Marcus turned the machine on. It shook, lights were flashing. He was not too sure if he dared enter. He swallowed, straightened his back, and opened the door. Inside he pushed the green button. There was a hell of a noise, then silence. Had it worked? He didn’t know. He opened the door, went out. Looked around. His house was gone. His neighbours house was there, but it looked a lot newer. It had worked. He had travelled back in time.
He walked down the street, looking at people. Their out-of-date styles. He was thrilled. A real time machine! Haha! And Runar said it was impossible to travel time. Now he was going to see! After a while he saw a girl sitting at a bench, crying. There was something familiar about her. He went closer. She was his mum! She was about his age, and beautiful.
He asked why she was crying, what was wrong. Nothing, she said. Then she said: My boyfriend’s an asshole. Marcus’ father. He sat down. They talked for a while. It was exiting. She really couldn’t have any idea! They got along instantly, which was natural, after all.
Why don’t you come with me for a cup of tea? She said after a while. My parents aren’t home.
They sat in her living room drinking tea. It was his grandparent’s house, but it smelled different, and the furniture was new. They talked and laughed. The atmosphere got better and better. Suddenly she got quiet. She kissed him. He didn’t know what to do. He got perplex. He’d never kissed a girl before, and she was more beautiful than he’d ever imagined, even when the Oedipus complex had been beating at it’s worst. He let him self go, returning her kiss. It’s just a kiss, he said to himself.
They were making out passionately, and she started undressing them both. Touching him. He couldn’t resist. She moved herself over him, slowly slipping him inside her. He knew it was wrong, but he let it happen. She rode him, first gently, then faster. He didn’t last long. He came with a loud moan, squirting her full.
Shame bubbled up inside him.
He had shagged his own mother! And she didn’t even know who he was. He felt like a rapist. A monster. He got on his feet, red as a tomato.
Are you OK? She asked, confused. Didn’t you like it?
He said he was sorry, that, yes, it had been wonderful, but he had to leave. He pulled his clothes on fast and rushed towards the door. She looked despaired.
Will I see you again? She asked. He stopped, looked at her. You definitely will, he said and got out of there.
Back in his own time he lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. His head was spinning through contradictions and paradox. The date he had travelled to was nine months before his birth. He didn’t look anything like his father.