks up the puddle behind him. He speaks again, quieter this time but still unintelligible as the words come out backwards.

Alan started the fire. Not me. Alan did it… right?

With one final shout he backs through the door, closing it behind him.

I squeeze my eyes shut. This can’t be. Did I change the past… and start the thing I have come to stop?

I open my eyes again, and they land on the leaking barrel of gas. I can’t just leave it. As the puddle shrinks down to nothing, I grab it and it practically rights itself, making an odd slapping sound as it lifts off the floor.

I pull my hands off it suddenly, the full weight of what I have just done dawning on me.

I did do it. I did everything. It’s all my fault.

The figure in the shadows steps forward until he stands toe to toe with me. Now I see. It’s me, in the inversion suit. An echo of me that will be in a moment. I barely recognize my face in the darkness.

Maybe I can switch again and stop myself.

I lift my left arm to invert and the man across does the same, like a deviant mirror image. I press the buttons on my suit, and space and time seem to stretch as I invert—becoming the reflection.

Then the switch is over, and I am the reflection.

We lower our arms at the same moment. I can only stare at him as realization sets like the sun on his face. I back away, hating this stranger before me.

I can only watch as the man I was a moment ago tips over the barrel. Horror and guilt clamp me to the spot like a vice. How could I have been so stupid?

“Hey!” Alan shouts as he steps through the door, gun in hand.

The stranger stands frozen as Alan advances.

“What are you doing here?” Then Alan sees the gun. He raises his own. “Drop your weapon.”

The previous me raises his gun—but aims at the floor. A bullet skips through the puddle of leaking gas and lands in his inverted gun. The blast knocks Alan to the ground.

I can’t watch any more. I turn and run, leaping out the door.

It really was me. I swore revenge—to change the past. And now, as I flee the destruction of my own doing, I know the past can’t be changed. But… maybe I can make the future better.

I stop and turn around. The far end of the warehouse explodes. Again.

Alan is still in there. Maybe I can save him.

I run back into the inferno as the mushroom cloud blooms.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Noah Litle, as a writer, is best described as a reluctant wordsmith. His real passion is for stories and story analysis. He likes rainy days, hanging out with his friends and family, and analyzing his favorite movies. His dream is to glorify his Creator through glorious art, and practices doing so through arranging music, creating with Legos, designing the occasional origami model, and of course, writing stories.

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