I Just Can’t Stop Killing Myself

I just can’t stop killing myself. It started off innocently enough, I suppose. It was the classic story of boy meets girl, boy messes up relationship, boy meets witch, boy wishes he can turn back time.

Surprisingly, my wish worked as expected. I traveled back in time to a week prior when my girlfriend dumped me. Having had a full week to think about it, I sweet talked her until she was a blubbering puddle of apologies in my arms. 

A little while later, I saw myself, exactly one week younger, walking down the street without a care in the world. I realized the spell had made a copy of me that was still living in this time period. Or maybe I was the copy. Either way I knew I had fucked up, so I acted quickly. Before younger me could make sense of the handsome devil coming at him, I cold clocked him.

Now, I’m no expert, but I don’t think the universe takes too kindly to people jumping around the space time continuum duplicating themselves willy nilly. So I killed him. Or I guess I killed myself — however you want to put it. It seemed like the right thing to do. Suicide isn’t a crime. Right?

I had things perfectly under control until they found his body in the quarry a few days later. I decided it would be far too much work to explain all of this to my family, so I used my magical powers for a second time and traveled to two weeks earlier.

Well, it turns out I am not the greatest murderer — something I consider a virtue actually. I kept killing myself, disposing of the body poorly and having to go back in time again and again to rectify it. Around murder-suicide twenty-five, I started getting pretty good! 

The problem was that all of these repeated time travel trips started adding up. I was twenty years from my starting timeline with no way back to the future except for good ole’ fashioned waiting. But first, I had to find and kill the five year old version of myself.

To ensure the murder went off without a hitch, I searched for one of my many lonely childhood memories to get the drop on him. I remembered one year on Halloween, my parents neglected to pick me up from school. I knew that five year old me would be alone on the playground doodling until nightfall. 

After everyone had gone, I crept from my hiding spot behind a tree. The night was cold and my frosty breath shrouded me in a wispy cloud. As I clicked open my shiny folding knife, my younger self turned and saw me.

Fortunately, I was wearing was a demon mask I had stolen from the local museum. It had bared teeth, devilish horns and swirling blue and yellow eyes which made you feel spun if you stared too long.

After killing yourself so many times you have to find creative ways to spice things up. It was Halloween after all. 

I looked into his frightened eyes and suddenly had a change of heart. I can’t tell you exactly why, but something about seeing a younger, innocent version of yourself softens you. If I fucked up spacetime, then so be it. I was done killing myself.

Although I am not going to lie, I found it kinda funny when the younger me peed himself. I figured he would be alright. It was just a little spook.

After that, I skipped town, assumed a new identity and worked odd jobs to get by. Sure, I had to live as a recluse, but at least I was alive. Spacetime was intact as well. A bonus!

Years passed and things were going relatively well. That was until the bodies started popping up. I didn’t pay it much mind at first, but when I realized the serial killer dubbed “The Blue Eyed Demon” had the same M.O. as yours truly, I knew I couldn’t ignore it.

Brutally killing myself was one thing, but I had to draw a line when other people got involved. I returned to my hometown to stop him.

There was a curfew so I was practically alone walking the streets that night. From behind me, I heard his raspy snarl.

“You,’’ he hissed.

I turned to see him holding a folding knife that glinted in the moonlight. He wore the same Halloween mask I had used.

“You have to stop this! I am you,” I pleaded, “See? It’s me! You!”

“You,” he hissed again, “I’ve been waiting for you.” 

He lumbered towards me slowly, but I didn’t wait around to see if he was going to give me a hug. I got the fuck out of dodge and returned to my quiet life as a nobody. Call me a coward, but after doing what I did to all those younger versions of myself, I didn’t expect him to suddenly grow a conscience.

That wasn’t the end. I saw him lumbering towards me one night while I was getting gas and only narrowly escaped. Another night he almost took my head clean off when I was ordering a burger. I keep changing aliases, but it’s no use. 

I can’t hide from myself.

I don’t know if I was the one who corrupted him that night on the playground. Maybe he somehow found out what I did to us. Maybe this terror was always inside me. Either way, I know that when I see The Blue Eyed Demon for the last time, I will have nobody to blame but myself.