I wake up with my head
beating savagely. A moan makes its way past my lips as I lazily move to stuff
my head underneath the pillow.
I vaguely register the
honks and angry shouts of the streets below, the sound of New York City at rush
hour. I try to pull up any scrap of information from my sore brain that could
help me recall what exactly led me to this state. Yet no matter how had I try,
I cannot possibly think of any event last night that could lead me to feeling
like someone dropped a ton of bricks on my head, followed by several bags of
cement for good measure.
I glance at my clock
that usually reads the numbers to me bright and clear no matter what time of
day it happens to be. That is when I noticed the first anomaly of the morning.
My 21st century clock on the night stand had been replaced with
one of those old fashioned circular ones, most certainly not mine.
My teeth sink
into my lower lip out of frustration. SHE must have put it in here late at
night after I was asleep. And they say one has to worry about the little
sister getting into the big sister's stuff...
The metallic taste of
blood enters my mouth as I plot out ways that I might kill Victoria and get
away with it.
Dang it! I run my tongue along my lip. You
think after a while one would be able to kick this particular habit.
With a sharp inhale, I
haul myself out of bed and over to the window, where down below lies another anomaly. Instead
of the modernized taxis that are a staple on the New York streets, the roads
are lined with cars that look like something out of an old-time car show I had
to investigate once.
The beating in my head increases in intensity, causing me to stagger back as the room begins to sway.
I stumble out of the room and go crashing into the wall, defiantly an
impediment to my progress to the bathroom where a bottle of Tylenol that may as
well be the Holy Grail is currently calling my name. Rather pathetically, I
pull myself up using the hall table, and stagger into the bathroom, grabbing
hold onto the sink to prevent myself from miserably crashing down once
more.
Tylenol, Tylenol. I rummage through the cabinet. I
swear if Victoria took the last of it I’m gonna....
My thoughts stumble to
a halt when I do not find my painkiller of choice but instead a
bottle of aspirin, A quite oddly labeled bottle at that. Ah
well, beggars can't afford to be choosers.
Unscrewing the cap,
I quickly shake out and down two pills, gulping water from the faucet
that a vaguely notice looks different from
usual, almost like a faucet you would find at
your grandmother's apartment.
Sinking down to the
yellow-tiled floor, which also looks old school, I drop
my head in my hands as the pain starts to slowly subside. My detective
mind begins to race through the evidence that I have so far been presented to
me on what is turning out to be an absolutely terrible morning.
Now that my head is
clearer, I try to think about what happened the night before. Was I hit on the
head chasing down a suspect? My fingers cautiously probe around my hairline
feeling for the telltale sign of a lump or bruise. I wince as my fingers probe the back of my head and come across a nice-sized lump.
I cannot recall a single
event from the previous evening, most certainly not one that could have led to
this. More importantly, where was my sister? For a women who always happens to
be up long before I am, unless there happened to be a body drop somewhere in
the city, she has been noticeably absent ever since I woke up. Unless…
A long ringing shakes me
from my thoughts. I make a move to stand and head back to the bedroom where my
cellphone lies on the nightstand, only to be stopped in the hall by what happens
to be a land line telephone sitting on the very table that I used to pull
myself up with.
My fingertips brush the
phone, as tentatively, I pick in up to answer.
“Detective Wilson,” a
mysterious, older-sounding, male voice answered.
“Who is this?”
“My identity you will
find out soon enough. All you need to know for right now is that officials have
sent both you and your sister to try and stop the
murder of our President, John F. Kennedy. Your sister is currently safe, and
you can expect to see her soon enough. When a man comes to the door later on
this morning, go with him. He will protect you and ensure that you arrive to
the destination unharmed.”
“What destination?! Who
is…”
My questions are cut off
as the line goes dead. I am left staring down the hallway of my apartment
clutching the receiver without really taking note of much of anything as I try
to process the phone call I had just received.
Something tells me that
every bit of this is real. While I am relieved to know Victoria is all right, I
am also filled with a certain sense of anxiety and dread, as a billion
questions race through my mind.
We have to stop JFK’s
assassination?
Why?
How?
Have Victoria and I really been taken back to the 1960s?
Have Victoria and I really been taken back to the 1960s?
