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Time: The Cursed Friend

Charles was a time traveller, but not a good time traveller, things never ended well for him, because his power was uncontrollable. Anger was the key to his power, but raw emotion made his time jumps as uncontrollable as polishing eggs with sandpaper. He had been born in 1818 and lived a happy life up until he was fifteen years of age, when his power manifested like incredible curse. After an intense discussion with his father at the entrance to Bath Abbey, he felt smaller than the great archways, insignificant next to the majesty of the spires and ramparts. His father had told him he had sinned, gluttony was his problem, always taking more than he should. Yet, it felt wrong, his family was lower class and everyday was a struggle to put food on the table. Why should he not want more, he did not want to be destined to be as hungry as a shaggy street dog for the rest of his life.

He had sat through the sermon, seething like a bubbling crock of water. The words of the orator swam around his dark-haired head and made his brown eyes bulge like engorged rabbits. Lines like 'the greedy man curses and spurns the Lord' and 'all these evil things proceed from within and defile the man' made him cast his anger on himself. Charles could not help it, he could not control how he felt and for that one dreadful moment he could not put his trust in God. He felt dizzy, like he had been spun round too many times when playing a child's game. Sickness and bile rose in his gullet like the overflowing of a chamber pot. He cast an eye at his father, whose balding head was lowered, his wrinkled eyes closed tightly and a terrible twitch made his skin pulse like a rippling cloth sack. Slowly, Charles moved from his pew, crawling like a mongrel dog along the aisle, trying to keep small and insignificant, which was easily done in such a great place.

"Where are you going?" whispered the voice of a churchman, his voice like a hissed warning.

Charles ignored the brown cloaked man and barged him aside. His hands found the ornately carved door and flung it open. The cold and the wet hit Charles like a soggy wash rag, it whipped his face leaving streaky red marks across his gaunt cheeks. He stumbled through the cobbled streets, slipping on the slick flagstones and falling face first into the ground. Anger and pain exploded like a damp crackling log on roaring fireplace. He screamed and the words came unbidden from his throat.

"I do not want to be here anymore."

The world shimmered around him, suddenly every water droplet was clearer than the gemstones that had been upon the church alter, but seemed somehow much more precious. Everything faded away suddenly, only to be replaced instantly by a gloriously clear skied day. Charles had taken his first leap into the future.

A horse whinnied like a screaming banshee and reared up behind Charles, looming like a giant above the startled boy.

"Ho, you boy, get out of the way," yelled a disgruntled courier.

Charles mumbled an apology and rolled to the side, through puddles of smelly muck. He was shaking violently, unable to comprehend what was happening to him. After pulling himself together Charles went in search of his home and his bed. Trepidation filled him, if he was out in the daytime and not working with his father, he would be in dire trouble. His rear clenched impulsively, sensing the sting of his father's belt.

The streets seemed oddly unfamiliar and even his house seemed darker and more run down than he remembered. He entered without thinking and walked into a thoroughly different house, an old withered man sat in a chair, a blanket pulled up tight to his chin. The old man's eyes widened when he saw Charles and the blanket fell to his waist.

"Oh my," exclaimed the man. "Has my time come, the spirits of the dead have come to claim me. Oh lord, please do not drive me to insanity. Come no closer demon."