charlotte always
2003-11-16 || 1:22 p.m.

When Charlotte woke up the next day things seemed somehow more familiar. She felt relieved and yet sad at the same time. It was as if the real world was suddenly not quite so real after all.

And supersticious. Charlotte felt terribly supersticious. She wondered what this war was that had been talked about during the day yesterday. One moment she would feel comforted that she didn't need to know and the next moment she would feel sad, almost as if she could burst into tears at any moment through not knowing.

But really she wanted to bury her head in the sand because then, you know, things might just go away. But she knew, deep inside, that burying her head in the sand was not really an option. An idea had been forming slowly in the back of her mind. Nagging away at her all day long. She knew eventually she would have to act on it.

Books held the key: that was it.

It felt strange turning the pages backwards. How could time be so condensed? Reduced to someone's words on a page?

The dates were all wrong.

Charlotte slammed the book shut with a snap. She could look no further. Just as she couldn't look at the planes when they flew over the school building. As if looking would make them crash. Could make them crash. And it would all be her fault.

All be her fault. That she could bring bad into the lives of others. Of that she felt sure. So she left the book tightly shut on the library table. Concealing its secrets for a little longer.

Concealing the tangle of time and the tangle of lives.

The mess that one person can make.