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Swan Song

Author: Florence Wright
Year: Future

When the crime fell upon me, I suspected nothing. It came, as soundless as rolling hills in the countryside sea. A moment, both defining and bashful. It passes unheard with every second. The moment when the future becomes present, and present becomes past. The endless death and birth of time. We're scapegoats, hoodwinked in every minute of our existence. Slaves to time. I want you to understand why I had to do it. I don't ask you to agree. Just listen.
Just listen.

It all began with a phone call.

Your Honour, we’re asked to think ahead each day, always seeking the next. We contemplate recklessly, sometimes without consent. What will the cunning Future bring us? I never wanted to occupy my time dreaming Future, and yet I’d join every thought to him.

I am a dreamer, your honour, I find my way by starlight on a planet foreign to this one; yearning spins me on my axis. I love the thought of things too much to make them come true. I hash out the same excuses, there's never enough hours in the day. Time being the foundation of all my failures. My ambition is wild, I’d give anything to be even a fraction of the person I imagine myself to be. In the end, I gave it all.

Okay, the phone call.

Future was no stranger to me, I knew him well. I guess we all did. My grandfather always spoke profoundly of him, he’d go as far as recommending Future’s services to me. In truth, I’d never imagined how Future and I would one day intertwine. But I’m at the age where everything and everyone has a purpose. I wish I’d gotten ahead of the curb on this one, but, anyway.
I read the slogans, y’know those tasteless old chestnuts: life can only be lived going forwards, believe in the beauty of your dreams, a defeat today is a victory for tomorrow.

A big plate of waffle!

I said I was a dreamer, your Honour, not an optimist. And yet, even I made the mistake of thinking I too had potential. So I rang him up. It all started with that damned phone call.

‘What is it about me that scares you, girl?’ That brazen, pretentious, son of a -

Apologies your honour, it won’t happen again.

I had nothing to lose in telling him the truth; the service rep told me every conversation between Future and I was confidential. I can be naive sometimes. I’m always scared, your honour. Aren’t we all? Always telling ourselves there's places we’ll go, things we’ll do. How do any of us get there? This is it, y’know, time is not binary. It's this body, this life - only this one. How am I supposed to know I’m doing life right? I told Future all of this, your honour. He chuckled musically and with his unspoken dominance, he simply asked me to dream.
'Forget about Past,' he said. 'That outdated mock-up is what's holding you back. Telling you that

I’m a mountain too high to summit, it's balldust!'

'What if he’s right?' I still remember how pathetic I sounded.

Future took no prisoners, and his words were a tonic to me.

'I’m coming for you child, whether you want me to or not.' You see, he was buried under my skin, telling me in his cool way 'anything’s possible honey, you just have to believe.'

From that day I found myself saddled to the commotion, its co-architect. I was there when the fortress crumbled beneath us. The moment the whole world changed

'How was I to know?' Is all he said.

I urged him to see reason. It’s true, I was distraught, screaming, 'how could you let this happen to us?' Surely he could’ve put an end to it, told someone, told me your honour. He was with me almost everyday. Surely there was time for him to tell me. If he can predict prosperity then surely he must’ve seen the hardships.

I felt sick, at the betrayal, and my own corruption and complicity. Future had thrusted his careless hands into the fire and taken mine along with them. He’d stopped time altogether for me, things that were destined to disrupt me suddenly disappeared. An unfilled calendar. No more forty hour weeks, serving customers buying the latest in tweed fashion. Yes, you heard me right. Woolen suits in summer.

No more distraction. No excuses. Only infinite time. This is what he’d given me. And I’m ashamed to admit I loved every second of it. For the first time in years, I was conscious in my own body. I felt every wound my negligence had ever inflicted, and I had a window of opportunity to heal it.

Time was on my side.

It's disgusting, enjoying a cursed paradise. The world was on fire, and I’d gotten my wish - success is conditional.

Everyday was bittersweet, my creative muscles thrived, all the while the aura of the virus lurked, a murky curtain call to my happiness. Future and I argued, he would always win. He’d let disaster slip the net, blaming that crony Present for the upset.

'Curse of being the here and now,' that's all Future had to say.

I’m not saying present was without blame, that sycophant picks up every bone that Future throws him. But, make no mistake, Future was pulling all the strings.

I didn’t want the sugar of security, I wanted no fables and promises, only silence to think and be alone. The time working with him toward our concocted vision was poisoned. Our inventions unsteady, he couldn’t be trusted. Future was a parasite, beckoning the fearful to him. My happiness meant nothing to him.

It was quick, he never suffered.

My actions were hasty, and maybe misguided, but I’ve broken the sky, uncovered the con. Future was incorrigible, always standing in my way. I reset the game your honour.
My future is now within my own hands.