Friday Fiction: The Time Machine Is Broken

I wound the key on the mechanism. The quaint sounds of a music box played with the whirring of gears and uncoiling of springs as counterpoint to it. Then the music skipped and began to play again from the beginning as the key twisted backwards. Father did not tell me what to do if this happened. I watched with some curiosity as the music than began to play backwards. The music skipped and the mechanism whirred somewhat louder than before.

I tapped upon the brass back plate wherein the key fitted. Something within rattled. The key began to turn in the proper direction but the music was silent. And then I looked up and saw something most curiously disturbing. Everyone in the station around me had stopped moving. A child hung in midair suspended by possibly some gossamer thread I could not see but of incredible strength. I moved to get up and discovered that my body did not obey my will. I cast my gaze down to my right hand resting beside the device.

It felt as though an incredible weight was upon me, thrusting my hand down into the very wood of the counter it sat upon. Though my limbs could not obey me, my eyes could. I looked over at the device. The key turned slower as that crushing weight became unbearable. My vision began to blur and become spotted. Desperately, I tried to lift my hand to wind the key back to its proper position.

If it were possible, I believe that sweat would have been profuse upon my brow. Instead, everything became cool and colors grew dim. Oh, Father, what should I do? As the key's turning came to a stop, silence and a terrible cold overcame the whole of reality. All was dark. I had no voice with which to cry out for help. I had no body to move. Only one thing remained, my awareness and memories. But even the memories are faded.