Writing Prompt: Time Travel

The Prompt: In the world of superheroes, every supervillain has been defeated. Being a superhero has only taken everything away from you, and even now, your loved one. You travel back in time to save your loved one, but fail to do so. Now, you’re the only villain left and the heroes are here to wipe you out.

The 873rd Time

You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.

I close my eyes, running a single hand down the marbled wall behind me.

...but was there ever a difference?

Three inches down. A light crack, just wide enough to slip a pinky in. Two to the left. Gashes, left by Dorian in a battle that would prove to be his last.

A mad dog, that one was. Forever muttering about fancy numbers and formulas that seemingly went nowhere. Hellbent on "showing the world what he could actually do."

I almost pitied him as much as I envied him. Years of experimenting had turned man into monster yet underneath it all, something kept him going. Something that drove him, pushed him to his very limits—that even when faced with inevitable death, he fought tooth and nail, exhausting every option just to see another day.

What I would have given to feel even a semblance of that. Of anything. To think I had once found such joy in helping others—furiously scribbling notes, concocting plans, and devising elaborate systems all in the name of "good."

You see, I can travel backwards in time. While other heroes were perfectly content touting their flashy abilities, I was the one guy observing from some dark and unsuspecting corner. To ensure success for us heroes, I couldn't afford to miss a single detail. After all, I was the team's only fail-safe, my job to guarantee victory and nothing but victory.

An important building was destroyed? A fresh new round.

A hero was severely injured? No good. Rewind.

A villain got away? Start over.

With each attempt came a new timeline. The butterfly effect was no mere theory. Choosing to go right meant the brutal death of the grandma who left at eight in the morning every day, sharp, to purchase fresh groceries for her family. I had stumbled upon her by chance awhile back. In an attempt to reach a fresher potato on the upper shelves she nearly slipped, spilling the contents of her shopping basket all over the ground. As I helped pick up the scattered items, she shared the tragic backstory of how she had lost her daughter and son-in-law to a drunk driver—and that they left behind a two-year-old son and five-year-old daughter. Though I sensed the heavy sorrow in her voice, her eyes glittered with love and conviction, determined to care for her grandchildren til the day she no longer drew breath. The world had different plans, however. That morning, a certain nefarious villain had planted bombs throughout the city, right into her usual route to the market...

Choosing to go left saw the death of Mayor Swaine and his entire family. A staunch advocate for the poor and underprivileged, his last election was a grand sweep that toppled the corrupted regime of the previous mayor. No sooner had he assumed his new position did Mayor Swaine set to work to undo all the damage done over the years. Though politics were never my strong suit, even I came to know about the new bill that the Mayor was to introduce. But its fair, yet bold terms, served only to paint him as a prime target...and neither he nor his family were spared in what went down as the greatest arson in history.

Some might think the power to decide who lives or who dies akin to godhood. I couldn't agree less. Each and every choice followed me home, leaving me tossing and turning late at night—haunted by the deaths of those I could not save, plagued by their blood on my hands. Other heroes regarded me with fear and skepticism, having heard rumours about who I was, or what I could do. But because only I retained the memories of previous timelines, it was a moot endeavor to explain anything to anyone...and I much rather preferred "weird and quiet" over "crazy and insane."

Despite the immense weight of the burdens I chose to bear, I pressed on with the immutable belief that I was doing something good. That only I, both blessed and cursed with this ability, could save others from the things that they could not save themselves from.

Animals were no exception. I still remember the day as if yesterday. A golden doodle had broken free from its leash, dashing across a traffic-filled street straight into a shipping truck. One second it was alive—the next lifeless, a mangled body lying within a sea of growing red. Greeted by a gruesome scene, the dog's owner let loose a gut-wrenching cry. She wept loudly, collapsing onto her knees, burying her face in a show of grief that surpassed anything I had ever witnessed before.

That was how I met Avice. Her capacity for empathy was matched by none and she possessed an uncanny ability of simply...knowing. I spared no thought in activating my ability, rewinding time to rescue a dog and spare its owner from an anguish I hadn't known possible. Taking a route that allowed me to cross paths with her, I stopped the dog from bolting onto the instant it broke loose. I recalled her kind and gracious smile as she thanked me over and over again for saving Lucky from a horrific death still fresh in my mind.

It was Avice who taught me a great many things. For the first time, I learned what it was like to share myself with someone else. To be vulnerable, and to be accepted. She listened as I broke down over the agonising choice between saving the grandma's life or Mayor Swaine's. She comforted me on the more difficult days, encouraging me to believing in myself, and my decisions. And she steadied my rocky morals, beaming with pride for all the "good" I did whenever I struggled to feel the same. With Avice by my side, my resolve remained steadfast and my days became filled with meaning and joy. I captured villains and foiled their plans. I prevented a great many disasters. I saved cats, dogs, children, parents, teachers, politicians, and heroes alike.

But I could not save her.

Three inches to the right. A single hole the size of a grown man's thumb, chipping away at the otherwise polished marble wall.

How many ways have I seen her die now?

Crushed by a falling bridge, struck by a speeding car, pierced by a stray bullet... Each and every time I am too late. I have tried everything imaginable—repenting, cursing, discarding, reclaiming, crying—crossing over from the realm of heroes to the den of villains, and back again. Yet she remains marked with a fate to suffer, and to die.

Everyone lives. Everyone can be saved. Everyone...but her.

What good is this world, I ask, if it punishes one so undeserving?

I barely raise my head as an explosion rocks the room. The heroes were here once more, shining protagonists eager to defeat the villain and save the day. A villain—no, the mere shell of a man—who has now seen them for 872nd time.

But the heroes didn't know that. No one ever did.

So I close my eyes and lean against the wall. There would be no 873rd.

There never was.