The Timebound.

  “Hey, aren’t you going to talk to me?” the girl prods, poking at my cheek. I continue to ignore her pouting and read my book. “Aww, we thought you’d be a bit more fun!”

  “Who, you and whoever sent you?” I snark.

  “Mmmm,” Aliza hums, putting her hand below her head. “Yep!” she answers after a brief pause. “I’d say that!” It’s irritating how chipper she is. She’s been like this for the whole day, sitting at the side of my desk despite the teacher’s and my insistence for her to move. And because she’s the new student, she brings along the other students to surround my desk. They all talk so loud, it’s starting to give me a migraine. Thank god school is nearly over.

  “So where did you come from?” someone else beside me asks Aliza. Some others continue to admire the axe on Aliza’s back, with a stone head, blue at the center and red at the tips, as if the edges were coated in lava. It’s obviously a magical construct and smells quite nice, honestly speaking -- it’s a wonderful scent of burning candle wax.

  “Ehh,” she waves off, “Hardly important! I’m a lowly Earth denizen, much like the rest of you. OH, except that I’m functionally God and could kill everyone in a single breath.” To demonstrate her point, she swings her axe in the air then slams it down on the ground, managing to break the tile floor. “You all should grovel now!” she jokes. Yeah, transfer students are always a mixed bag -- they’re either very sweet or very deadly. Though they can be both.

  “Well, why hang around with this loser?” one of the girls asks, putting her hand on my head.

  Aliza simply shrugs in response, keeping her smile on. “Because I can, and you can’t do anything about it. Now,” she starts, grabbing the girl’s wrist. “Take your hand off, or I’ll break it in two.”

  “Ha!” the ‘bully’ scoffs.

  Aliza just shrugs. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  *Crunch* Blood gets on my face and I blink my eyes, trying to process it --

  Aliza just snapped someone’s wrist in half.

  She broke it cleanly into two pieces, like breaking a twig. The ulna and radius remain in the arm, while the rest of her hand came clean off. “Ooh, a new one for my collection!” she adds, brushing off the casual cruelty.

  “You-” the bully stammers before she’s grabbed by the throat by Aliza, hoisted in the air.

  “Huh?” Aliza curiously asks, still with a childlike innocence marred by blood. “When did I let you speak?” I freeze, my breath getting tight as I hear the girl’s rasp at having the life choked out of her.

  I push Aliza, only for her to swat me in the chest. My body flies backwards, colliding with a desk before I slump over. What is with me getting hit today?

  “Oh geez,” Aliza apologizes, teleporting to me. She helps me up, which is when I catch something:

  She smells of a more intense candle wax, more choking than the previously pleasant floral scent. She smells like she’s burning. She smells...

  like a Spirit.

  The smell continues to linger as she holds my hand, long after her little teleport. Despite how controlled the smell is, it’s rather intense when she’s right next to me, against my face: the air is being taken from me just when I’m nxt to her, and if Aliza so desired, she could choose to strangle me. She’s able to use so much magic while hiding the fact. She’s...

  She’s stronger than anyone I’ve ever seen.

  She’s even stronger than Claude, the protagonist. Scratch that, Claude was who I thought was the protagonist. Is she the main character all along? It would make sense, she’s got the strength and the backstory to back it up. I’m not denying the appeal of a reversal either -- maybe it’s a ‘story about what not to do.’ Besides, I’m here and right next to her, so this could just be a premonition for things to come -- we’ll both die horribly. I guess that settles my fate then. I happen to reach in her pocket, only to feel something cold and metal touching my hand. Huh, I wonder what it is. I take it out, promising to slip it back in when Aliza’s distracted again. At the very least, she was distracted by my sudden, ahem, fall.

  That girl from before lies on the ground, clutching at her throat. At least she’s safe now. Sure, I hate the little shit for smacking me on the head earlier, but that doesn’t mean I want her to die from shock -- that’s just messed up. I stumble forward, no longer needing Aliza as I tuck away her stolen trinket in my pocket. “Give me a sec,” I say, feeling an odd sense of responsibility.

  I approach the girl, kneeling down to inspect the wound. Luckily, the wound was clean -- the skin around the wound is certainly torn, but it’s otherwise a very clean break. “What do you want?” she asks, tears in her eyes from the pain.

  “For you to go to sleep.”

  “All ready!” Aliza adds, raising a desk above her head.

  “NO!” I yell, getting up and body-blocking for the bully. “WE AREN’T GIVING HER A CONCUSSION! TEACHER, WILL YOU - actually, where is he?” Did he seriously go on a bathroom break right before Aliza broke her wrist? Talk about bad timing. “Whatever.” I take out some pills from my pocket.

  “So, those rumors about you being an addict were true?” someone teases.

  “I-” I start, before Aliza gets atop the desk.

  “Hey,” she starts, waving her hand wide. “I’ll have you know she was a proficient doctor, able to heal thousands of lives!”

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  “Yeah right, like the class loser knows medicine.”

  “Just let those brats whine,” I tell Aliza. I pop a pill and put it in the girl’s mouth. “This won’t be much, but it’s an anesthetic designed to keep you out for a few minutes. I suggest you swallow.”

  “Uh-” she starts before I shush her.

  “Do you want an anesthetic while I operate or not?” I start, making sure to keep my voice soft. She nods. “Then just swallow.” She does so, head slumping forward not a minute later. Insta-dissolve pills really do make a difference, but the issue is that their effects never last long; the natural trade off for such things. Luckily, a few minutes is all I need. I summon my bandages, knowing just where to connect the muscles so they can naturally heal themselves. Of course, with the damage this severe, they’ll never be able to fully heal on their own. Luckily, I learned a few tricks: I-

  “Hey, um,” Aliza interrupts, putting a vial in front of me. “You need this, right? Dandeflour mixture?” That’s... recipe. Plus, that’s the name for my healing serum, when did she-

  Forget it. “Yes,” I answer, having more important things to focus on. I take the salve and smear it on a bandage, using it to delicately rub at the wound. The exposed tissue goes from a dry brown to a deep red, which is when I start reattaching the limbs, suturing them in place. Blood pulses through her arm, but it’s not enough: I have the bandages soak up the remaining blood left on the floor. “Shit, I need a bag,” I realize, searching through my backpack.

  I’m then given two small bags, each with a needle -- “IV thing, right?” Aliza prods. “Also, all the protein stuff I think was needed is also in the second one, so yeah! I’m the best!” Right... you’re still the asshole that put me in this situation, don’t forget that.

  “Uh-huh.” I then insert the needles carefully into the arm, gently as I can to avoid further bleeding and infection, then put the bags atop of the desk. I need a higher height difference, but this will do for now. At the very least, she’s stable.

  And on perfect cue, she wakes up. “Whuh-,” she groggily says before I snap my fingers in her face to get her attention! “Hey! You... uh...”

  “Sorry, can’t resist,” I tease. “Anyways, just take a bit more water, and some of these,” I motion, getting some more pills from my pocket. “They’re simple painkillers. A torn hand is a bitch sometimes, trust me. You’ll want to take one daily though -- too frequently, and you’re going to throw up. Oh, and make sure those bags are always above your head at all times. Use a coat rack or something, I don’t know.”

  “Why?” she asks.

  “Because I’m better,” I answer simply. “I’m better than all of you.” I don’t need any greater reason, or appeal to some platitudes.

  “Yeah she is!” Aliza cheers on. I would appreciate it if it didn’t come from the violence-loving girl.

  “Thanks,” she says. Oh, she’s grateful, she’s... Sigh. Sorry in advance. I then pin her to the ground, having her head hit the floor -- though it’s only a light blow, mostly cushioned by bandages.

  “This was just a fleeting moment of mercy,” I assert, replacing my boredom with coldness. “May you not cross me again.” I get up, content with the fear in her eyes. The only way to help her is to be the bad guy, for her to forget my kindness and attribute it to a lucky moment. If she tries to become my friend, she’ll... she’ll suffer for no reason. I don’t know how, but I know she will. They always have, so they always will.

  Aliza’s included, but I can’t save her yet: she’s too attached. I’ll need to slowly detach myself from her by being mean and putting myself apart from her. Maybe she won’t be the best person, but she can grow up without me -- everyone has. I’m just forgettable, like all the ideas I have. Everything I write on fades, everything I create gets stolen or destroyed, and my own life is a pawn for someone else’s game.

  “Aww, stop being so gloomy!” Aliza whines, looking like a lost puppy. I just get up and ignore her. I feel through the metal trinket I nabbed from her -- it’s definitely cold. I rub my finger, feeling the barely imperceptible ridges along its surface. I never suspected my past as a clockmaker as a child in a factory would ever become relevant, but life somehow manages to surprise me. The dial used to adjust the time is also a bit bizarre, having a sharp point at its tip, made of a glassy substance.

  I turn behind me, only to see Aliza staring right back.

  “So, what’s it like with the pocketwatch?” she asks. “I’m oblivious, but not oblivious!” She then clutches at her head, seeming to get a headache. she mutters. “ Who is she talking to?

  Either way, now that the cat’s out of the bag, I pull the pocketwatch from my... pocket, exposing it to the light. It has a beautiful floral design, the ridges on the cover forming an hourglass while flowers bloom behind it. Its azure metal complements the dull yellow glass dial, as well as the moon-grey chain. Ha, it’s...

  It’s mine. It’s my pocketwatch. I put my hand in my right pocket, feeling something of the same dimensions manifest in my palm. I pull it out, comparing the two.

  They’re an exact match. My pocketwatch is the same as Aliza’s, from the texture to the dull pulse of magic, releasing at the regular time of a second and the irregular time of my heartbeat. There’s no mistaking it: Aliza, for whatever reason, did know me. Additionally, I decided to trust her with this watch, something I hadn’t even done for some of my own children in past lives. This would have been equivalent to handing my soul, the way my memories and ideals persist, over to her -- why did I do it?

  Why did the future me trust her with my own secrets and knowledge?

  “Now, mind if I have that back?” she asks. I extend my hand to her, the future pocketwatch in hand. “Yoink!” she starts, manifesting a hand mirror and swinging it over the watch, absorbing the timekeeper. Just before she dematerializes it, I realize the mirror emmenates my own heartbeat -- as well as that of someone else’s.

  She really is an enigma. ... As well as a little bastard who will bite the ankles of anyone I hate.

  “Soo, ready for the prophecy?” she asks. Right, there’s the prophecy of who will be sent to explore the cavern, the place where a group of monsters are rumored to exist. It’s probably a myth anyways: humanity killed them all a century ago, or at least, attempted to. I would know.

  ...

  I unfortunately would know.

  “You know, I wonder how you’ll feel about the prison,” Aliza monologues. Yeah, it -- wait, what? “A lot probably changed since, you know, you’re an old woman, so-”

  “Come again?” I ask.

  “Uhhh... that this ‘cavern’ was designed as a prison? I thought you remembered this! You made it!” I did, but how does she know?

  The bell rings, dismissing us from class.

  “Oh hang on, I’m getting a call,” Aliza adds. She puts her hand to her head, making a phone gesture. “Hmm? Yeah? Uh-huh,” she nods, turning back to me. “Yeah, so my sibling wants to talk to you now. Have fun!”

  She blinks, and in the span of a second, she goes from her long ponytail to bushy bob, jeans to a green skirt complemented with knee-high purple boots, along with a violet jacket adorned in olive-green metal and pine-green gloves. The axe shifts into a hammer the figure now swings around, its head burning with a lime and lavender hue. “Raibu Grimorary, Administer of Pestilence!” he greets. “OH, and do forgive the discourtesy of not mentioning we’re not all right in the head; really though, it’s not huge of a deal for us. We live quite fine, honestly!”

  So she has dissociative identity disorder... God, if you decide to make a ‘mentally unsound’ person the antagonist again, I am going to find your throne, and--

  “Oh yeah, I go by he/him,” he adds. “Don’t question it-” he starts, before I raise my hand.

  “Alters can have different genders, I know.”

  “Of course you do, you’re like a mom to us!” Ugh, and both of them see me as a Mom -- Now there’s two of them.

  I may as well see what tricks he has up his sleeves. Weirdly enough though, he now smells of rosemary, compared to Aliza’s smell of candle wax; do he and Aliza not share the same type of magic? The only reason a smell would change so drastically is if the caster’s system changed.

  Like I said, I guess I’ll only find out as I continue to hang around with him. I’m in too deep to escape now.