GODS OF TIME Read online

  GODS OF TIME

  copyright © 2021 by D.G. Sidna.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  FIRST EDITION | MMXXI

  4 8 15 16 23 42

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Cover Design by Gil Leinad

  ISBN 9798513486176

  [paperback]

  contact | [email protected]

  twitter | @dgsidna

  ONE

  I would have preferred to open my story somewhere exotic. Picture a mountain valley high in the clouds and there on the horizon, outlined against the fiery backdrop of a setting sun, the silhouettes of ancient ruins, lost temples, and untold secrets. Unfortunately, I can’t start in such a place because this is a story about me, Isabel Mendelssohn—and I don’t live in a mysterious valley, or near some fancy old ruins, or anywhere cool like that. I live in literally the most boring place in the cosmos. New Jersey.

  So, there aren't really a great many options for a flashy opening when you're just a small town girl of seventeen, you don't yet have your driver's license, and the furthest your parents have ever taken you on vacation is Vermont—incidentally the second most boring place in the cosmos.

  But I do have a story to tell. And while I accept now that I can never relate this tale to my family or friends, or to anyone from my old life—the reasons for this will be evident soon enough—I still long for my account to be known. So I’ve decided to whisper it here, into the void, a place which has no ears to hear me and thus can never betray me.

  You see, dear void, this is a tragic tale, one regarding a foolish and unnecessary fall—my own.

  I'm not ashamed to admit to you that I was an ambitious young lady. A star rower on my high school crew team. A bit of a jiu-jitsu junkie. A well-regarded student with many friends. A simple girl really—but one who wanted nothing more than to be the next great American optometrist. Or neuroscientist. Or constitutional lawyer. Or some damned amazing thing. Honestly, I never bothered much with the specifics.

  And perhaps therein lay my downfall. Heroes always have a tragic flaw, you see, as anyone from Ancient Greece is likely to tell you. And lately I've been forced to ask myself—what is ambition without discipline? Aspiration without focus? The answer, it turns out, is recklessness. Stupid, run-of-the-mill, why-did-you-do-this-to-yourself-Isabel recklessness.

  So maybe that's the opening I was looking for, the proper place to begin this calamitous tale. Not on a mountain or in a valley, but on my knees, embracing a porcelain totem, tears streaking my cheekbones as I cry to the heavens for pity. Because that's exactly what I've been lately—reckless. A fact I can't seem to escape as torrents of tequila and vomit sear my nostrils on their way back up. Deep in the toilet bowl before me, like some kind of swirling, esoteric oracle of the gods, my sick is mixing with my tears.

  Yes, this is a better place to start.

  You see, dear void, I had an interview this morning—though I never did quite make it that far. Instead, I've spent the last hour here, hugging this commode, embracing it as tightly as one would a passionate lover, not that I have much experience in that department.

  But regardless, it's an indiscretion of some consequence. No interview today means no fancy summer program. And no summer program means no leg up on my college admissions next year. Which means no elite school. Which means I'll never be that stupid amazing thing I was just telling you I was always destined to be.

  I've been demoted. Now I'm merely another random New Jersey girl—one currently sick over a toilet somewhere in the Lower East Side of Manhattan.

  The details of my undoing are coming back to me between heaves. I'll do my best to relate them to you. Some friends and I were invited to a wicked house party last night, the apartment of a classmate's older sister or some such. College kids in the city, that's all you really need to know. Only a right fool would miss out on that sort of social soirée. So yesterday evening we took the train into Manhattan.

  Now I was wise enough, clearly, to remember my interview in the morning. But interesting fact, the interview was also in Manhattan—New York being the center of the universe and all. So crashing with my friends in the city, as opposed to back home in soul-crushingly dull, kill-me-now New Jersey, meant that I'd be a mere two stops away from my appointment on the express train. For that reason alone, it would have been irresponsible not to have gone to the party!

  I'm rather good at these sorts of rationalizations.

  But so it goes—the best laid plans of mice and clever high school girls. What actually happened is that I woke up on a dirty, icky and otherwise foul-smelling couch only to discover I'd been hitting snooze on my phone alarm for more than an hour. So much for fricken ambition, eh?

  Without even brushing out my giant mop of curly hair, you better believe that I dashed the eff out of there, jumping over at least half a dozen comatose friends, all passed out on worn futons and a variety of rugs pockmarked with cigarette burns and beer stains. I flew down the staircase of that creepy old tenement like a chipmunk juiced up on seven kinds of caffeine. But this deli, where I find myself now, relating my tragic tale to you—a swirling void inside a toilet bowl—was as far as I got before my stomach decided to spew.

  Oh, what wouldn't I give for a do-over, dear void! A chance to turn back the hands of time. By a day. Even by just an hour. I'd make right all my follies. I'd undo this improbable fiction, this outrageous fortune. I'd replay my life as the better version of myself. I promise I would! But, seriously, Isabel, how silly a wish is that?

  A knock comes on the door. Whoever it is may as well be banging a hammer on my temples. "Excuse me, miss," the voice says. "Are you going to be much longer? The washroom is really only for paying customers."

  I've already used all the toilet rolls. I wipe my face with the sleeve of my sweater. Gross, I know. "Yes, coming, sorry."

  I flush and half walk, half run out of the small deli shop, too embarrassed to even look the counterman in the eye. The one person in the whole neighborhood kind enough to offer the refuge of his tiny toilet, and I can't even find the courage to thank the man. This is what happens when you've hit rock bottom.

  With so many trendy bars in the neighborhood, he must see half a dozen girls like me every morning, hungover, aimless, our failed destinies all but written in the stars. That wasn't supposed to be me. But, alas, one cannot escape their destiny.

  The sunlight outside is blinding. It takes a moment to get my bearings. Is this Orchard Street? Mulberry? My interview is on the other side of the city. Correction—was on the other side of the city.

  I want to scream and pull out my hair, right here on the stupid sidewalk, in front of everyone, all these fancy strangers in their stupid fancy clothes on their way to their stupid fancy jobs. And I would, I really, really would—if not for the strain it would put on my guts.

  My skin is clammy. I need somewhere to sit. I'm too embarrassed to return to the apartment. My friends will want to know how my interview went—seeing how this summer program is all I've been talking about for weeks now. My friend Charles kept warning me not to put all my eggs in one basket. At the time, I wanted to punch that annoying punk right square in the jaw. I mean, what sort of support and encouragement from a friend is that? Seriously. But now I just want to box him straight in the nose—cause it's even worse when he's right.

  I could take the train back to Jersey, but that's even worse. My parents wi
ll be wondering about the interview too. Dad—A prestigious summer program in Providence, Izzy! Mom—And they even have a summer crew team for you!

  No, definitely can't go home. Like EVER. That leaves only one option—jumping in a dinghy on the Hudson River so the currents can carry me off to sea, never to be heard from again. Maybe I'll find a faraway island and that mountain valley after all. Fortunately, after wandering a few blocks, I end up in Washington Square Park instead, on a bench near the great white arch that dominates the famous neighborhood square.

  I remember reading somewhere that postwar urban planning villains once proposed putting a highway through the park, their belief being that only in destroying the old could you erect something greater, something better. Thankfully they were defeated by feisty neighborhood activists; it was a battle that helped launch a preservation movement across America. This is the sort of random trivia that helps you get selected for an elite summer program at a top university in New England. An opportunity I've thrown away with one too many tequila shots.

  I bury my head in my hands.

  While sulking on the park bench, my phone rings. It's a silly Star Trek theme. Dad. To be crystal clear, the ringtone is his doing, not mine. And there's no way in hell that I'm answering. Maybe if I never answer, he'll forget he even has a daughter. Yes!

  Yes, that's a good idea.

  This particular solution to my problems may have been made easier were I not perhaps an only child, but it's definitely still worth a try. How long would it take them to forget me, I wonder? A week? A month? Mr. Kerfluffle, my mom's cat, is pretty engaging company, after all. Surely that spoiled, annoying, no-good brat would make for a decent surrogate child. I mean, he's practically halfway there already. I really think they'll hardly miss me.

  By midday, I'm forced to leave the park. There's just too many throngs of perky couples taking selfies in every which direction, not to mention all the festive hippies on cheap guitars. This is not a place for glum people. And that's what I want to be. Glum. I want to turn myself into a glum ghost who floats glumly through the crowds of Manhattan's busy sidewalks, powered by all the glum music currently cycling through her headphones.

  This is the mindset of yours truly as I end up on the L train, being spirited away toward Brooklyn—which, not for nothing, is the exact opposite direction of my home in New Jersey.

  I'd love to say that I'm running away, but the truth is my older cousin Shira is renting an apartment in one of the hipper corners of Brooklyn, which as far as I've ever been able to tell, just means the sidewalks are kind of beat up and most everyone is speaking Spanish. But regardless, Shira is in Budapest for two weeks, likely meeting a boy, and gave me the keys to her apartment. I don't know why she did that. Or if she even remembers she did that. She's a bit of an odd duck. I'm fairly certain impulsive negligence is her middle name. But she is dear to me—as flighty as she is at times.

  And her apartment will offer everything I need right now—a toilet to wretch in, a bed to pass out on, and a dark corner two rivers removed from Jersey to hide away in. The only thing missing will be a fresh outfit to change into. Make no mistake, Shira has closets packed with clothes; that girl is always shopping. But she's shorter than me and, well, not exactly a star athlete. She also wears a lot of pink. Barf. So I'm stuck with my olive sweater, faux-leather spring jacket, and entirely too tight black jeans. All of which right now smell like tequila breath and high school angst.

  On my journey to her apartment on the L train—interestingly one of New York City's few east-west subway lines, not that such trivia will ever come in useful to me again—I can't help but study the other characters around me. Who are they and what are their stories? Are they as tragic as my own? Are we all trying to get as far away from New Jersey as humanly possible?

  Seems likely.

  There's a squabbling Korean couple sitting opposite me. The fluorescent overhead lights paint them in cool tones. I wish I had my camera right now to photograph them. Photography is another passion I think I have—one of a hundred that floats around in my head on any given day. As such, forced to always vie for my attention, my photography skills have sadly never gotten anywhere. None of them do, to be honest. My passions are like socks. Constantly getting lost in the dryer.

  After leaving the Lorimer station, just a few stops now from Shira's station, most of the other riders depart. It's a rare thing, to find oneself alone on a New York City subway car. Or perhaps not. I have to confess right now—this is actually my first outing to Brooklyn alone. My mom has warned me about this, about traveling too far into the city without Shira as trusty chaperon. Which has made me wonder if my mom has actually ever talked to Shira.

  But regardless, the way I see it—we all have to leave our nests sometime.

  This early in the afternoon, though, the flow of commuters is still heading toward Manhattan. Not away. So maybe this is normal. The city is like a heart. It beats. And besides, if I'm the only person today hoping to run away, to escape reality, to fall off the edges of the Earth and vanish into the ethereal void and astral firmaments beyond, so be it.

  My pulse quickens a little as the train picks up speed under the city, as if whisking me into the underworld. There are times in my life, particularly when I'm stressed or anxious, which is more often than I'd like to admit, that I feel as though I'm falling. It's a strange thing, because I'm not afraid of heights, not at all. You'd think one should go with the other. But I've feared falling to my death for as long as I can remember. As a child I'd wake up from dreams that were always the same—me, reaching for something, anything, while plummeting into darkness. As this train car flies noisily along rails deep beneath the bowels of Brooklyn, I'm reminded of those nightmares.

  I try to think of something else.

  Fortunately, I'm distracted when the sliding doors connecting adjacent cars open up beside me. Technically, one is not supposed to travel between cars while the train is in motion, but people do it all the time. I expect to see a transient emerge, asking for change, those are the most common offenders.

  But instead it's a frumpy, older woman. She's wearing a long cream-colored overcoat, sort of quilted, kind of folksy, with big pockets. I'm not sure how to describe it. It certainly doesn't match her capri pants, which are decorated with flower prints and remind me of the sort of thing a suburban mom might wear during a potent midlife crisis. Yes, I'm thinking of you, mother.

  This lady's hair has a lot of grey and is haphazardly pulled together with a cheap scrunchy. I can't tell if she's a hobo about to hit me up for a dollar, or an eccentric socialite on her way to some new Brooklyn gallery show to flirt with all the young male artists. I've put on my imaginary detective hat, but the hint of whiskey on her breath is a clue that does little to settle the question either way.

  She's about to pass me on her way down the train car and onto the next, but she stops and turns. Her accent might be British. "Have you got the time, deary?"

  I check my watch. "Yeah, it's one-o-eight."

  I always give the precise time. I consider it rude to do otherwise.

  The old lady leans in close to look at my watch, a little too close for my comfort. And she's definitely drunk.

  "Excuse me, lady!" I shout.

  “Sorry, sorry," she says. "That wee device of yours, shows you the time, does it?”

  I roll my eyes like any good teenager. “Yeah, obviously. It’s a watch.”

  “Shows the year too?”

  “The year?”

  “Aye.”

  “No. It’s one of those expensive ones.”

  This, sadly, is true.

  “Bollocks,” she curses.

  “You don’t know the year?” I ask.

  “No, why, do you?”

  "Of course." I inform her the year.

  She looks surprised. "Forkballs! I best be going."

  I'm genuinely curious now. “You have somewhere to be?”

  “Well, not so much that, no," she says. "You se
e, it’s just I’m being followed by a very superficial, ignorant, and unweighing fellow. I’d rather to not be around when he pops by, if you know what I mean.”

  “Men are trouble,” I tell her, thinking of my ex in particular.

  “You got that right, freckles. But you can’t kill them, yeah? Wish you could. Actually you can, forget I ever said that. Now if you’ll excuse me." She looks around, as if it's only this moment that she's realized she's on a moving train car. "By the way, where in the bloody hell am I?”

  “You’re on the L train.”

  “The L train? That's in Lunar City, yeah?”

  “Um, no, Brooklyn actually.”

  This unfortunate news has truly upset her. “Brooklyn! Fork me! Of all the terrible places in the universe, I end up in Brooklyn.”

  “Could be worse," I tell her. "You could have ended up in New Jersey.”

  She ponders this a second before asking, “What’s New Jersey?”

  “You know, lady, you’re a little strange.”

  I get a finger wagged at me. “No, no, no. Hedgehogs are strange, deary. You ever seen one? I have. In some museum somewhere. Little hamsters with spikes. Downright unnatural, if you ask me.”

  With that bit of cryptic wisdom, the woman continues down the train car, vanishing into the next.

  A few moments later, the sliding doors between cars open again, only this time it's a man, and he's not nearly as whimsical or quirky as the old lady. He's dressed in black, with a strange dark vest over his hoodie. It looks like something a weightlifter might wear at the gym. His face is a shadowy scowl under his hood; all I can see of it is a triangular chin beard sharp as a knife.

  He glances down at me with eyes blue and cold. He's caught me staring. I immediately look to my feet, afraid to even breathe, all the while pretending the meeting of our eyes has never occurred, hoping that I can will him away, much like the monsters living in my closet as a child could be willed away simply by closing my eyes tightly enough.

  But this man is no imaginary beast. And he certainly doesn't vanish. I hear his breathing. Time seems to have slowed. My skin crawls.