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Someday, Sometime

          My mother told me all about Paris up until I was about... thirteen? It's a bit vague, but somewhere around that area. She told me all about that large, triangular structure in the center, which millions of people all around the world travel to see. She described to me the city's lights, charming buildings, and the endless delicacies you could try exclusively in Paris. It was her dream to see that city once with the family she adored so much. She said that she met my father there. There was always a murky gaze in her eyes when she said that, as if recounting precious but distant memories.

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My mother was driving in the rain, determined to pick up art supplies for my space poster. While she was on the highway, a two-wheel-drive van lost its control and swerved right into my mom's car. It crushed her. She died before she even knew what hit her.

Remember what I said about Paris? I set up my own shrine of her limited but authentic, treasured pictures of Paris taken by herself. In the middle was a photo of my mother standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. My father had taken the picture for her, of course. One day, after I had recovered from my mother's death, he sat me down. He said to me this: "Marjorie, er, Mars, sweetie.. I'm sorry to say this but.. we have insurance on your mother's life, and were forced to resort to using her savings for Paris to cover for the expenses. I'm sorry. You see... and then... so..." In short, we would not be able to fulfill her dream. I sat there shocked, nodded mechanically, stood up, and immediately headed to her shrine. Her warm, chocolate brown eyes alight with promise stamped itself into my mind. I opened up my mouth, thinking that talking about what my father had just said to me would help. Instead, a pitiful wail replaced the unspoken words. My hands grasped my face as I apologized countless times. If only I could go there for her.

The beige rug underneath me disappeared.

I was sitting on the ground where she had stood. I was trembling, and soon vomited. A crowd gathered near me as pictures were taken. I clutched my stomach in shock. Trembling badly, I lifted my gaze to the metallic structure. I was in Paris. My heart swelled with happiness for at least five minutes. I stood up to go tell my father what I could do. An ominous wind blew as I realized that this was not a dream. I was actually in Paris. A stone replaced my heart as my brain froze. How would I get back? I started to panic, thoughts hammering themselves into my mind. I found myself sitting in front of the shrine again.

Thoughts of the past swirled in my mind every bump in the military truck; which was often. I lay engulfed in pure darkness on cement flooring. The pressurized cuffs weighed me down, every minute digging a centimeter into my skin. A long, metallic bar connected the handcuffs to my feet, creating discomfort and very limited movement. They had caught me on my way to Nebraska, where there was a rumor about a safe haven for time manipulators. They killed my father while he was taking a restroom break, capturing me while I was waiting in the car.

The amounted time that was taken off my life every time I teleported... was about three months, including crucial life events. This was common knowledge among all time manipulators, implemented into their brains during their first awakening.

My chestnut hair was in tangles, reddish-brown eyes tightly closed shut. What was the point of opening them and still meeting cold darkness? Throat raspy and dry from screaming, eyes a desert because of crying, I had given up completely. It felt as if I've been traveling in endless circles.

Suddenly two large doors flung open near my feet, an extending arm placing a fingerprint onto the metal bar, which dispatched the feet cuffs. My bare, cracked toes touched a rocky and grassy terrain, experiencing the piercing texture of soil. The sun blinded me from all sides, leaving me uselessly collapsed on the ground, legs too weak to sustain my meager weight. I felt so vulnerable. I wanted to die.