In the Wrong Space and Time

prologue

"OW!" I YELL AS A thick volume of Shakespeare's plays falls off of the shelf and onto my face. The heavy tome crashes onto the floor, but I pay it no heed as I massage my bruised nose gingerly. After making sure that I have sustained no injury, I bend to pick the book up.

Apparently, I have miscalculated the appropriate distance between my head and the bookshelf - I get up, with Shakespeare's collection in my left hand, and groan in pain as the back of my head makes contact with the solid mahogany shelf. As if that isn't enough, the sudden blow to the shelf dislodges yet another volume, which lands, this time, on the crown of my head.

I screech in agony and frustration, sprawling dramatically onto my carpeted floor. I send a vehement scowl towards the second book that had fallen on me - Mein Kampf, Adolf Hitler's autobiography.

How fitting, I wince. I'm never tidying my library ever again. It truly is the source of my struggle.

Rolling over onto my stomach and resting my chin in my fist, I stare at the black swastika drawn boldly on the red cover.

History would be a whole lot more different - and possibly better - if Hitler had never risen to power, I muse, humming in contemplation. My mind drifts to my latest incomplete project as a sly little grin plays on my lips. I wonder what I should do about that?

I flick through the white pages idly, my eyes not reading a word printed there. The paper is smooth under my fingers. If I'm really thinking what I'm thinking about right now, Hitler's story would be so much shorter.

With a grunt and a throbbing head, I force myself to sit upright. Caroline, you clumsy idiot. I can't believe that you've just turned twenty-three, I chide myself, chuckling humourlessly.

I stand, walk over to the bookshelf, and stick Shakespeare's works back on it haphazardly. I move to do the same to Mein Kampf, but I stop in my tracks, with the book in my hand and my arm still raised. The black swastika ensnares me in its gaze, made even more prominent and ominous by the white circle and crimson background.

I tear my eyes away from the paperback Nazi flag with effort and tuck the book under my arm. I turn from the bookshelf, exit my library, and walk down the extensive hall to my bedroom, taking the book with me.

A plan formulates in my head, and I can't help but grin with excited anticipation. Now, I have always been hungry for fame and recognition, but if my scheme comes to fruition, recognition would be a massive understatement.

By killing Adolf Hitler, the history books would panegyrise me.

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