The Egg Said Nothing by Caris O'Malley

No one is supposed to do what you’ve done. And, as such, no one can possibly know of the ramifications. I’m a version of you that is yet to be. Yet, here I am. And I have no fucking clue where you’re going with this shit.”

    I was bewildered. “So what should I do?”

    “Like I said, go find an early version of yourself and kill it.”

    “Where would I find one?”

    “Retrace your steps. I’m sure one’ll pop up somewhere.”

    “Okay,” I said hesitantly. Picking up the shovel, I reached for the doorknob, but stopped. Turning, I dropped the shovel on the floor. “Just in case he wakes up,” I said. Then I left, making my way quickly down the hall.

    * * *

    “What was all that bullshit?” the quiet me asked the other out of my earshot. “I can’t remember any of that.”

    The other shrugged as well as one can when one is bound in cheap tape. “I don’t know. Fucker was going to kill us. Had to do something.”

~Chapter 13~

    In which the narrator starts to retrace his steps, but changes his mind.

    I climbed into the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby. Where should I go? The Laundromat? How about the bank fountain? No. The one down the street! I could ambush myself there before encountering Ashley and solve everything.
    I hit the emergency stop button. I needed to think.

    No, it wouldn’t solve everything. The letter said I had put my revelatory idea into good hands, hands that would bring the idea to fruition. If I died, my ideas would still live on, and so would Ashley’s genetic potential.

    I was starting to doubt my earlier certainty that my future self had gone completely nuts. Maybe what I had come up with was so important that it had to happen without me, without any chance of derailment. But, then again, what was the point of dying for a world without me? It would have no personal relevance.

    Albeit inadvertently, I had already done the hard part. Ashley was dead. Why should I die, too? It seemed gratuitous. Besides, I knew myself. I don’t always think things through before I do them. Especially when I write letters. That letter could have been composed at a time when I was at an extreme, when I concluded the best course of action was suicide. I could see myself deciding that some past version would have to be the one with the balls to actually off myself.

    I had to be rational and reasonable. Ashley could no longer be the mother of opposition. I had to face it; she was the wildcard. She was hot and would have no trouble procreating. I, on the other hand, never had any trouble keeping the ladies at bay. It was probably just some alteration of the past that future me had done that made her attracted to me in the first place.

    And what if future me was just reacting to a broken heart? That sort of thing made people do crazy shit. What if I went to all the trouble of going into the past to get Ashley to like me, then, in twenty years, she dumps me for some reason. Could that push me over the edge?

    I suddenly found myself wishing I knew more about gender relations. What are the roots of manhood? Why are women still treated poorly? How should men and women behave? What differences should be preserved? If I continued on my destined path, I’d eventually learn the answers to these questions, and I’d be able to change things. The confidence that provided carried a lot of weight.

    I could avoid anything that might get in the way of my purpose. Again, I wouldn’t have children. And I already knew about the book that would get my mental gears turning. I could probably pick it up at the library.

    Killing myself no longer seemed the wise option. Maybe that version of me knew what he was talking about, but I had to choose my own path. One guided by the future, not dictated by it. I just needed to hide out until all the details came together in my head.

    In the elevator, I pressed the three-button. It started to descend. When the elevator stopped, I got off, walked to 312 and