Lean

A light beam shines directly on my face, phasing straight through my eyelids. I try to groan and roll in my bed, but nothing happens.

I can’t move. I can’t speak. I can’t open my eyes. Every fiber of my body is stuck in place. Don’t panic… I’m sure everything is fine. I’m sure there’s an explanation that doesn’t involve me being paralyzed (or dead).

Thankfully, I realize I don’t hear a sound: no chirping, no honking, no yelling. I don’t feel the softness of my bed or the weight of my blankets. I don’t smell my sheets or taste my lips. Even the sun in my eyes isn’t there, only a memory stuck in time.

Stuck in time… slightly less terrifying a possibility. Let’s go with that, though it brings up another question: if I’ve paused time, how do I move forward again?

I instinctively lean forward in time, like leaning left or right, just in a new, fourth dimension. Try not to think too hard about it.

My body will shoot up and gasp for breath, the sudden movement flinging a sheet off. My eyes will scan the room as my heart rate slows down. Posters of high-school musicals layer on top of drab peach wallpaper; an alarm clock will continuously blare to my right.

Wincing at the light, I will fumble with the four buttons, shutting off the noise. Honestly, I might end up punching it later. Afterwards, I will disentangle from my bed and walk over to the window; a car will flicker behind a series of trees.

I stand still; my five senses deaden. Like the beam of light, I see a memory of my vision. At the forefront, I vividly envision the three passengers laughing at the driver. Unfortunately, I have another universe-shattering thought, and leant back in time.

Walking back from the window, I jumped into bed, took the different sheets, and tied myself into the mess. Beforehand, I pressed the button on the alarm clock, and it played the familiar tone in reverse.

In between stumbles back and forth, I force stillness upon myself. I can’t properly describe the… chill I had (will have?) when I observed my body acting alone. I should probably stick to pausing time; it also has the lowest chance of shattering all known laws of physics. Right?

In that instant, I will lean forward again and collapse into the bed. Then, I will lazily push the alarm clock to the floor. Numerous plastic pieces will scatter and hide inside the carpeted floor. Problem solved, no philosophical dilemmas here (that concern me).

With that thought, I would have drifted back to sleep, but another boy would burst into the room. He will cradle a new alarm clock, still inside its packaging, and say, “The first thing you do with time travel is sleep in?”