The Egg Said Nothing Page 5

  I walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. It was two days prior that I was last in there, and there sure as hell wasn’t any letter. But there it was: a neat stack of papers sitting on the top shelf. I reached out and picked them up. They were written in my own distinctly sloppy handwriting. There was a date at the top: February 2, 2046.

  I shook my head and closed the refrigerator door. Walking out to the couch, I stared at the papers, baffled. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. This was fucking crazy.

  Okay, I know this shit is absolutely nuts. You’ve watched the video, so I hope you’re starting to get what’s going on. I made the video so you’d have more evidence that what I’m saying—what you’re saying—is true. I know you’ll come to accept it because, well, I’ve lived it. Anyway. Moving on.

  In the near future, you’re going to undergo a very significant change. You’re going to be hit with the biggest idea of your life, which, coincidently, is the most important achievement of your generation.

  At around eight o’clock tonight, Ashley will knock on your door, looking for affirmation that everything that has transpired between you is true. You’re going to reassure her, as you will for the next month or so. She’ll grow to understand your feelings for her and will become more secure. As it turns out, she really loves you. She was stricken, apparently, by the way you looked at her in Pete’s. Although she’s fucking gorgeous, she’s never had anyone look at her like that. Gents have lusted after her and tried to claim her, but none have simply appreciated her. You’re going to change her definition of masculinity.

  And, coincidently, you’re going to change how virtually everyone sees gender. In about ten years. You’ll plant the seed in about five, but it will take time to germinate. I’m getting ahead of myself.

  Tonight, you and Ashley will leave your apartment. You’re going to get in a cab and go to her place. While you’re there, you’ll watch a movie. It’s a shitty horror movie that she’s picked out just for you. It’s ridiculously sweet, and is the point at which you accept that she really likes you. After the movie is over, she’s going to take a phone call. It’s her mother, and it’s going to take a while. While you’re waiting, you’ll find yourself wandering around her apartment. That musty smell you like? It’s books. Her apartment is covered with them. You’ll pick one up. It’s called A Vindication of the Rights of Women. You flip through it and randomly open up to a page. On that page, you’ll read something revelatory.

  When Ashley gets off the phone, you discuss it with her. You gain her perspective on things and formulate an idea. A rough version of the idea comes out of your mouth, and Ashley is going to think it’s brilliant. She’ll make you sit down and write it out so you don’t forget. The next day, you’ll work on it some more. You’re going to make several trips to the library, and you’re going to start talking to strangers, to anyone who’ll listen.

  Eventually, you’ll put these thoughts down in a book. It’s going to be published and reviewed by all the right people. It’s going to be a phenomenon, and you’re going to be credited with creating a new theory of gender relations. This will cause a great power shift that results in gender equality the likes of which the world has never seen. Actual balance will be close at hand, and you’ll be heralded as the savior of the contemporary family when the divorce rate plummets.

  Why don’t I tell you what this revelation is now so we might get to this whole great thing faster? Because it must not happen.

  Fringe groups will emerge, claiming you’re disrupting the natural order. Your opposition will be few in number, but will be starkly radical and violent. Their actions will result in the death of the third female president of the United States. This cannot happen.

  Her death, you see, brought the process to a halt. She was the only hope this country had of changing things for good. She was killed at a tumultuous and critical time in the movement. If she lives, your idea—our idea—might be realized to its full potential.

  I have taken steps to ensure your ideas will be realized—just not by you.

  Then what is it you have to do? You must ensure certain events don’t happen. You must not make it to Ashley’s apartment. You must not read that book. As insurance, I have to insist on some drastic measures.

  This is going to be the hardest thing you ever do, but it will be the last.

  You cannot live. If you die, a certain chain of events will be prevented. It’s too convoluted to go into detail and, honestly, I don’t have all the links yet, but it is essential that they be stopped now. Nothing of any significance has happened yet. It can all be prevented.

  Ashley cannot live. Tonight, the two of you will conceive a child. He will be the leader of the movement that opposes you. He will be the presidential assassin. It’s not possible to know if your DNA is essential for the creation of the child, so it’s absolutely essential that all of the child’s genetic makeup be destroyed.

  That’s your responsibility. There’s a shovel in your closet. You must kill Ashley with it. After that, do what you will. I can assure you that you will die by your own hand with no effort.

  I know this is insane. But you must do it for the greater good. The world must receive the gift you have to give. Things must change.

  Please forgive me for what I have written. You would have been a great man and, in some version of reality, you already are. What you must do will destroy you, but it is the only way.

  You are, no doubt, wondering how I can come from the future. My latest work has been in the field of quantum physics. To explain it all would take many, many years. And, honestly, I don’t fully understand it. But here’s what I can say with some certainty:

  Time is a human construct. We have control over the universe, if we choose to take it, and can freely transport back to previous and forward to future versions of ourselves. We can move objects, not just in the present time, but through all time and space as well. Again, none of this is fully understood, but it’s very real. The world is what you make of it, and there are an infinite number of places and times we might find ourselves. So much so that I have realized any notions of time are irrelevant. But what we do still matters. I believe that above all else. We matter.

  In a few minutes, you’ll make the disc. I don’t know which version of you will do this. And I don’t know how the multiple versions of yourself will react in the same time as you. You must do as I have instructed. If not, I’ll be forced to make it happen.

  Again, I’m sorry.

  Kill Ashley with that shovel.

  “Motherfucker.”

  ~Chapter 9~

  In which the narrator kills himself with a shovel.

  I decided not to look any more at the contents of the disc. Whatever was on there wasn’t going to change a thing; I wasn’t going to kill Ashley.

  This couldn’t be as hopeless as it seemed. The more I thought about it, the less it made sense. I believed my future self had gone to all this trouble. There was enough evidence for me to accept it. Of course, the only other explanation was that I was batshit crazy. And that alternative hardly seemed an alternative at all, simply more of the same.

  So, I’ll become someone great in the future. That was fantastic. Much better than what I was doing, that was for sure. I had no intention of killing myself now, not when, for the first time, I had everything going for me. Plus, I didn’t even know the third female president of the United States. And who’s to say there wouldn’t be some benefit to her dying? Maybe she’d inspire someone greater than herself, some stronger leader who would really set things right. Everything my future self said was still just my own bullshit reasoning, and I was wrong almost all the time.

  Anyway, it seemed to me that there was plenty of time to change things. I could make sure Ashley was on birth control, for one. No baby means no rebel group leader. And, worst-case scenario, I could just not look at anything in her apartment. If I didn’t pick up that book, I wouldn’t develop any ideas. No ideas, no social change.
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  I started to feel pretty good about myself. I dismissed my mission and decided to watch some TV. There wasn’t really anything on, but I sat on the couch flipping channels for an hour or so. When I stood up to use the restroom, I noticed something was amiss.

  My television had been on too loud to hear, but, directly behind me, I was making that goddamned video with my webcam.

  “Hey!” I said. My double turned around.

  “Oh, shit,” he said. “You fucked it up. Now I need to start over again.” He turned back toward the screen and started clicking the mouse loudly, like I do when I’m pissed off.

  I stomped over to him. “What the hell are you doing?” It was so bizarre, viewing myself like this. To see the back of my own head intentionally ignoring me was too much. Not only was I in need of a haircut, the backside of me looked like a smug bastard. I grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. He stared at me, murder in his eyes.

  “What. The. Fuck. Do. You. Want?” he growled. A vein pulsed in his neck, throbbing to the beat of an incendiary heart.

  “Listen, asshole. We are not making this video,” I said sternly, and, I’ll admit, a bit smugly.

  “You’re a fucking idiot,” he said back to me. “This isn’t going to work. You aren’t going to change shit. You aren’t smart enough yet.” He turned back around and clicked with the mouse some more. I cocked my fist and swung a haymaker at the bastard, connecting with his ear.

  “Motherfucker!” he yelled. Abruptly, he stood up from the chair and shoved me backwards. I regained my balance and charged at him, wrapping my arms around his waist and pinning him against the wall. I swung my fists into his sides.

  “You son of a bitch!” I shouted, beating the shit out of myself. As I yelled, he caught me in the jaw with a lucky uppercut; my teeth clamped shut on my tongue. I cried out in pain and kicked him in the crotch. He doubled over, and I grabbed him by the back of the neck. I ran him across the room like a professional wrestler and slammed his head into the window. Glass flew everywhere; his head and shoulders cleared the frame. As I pushed him through, he spread his legs, hooking his ankles desperately around the wood. I gave him a solid kick, and he slid helplessly out the window. I heard a sickening thud and looked down into the street. Nothing was there.

  Confused, I pulled my head back inside. I just threw myself out of a window. The window was broken. Glass was everywhere. It certainly looked like someone had been thrown to his death. As I leaned against the wall, trying to collect myself, my eyes focused on my computer.

  And the asshole sitting at it.

  “Hey!” I said.

  “Oh, shit,” he said. “You fucked it up. Now I need to start over again.” He turned away from me, obviously pissed off.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I demanded. My body moved automatically toward him. I noticed his overgrown hair before spinning his chair around and grabbing him.

  “What. The. Fuck. Do. You. Want?” he demanded. I stared at him blankly for a moment, unsure of what was going on. Then, without my having to do anything, my body started acting, playing its role.

  “Listen, asshole. We are not making this video,” I said.

  “You’re a fucking idiot,” he replied. “This isn’t going to work. You aren’t going to change shit. You aren’t smart enough yet.”

  My fist rose in the air. I watched, amazed, as yet again it swung around and clobbered the guy in the side of the head.

  “Motherfucker!” he yelled, jumping to his feet. He pushed me. With nothing else to do, I ran at him, smashing him into the wall. My sense of self-preservation kicked in, and I swung my fists blindly. I felt a little more comfortable with every connected blow. One of us, I realized, was going out that window.

  “You son of a bitch!” I shouted at him. He swung at me, catching me in the mouth. Blood filled it quickly. I stutter-stepped and kicked him in the junk, pulling back slightly as he doubled over. I grabbed him by the neck, dragging him to the window. This isn’t right, I thought, but allowed my body to do what it needed. I slammed his torso through the window, sending glass everywhere. I kicked. He fell from the window. I listened for the splat I knew would come. When it did, I fought the urge to look down. Instead, I directed my body to head into my bedroom.

  The eggshell crunched as I walked over it. I went to the closet and flung it open. There it was: a slightly blood spattered, mostly pristine shovel. Picking it up, I gauged its heft and walked out to the living room, carrying my new friend close to my heart.

  “What I’m about to tell you is really, really fucking hard to believe,” I could hear myself saying to the webcam.

  Hoisting the shovel up onto my shoulder and then over my head, I let out a horribly embarrassing battle cry. The guy turned at the sound. I brought the shovel down on his skull. His head snapped backwards; he disappeared. Dropping the tool on the floor, I sat in the computer chair.

  If the space were already taken, time would be forced to change. It had to. I flipped off the monitor and pulled my webcam down, just in case I felt inclined to record a video, and sat there silently, giving myself a chance to breathe. I looked at my face, reflected in the monitor.

  My future self, I knew, thought he was right, but it was painfully obvious that he wasn’t. Perhaps he learned too much and lost hold of his common sense. Whatever happened, the answer obviously wasn’t killing myself. Or Ashley.

  I saw some motion behind me in the monitor, heard a scream and reflexively went limp, allowing my body to slide to the floor like a dead fish. The shovel made a muffled clang as it came in contact with the padded top of the chair. Glancing up at my own confused face, I kicked him in the nuts and wrenched the shovel from his hands. I rolled across the floor, got to my feet and bolted for the bedroom.

  I slammed the door behind me and waited, listening for the pounding footsteps of someone in pursuit. But all I heard was the reassuring thud of my own little heart. Slowly, I opened the door and peeked out, fully expecting to come face-to-face with someone looking to end my life.

  Instead, I saw myself preparing to brain myself at the computer chair. When the shovel came down, the sitting version of me got away. I stepped back into the bedroom and concealed myself just inside the door. I heard his footsteps and swung the shovel when they got close enough. The impact took the guy off his feet and sent blood flying in all directions. Something sharp and hard hit me in the face. I glanced down at it when it clattered to the floor. A tooth.

  I ran into the living room and attacked the remaining me with the shovel. He was still confused, so it was an easy job. He took the hits like he was expecting them, almost okay with the fact that his head was flying this way and that at such odd, unnatural angles.

  It was quiet in the apartment.

  ~Chapter 10~

  In which the narrator confides in his girlfriend and experiences a shovel mishap.

  I was standing there waiting when I heard the knock at the door. I looked around wearily, and then headed over to it. Peeking through the peephole, I saw Ashley.

  Should I let her in? I had no idea what was going to happen and, what was worse, I didn’t have any way of explaining it to her. I didn’t want to put her in danger. It was one thing for me to be fighting this impossible battle, but she was on a hit list, too.

  And what if some version of me were to attack her while I wasn’t there? She’d have no idea what was going on. She’d be totally helpless. I unlocked the door and opened it up. I ushered her inside.

  “What’s the rush?” she asked, smiling.

  I looked out the door and down the hallway. It was empty. I slammed the door shut and engaged all the locks.

  “Someone out to get you?”

  I looked at her. She was the biggest liability I’d ever had.

  “Am I interrupting something?” she asked nervously. “I could come back.”

  “No, no. You’re not interrupting anything.” I leaned into her and kissed her on the lips. She kissed me back, but her lips wer
e pressed tightly together. She wasn’t buying it.

  “What’s going on? Why are you carrying a shovel?”

  I looked at the shovel in my hand. “It’s complicated,” I said.

  “Complicated? Are you gardening in here?” she asked. “I mean, there are only so many things you can do with a shovel.”

  I dropped the shovel on the floor and took her by the hand. We walked over to the couch and sat down. She looked at me expectantly, but I wasn’t sure what to say.

  “I don’t know that I can have this conversation,” I said honestly. “I don’t know how to start.”

  Ashley took her hand back and held it tightly against her chest. I reached out to take it back. She resisted; I gave up.

  “What is it?” she asked coldly and, I thought, sounding a little hurt.