The flashing lights of the police cars outside the rough looking house had drawn a crowd, but with a little pushing and shoving I was able to work my way to the front. Two detectives were searching the old car parked out front and their stunned appearance upon opening the trunk was exactly what I'd hoped for. As one headed towards the house, he was met by an officer carrying what looked like a pair of work boots in a clear plastic bag. I covered my mouth to hide my smile.

"I didn't do it! You've got the wrong guy!" shouted a man's voice repeatedly once the detective had gone inside. The sounds of falling furniture and breaking glass could be heard as the cops dragged a handcuffed man out the front door. The man was large with a broad chest and muscular arms. He fought with every ounce of his strength as four cops dragged him towards the cruiser. Breaking free he head-butted one officer and kicked another. His aggression was ended with the crack of a baton to the back of his head.

It was all I could do to keep myself from laughing. No, not at the brutal scene before me, but that my plan had worked so perfectly. Jack Freeny had raised his son Steve to be a bully, a bully that'd made my life in high school a living hell. With Jack out of the way, all that would change.

I noticed a woman standing in the doorway holding a baby; it had to be Steve. You'd think the sight of her crying would make me regret my actions, but I knew she and her baby would be better off. And so would I. Short-term sadness was a small price to pay for a better life. Having seen all I needed to, I began walking away. Once out of sight, I tapped my wrist interface and vanished.

. . .

I don't remember my father. Sounds funny for a guy with a photographic memory, but I was four when he left. I once found a picture of him in my Mom's dresser. He was tall with dark hair and dressed in a military uniform. The only trait of his I seemed to have inherited was a nose that seemed too big for my face. He was smiling in the picture and I imagined that if he'd stayed, we could've been best pals.

However, he'd taken off. My mother never told me why, but it didn't really matter. His choice to desert us had set into motion all that would follow: a childhood living in near poverty, the abusive step-fathers, and a lifetime of traumatic memories that I could never forget. Of all the hurts I'd experienced, his was the most painful.

. . .

The bullying I endured from Steve Freeny in high school was horrible, but at least he was honest about it. No pretending to be my friend to get me to do his homework, just simple straightforward threats. Not so with Jennifer Gradford.

She was one of the pretty popular girls who'd never give guys like me the time of day. Usually she hung out with the other cheerleaders or with the guys from the football team. About four weeks before graduation, I was eating my lunch alone as usual when I heard a voice ask. "Can I sit here?"

Looking up, I saw her standing there holding her tray. At first I thought she was talking to someone else, but I was the only one there. "Sure," I answered, standing up as I'd seen gentlemen do on television. I had no idea why she was there kept my head down to keep from staring at her.

"Don't you ever smile?" she asked, gently touching my arm. "Usually when I sit with people they smile."

It was the first time a girl had ever touched me like that and it sent an electric shock through my body. "Sorry," I replied with what I hoped was a smile. The only reason I could figure for her sitting with me was that she'd lost some sort of bet.

However, she joined me again for lunch the next day and for another week after that. I didn't mind that she did most of the talking, after all, what could I say to someone like her? Just watching her twirl her hair and seeing her laugh made me the happiest I'd ever been. I even began to imagine that she might genuinely like me.

One day when she joined me at lunch she seemed upset.

"What's wrong?" I asked wishing I had the courage to pat her hand.

"It's English," she grumbled. "If I don't get an A on our final paper, I'll fail the class and won't graduate."

Thinking back on it now, I should've seen this coming, but all I saw was a pretty girl who needed my help. "I can help you with that," I offered.

"Will you?" she cried wrapping her arms around me.

If I had any doubts about helping her, they were erased by her hug. The scent of her hair and perfume was intoxicating. Within twenty seconds it was over and she looked at me expectantly. "We can get together after school ..." I began.

She shook her head. "Sorry, I have cheerleading practice after school. Maybe we can work on it in the school library during study halls?"

Seemed fine to me, so I agreed. For the next week, we spent every study hall working on her paper. Well actually, I was working on her paper while she always seemed to have an excuse to be somewhere else. Either it was getting help from a teacher, something to do with cheerleading, or just having to get something from her locker.

Handing her that completed paper earned me a quick "thank you" and then she was gone. At lunch, she was once again sitting with her popular friends and whenever I walked by, they'd all look up at me and laugh. Even as smart as I am, I still can't figure out which is worse: continual torment or a short period of happiness followed by betrayal. Probably doesn't matter since both hurt.

. . .

They say a photographic memory is a blessing, but I know better. Imagine remembering every hurt, every insult, and every injustice that you've ever endured. Being forced to relive them almost daily as some random event awakens them from the recesses of your mind. And the worst part, there's nothing you can do about it. Or so I thought.

It was in high school that H. G. Wells' The Time Machine first got me thinking about time travel. At first it was just escapism, more daydream that science. I imagined how wonderful it would be to go back in time and prevent all the bad things that had ever happened to me. Sure it was wishful thinking, but when all you know is misery, you'll take any relief you can get.

The idea of time travel never left me. I even majored in Theoretical Physics with the wild idea that I could make my daydreams come true. Unfortunately, all the top scientists said the same thing: that time travel was theoretically possible, but would require the energy of a thousand suns to achieve. Even though the math backed them up, I couldn't accept their conclusion. It seemed to me that their basic ideas about the nature of time were wrong and even perfect math won't fix flawed assumptions.

The idea for my Torrent Theory of time first came to me during my senior year of college. What if the flow of time behaved the same way as water released from a dam? Trying to move backwards in time would be like trying to swim against a torrent. There's no way it can be done. However, what if one were to go outside of time or, in my analogy, get on shore? You could move backwards and reenter time whenever you wanted.

Starting with this simple concept, I spent whatever free time I had over the next fifteen years developing the mathematics behind my theory. It took several hundred pages of math combining elements of Quantum Mechanics, electromagnetic field theory, and relativistic physics, but I was finally able to prove that my ideas were right. Probably could've gotten a Nobel Prize if I'd published my results, but I had other plans.

The final equations described a closed four-dimensional surface whose interior was invariant to time. From inside this "time bubble," one could travel to any point in the past. The time bubble also protected those inside from any changes made to the timeline.

In layman's terms, from within the time bubble someone could kill their grandfather and still exist. However, once the time bubble was deactivated, those inside would become part of the new timeline. Some might consider that a frightening prospect, but nothing was going to stop me from turning my youthful daydream into reality.

. . .

Fremont certainly hadn't been my first choice for my first post-doctoral job. Hell, it wasn't even on the list. I got stuck there thanks to Professor Harold James. He was a petty dictator whose doctoral students did all the work while he took all the credit. Not an unusual occurrence in the academic world, but he was a first-class freeloader who didn't understand half of when we did.

Well, I made the mistake of demanding co-author credit on some experiments I'd developed which revealed new information on quantum entanglement. To say that didn't go over well would be an understatement. He kicked me out of his office.

"I don't appreciate having students tell me what to do," he growled as I turned to go. "I'll make sure you never forget that."

I didn't take his threat too seriously. I was only a month away from getting my doctorate and had already interviewed for assistant professorship positions with some of the country's top physics schools.

Then the e-mails started. Every school I'd interviewed with told me they were no longer interested. Schools I hadn't interviewed with yet cancelled their interviews. There was only one explanation: Professor Harold James. I'd completely underestimated his vindictiveness.

Joining the staff of a school with one of the top physics programs had been the singular goal of my college career. The resources they had would help me achieve my dream of time travel. With my professional career on the line, I had no choice but to apologize. It did no good.

"You messed with the wrong person, Brandt." He told me, fury in his voice. "Maybe a few years at some backwater school will teach you how things really work."

I contacted each school and tried to explain, but they wouldn't listen. With my abilities, I should have ended up at Princeton, MIT, or Cal Tech, but thanks to Professor James' spite, only Fremont University, a school whose physics department could only aspire to mediocrity, would hire me.

Being stuck at Fremont didn't end my dream, but made achieving it far more difficult. Calculations that would take hours on a state of the art computer, took weeks on Fremont's antiquated system. And more often than not, it would crash, setting me back even further. It cost me years of additional effort. Harold James had succeeded in stealing from me the most precious commodity there is: time.

. . .

Standing at the rear of the small auditorium, I nodded approvingly as murmurs of anger rippled through the crowd of reporters. It was going just as I'd hoped. Edmund Reid's opening statement was nothing less than a full-throated condemnation of how the press had manufactured the accusations against him. The smug look on his face perfectly matched the condescending tone of his high pitched voice.

I'd learned the hard way about Edmund's high opinion of himself, so it was no surprise that he'd call a press conference to attack anyone who dared say anything against him. Watching him antagonize an entire room of reporters was quite entertaining.

I knew embezzlement alone, even by a university president, wouldn't generate this much coverage, so I added a mistress to spice things up a bit. Money and sex are like catnip to reporters and they didn't disappoint.

"... and clearly the allegations against me are merely an attempt by some members of the press to besmirch my good name," concluded Edmund, his voice as annoying as ever.

I leaned against the back wall and waited for the show to begin.

"Did you have an affair with Patricia Jackson?" barked a reporter.

These reporters weren't wasting any time getting to the good stuff.

"I've never met the woman in question," shot back Edmund. "All I know is that she used to work in Fremont's finance department."

Now I had nothing against Patricia Jackson, but for my plan to work I needed to get into the school's finance system. She'd made the unfortunate mistake of writing down her user name and password and leaving it in her desk.

"Then how do you explain the over $400,000 in university funds she transferred to a bank account in your name over the last five years?" shouted another reporter.

Edmund glared at her. "That account is not mine and was opened without my knowledge."

"But the checks from that account have your signature," she countered.

"Obviously they're forgeries," he responded, clearly frustrated.

I have to hand it to Edmund, he was right on both counts, but there's no way he'd ever prove it. With a driver's license and his social security number, opening the account was quite simple. The signature? Having a photographic memory may be a curse, but it also makes you a perfect forger. Only had to trace his signature once and even a writing expert can't tell the difference.

Another reporter called out, "What about the apartment?"

I could tell the pressure was getting to Edmund as he tugged at his collar. "I didn't rent that apartment and have never been there."

"Police found some of your and Ms. Johnson's personal effects there," shouted yet another reporter. "How can you expect us to believe you were never there?"

I smiled to myself. A couple of trips to Edmund's and Patricia's homes had provided everything needed to give the apartment the proper lived in look. I have to admit that it was somewhat embarrassing to buy the negligees, but they were needed to show that the apartment was for more than just sleeping.

Under the bright lights, Edmund's head glistened with sweat. His smugness gone, he looked down as reporters continued to shout questions at him.

"What about the jewelry receipts?"

"When was the last time you spoke to Patricia Jackson?"

"How has your family reacted to the allegations?"

"Will you resign?"

Edmund raised his head. "But, I've done nothing wrong," he answered in a low wretched voice.

"Not to them," I muttered as I slipped out the back. Activating my wrist interface, I vanished.

. . .

Once again the screaming of my mother and step-father awakened me. As usual, he'd come home drunk and my mother was expressing her displeasure. Even at eight years old, I'd grown numb to the constant arguing. After all, it'd been no different with my previous two step-fathers. Unfortunately, this one had added something new to the mix: violence. I knew he'd hit her when the screaming was replaced by whimpering.

I crept to the door of my bedroom and peered out, seeing my mother on the floor crying. Eying me, my step-father yelled. "Get over here boy."

I walked over and stood before him trembling. Looking down at my mother, I could see her swollen face covered with tears.

"Leave Paul alone Neil," she pleaded, looking up at my step-father.

"Now Phyllis," he answered taking off his belt, "you know it's well past the boy's bedtime." Folding the belt in half, he slapped his hand with it. "You know that means he has to be disciplined."

As with everything else, I'll never forget the pain of those harsh blows from the belt or his fists I endured for the two years he was married to my mother. Children should never have to learn to wish for someone to die.

. . .

Standing in my old high school hallway felt surreal. My teenaged self rushed down the hallway with his head down, clutching an armful of books. In just a couple of minutes, Steve Freeny was going to trip me. I could still remember the pain of the resulting bruises. However, that's not why I was there.

Dressed in a janitor's uniform I slowly wiped down a window while waiting for Jennifer Gradford to open her locker. I smiled to myself as the passing students ignored me entirely. I'd chosen my disguise well. From the explosion of laughter down the hall, I knew I'd just fallen to the floor, sending books flying everywhere.

I fought the urge to rush over there and teach Steve a lesson. My only consolation was that in time the memory of every indignity I'd suffered at his hands would be gone. Anyway, I knew Jennifer would soon be at her locker since she was among those who'd laughed at my misfortune.

A couple of other cheerleaders were with her as she opened the locker and read the typed note I'd left her. It read, "Jennifer, you're so beautiful. How I love just to watch you."

She giggled as she read it and showed it to her friends who echoed her reaction. Crumpling the paper, she tossed it on the ground. When she was gone, I dutifully picked it up and put it in the trash. Her reaction had been exactly what I'd expected. However, that was soon going to change. With the hallway empty, I gave the wrist interface a slight tap and vanished.

Over the next two weeks, well for Jennifer anyways, more notes showed up in her locker, each darker than the last.

"You're too good for those other boys. I can give you everything you want."

"Why do you continue to hurt me? I only want what's best for you."

"I will not be ignored! You and I will be together forever."

"I really like your bedroom. Why must you plaster the walls with pictures of other guys?"

Part of me regretted having to do this, but I had no choice. She'd learned to use her beauty to take advantage of people and needed to experience the pain it caused.

The note about her bedroom really seemed to get to her. "What kind of joke is this?" she cried, showing the note to one of her friends.

Seeing her reaction, I knew it was time for the final note.

Getting Tom Burns' wallet was simplicity itself. Pop into the locker room and use the master locker key I'd borrowed from the janitor's office. I'm glad I never told anyone else about my time bubble. A less scrupulous person could've used it to become history's greatest thief.

Actually, I had nothing against Tom Burns. He never did anything to me. Heck, I doubted he even knew I existed. However, I needed his wallet for my plan. I was pretty sure he'd get it back, one way or another.

"To watch you sleep Jennifer is the greatest thrill of my life," I typed, so glad this was the final sleazy note I had to write.

Holding the note and wallet, I pressed the button on my wrist interface. I stood frozen with fear as I appeared in Jennifer's bedroom, half expecting a shrill scream, but the only sound was soft snoring. The light from an outside streetlight was just enough to see by. Carefully moving towards the bed, I placed the note by her head. The wallet I placed on the floor near the window where I was certain she'd find it. A wave of relief overcame me as I pressed the return button and vanished.

The wheels on the cleaning cart I slowly pushed down the hallway squealed, but no one paid any attention. Stopping not far from Tom Burns' locker, I watched while scrubbing a spot on the floor. Turning from his locker, he was met with a hard slap to the face from Jennifer. I had to admire her nerve.

"You jerk!" she cried. "Did you get a good laugh terrorizing me?"

The hallway grew silent and all eyes turned to them.

Rubbing his bruised cheek, Tom stared angrily at her, "what are you talking about? I didn't do anything to you."

"Oh yeah!" she screamed, pulling the notes from her purse and shoving them in his face, "and what do you call these?"

He pushed her away, "you're crazy!"

"Don't touch me!" she yelled, raising her hand to slap him again.

The crowd of students parted as Mr. Hanley, the school principal, pushed his way through. Hoping for bit more of a show, I was disappointed at the principal's quick arrival.

"What's going on here?" he demanded crossly.

Tom stepped back, pointing at Jennifer, "she attacked me."

"Because he's been sending me these disgusting notes," yelled Jennifer waving the notes I'd sent.

"She's crazy," interrupted Tom. "I never sent her any notes."

I almost laughed out loud, but stifled it to not give myself away.

Mr. Hanley glanced at the notes. "They're all typed. How do you know Tom wrote them?"

"Because I found this in my bedroom this morning."

"What are you doing with my wallet?" cried Tom.

"Admit it, Tom," she answered with a laugh. "Your sick joke is over."

"That doesn't prove anything," shot back Tom. "Someone took my wallet yesterday while I was at football practice. Ask coach, he helped me look for it."

Mr. Hanley looked at the two of them in exasperation and started walking away. "You two come with me and we'll see what Coach Scott has to say about this."

As the principal walked away, Tom turned to Jennifer and spoke in an angry whisper. "I know you're trying to get me in trouble. Well, you messed with the wrong guy, Jennifer. By the time I'm done, you won't have a friend left in this school."

I'd heard enough to know my plan was a resounding success. I slipped into an empty supply closet and activated my wrist interface.

Lifting the top off the trash container, I surveyed the cafeteria a week later. There sat my teen-aged self sitting alone at his usual table keeping his eyes down while eating his meager lunch. However, the sight a few tables over made me smile. Jennifer sat there by herself picking at the food on her plate. Occasionally, she glanced over at the table of her former friends laughing and joking without her. I was too far away to be sure, but I thought she might have teared up once or twice.

I have to admit I felt a little guilty about what I'd done. I'm not a monster after all. Unfortunately, it was the only way to prevent the hurt she'd eventually inflict on me. In the long run, this new reality would probably be better for her anyway. Slipping out of sight, I pressed the wrist interface.

. . .

Loud beeps echoed and the smell of exhaust and burnt oil wafted through the warehouse as the eighteen wheeler slowly backed in. I'd waited years for this moment: my time bubble was finally becoming a reality. The massive bank vault shone under the ceiling lights, and I had to force myself not to rush over to it.

The long, tedious process of using the truck's crane to lower the vault to the floor nearly drove me mad. Whenever they seemed to be making some progress, someone would call out to stop and it'd be another fifteen minutes before the vault started moving again. Didn't these people know how to do their jobs?

The clanging of the warehouse doors rolling shut behind the truck barely registered as I stared at my new purchase. The vault hadn't been cheap, but it was the only thing I could find that was capable of standing up to the high energy electromagnetic fields required to generate the time bubble.

Grabbing a flashlight, I pulled open the heavy door and jumped inside. The feel of the smooth cold steel as I touched the wall was electrifying. Over the next ten years, there would be many more deliveries, but that first one was what convinced me that my time bubble would someday become reality.

Cold in winter and sweltering in summer, I grew to hate the warehouse, but it provided what I needed most: space and privacy. The vault, industrial generators, computers, and wiring covered most of the warehouse floor. My machine shop and living quarters took up what little space remained.

The warehouse became my self-imposed prison, but I didn't mind. Everything I needed was ordered online or over the phone. Pay enough and you can get anything delivered, no questions asked. Was I being paranoid? Hardly. Too much of my work had already been stolen and I wasn't going to let that happen with my most important work of all.

In time, wiring from every corner of the warehouse converged in a thick bundle at the top of the vault. From there the wires snaked down to long metal strips covering its sides and back, giving it the appearance of a sumo wrestler's top knot. The vault's interior was transformed with the addition of a control console and a bank of computers.

As the time bubble neared completion, there was one last component to construct: the wrist interface. Looking very much like an over-sized watch, it was what would allow me to move anywhere within the time stream once the time bubble was activated. Just a tap of its touch screen would transport me to wherever and whenever I desired to go.

Is there any way to describe the feeling of accomplishing a life-long dream? I don't think words can do it justice. The three generators whined loudly and made the floor rumble beneath my feet while the sweet smell of ozone filled the air. I checked all the computer displays and everything was operating as expected.

Admittedly, it would've been a good idea to run a full system test before actually using the time bubble, but I'd already waited too long. If something went wrong, at least I wouldn't have to live with my failure.

Climbing inside the vault, I pulled the heavy door shut behind me and turned the wheel to lock it. Sitting down, I scanned the console status screen which read all green.

My heart swelled with excitement as I typed, "Run Sequence 0001," and hit the Enter key. Loud humming filled the vault and I felt my hair stand on end. Within a minute, the humming went silent and my hair returned to normal. The console screen read, "Stable Time Bubble Established." I'd done it.

. . .

The sound of clicking mice and clattering keys filled the library's small computer center. Typing away at the long obsolete computer, I couldn't help but feel happy. Growing up, libraries had been my escape from the turmoil at home and the bullying at school. And now it would be the means to serve a well-deserved helping of poetic justice.

My plan to erase what Harold James did to me from my memories was actually quite simple. I'd read every paper he'd published in the three years before I began working for him and was now putting each of them on the internet several months before he submitted them for publication. Oh, not word for word, but close enough that the standard plagiarism search algorithms would find them.

So began my grand library tour. Travelling across those three years, I visited libraries throughout the country and used their public computers to put Harold James' papers online before he'd even written them. How I wished I could be there to watch Professor James sweat as he tried to deny the plagiarism charges.

Unfortunately, that wasn't going to happen. Universities liked to keep this sort of thing quiet. There'd be no public hearings or press releases, just a closed door meeting where Professor James would be forced to retire, with full benefits of course. Sure, I would've loved to see him publicly humiliated, but getting rid of him before I started my doctorate program would have to suffice.

There was a warm breeze and the hot sun shone in my face as I appeared on my old college campus a year before my younger self would start there. I felt a wave of anticipation as I made my way to Professor James' office. It was a far different feeling than the last time I'd made the trip. Knocking on the door, I smiled to myself as a woman's voice called out, "come in."

A middle aged woman with slightly greying hair sat at the desk. I struck an apologetic tone. "Excuse me, but I'm looking for Professor James."

At first she appeared confused, but a look of recognition soon appeared on her face. "Do you mean Professor Harold James?"

"Yes."

"He retired a few months ago. Can I help you?"

I was disappointed by the off-handed nature of her response. Even though I knew it wasn't likely, I'd hoped there'd be some hint of scandal in his departure.

"Unfortunately not, I was hoping to speak with Professor James. Thank you for your time."

My plan had succeeded, but the accomplishment felt hollow. I'm sure retirement suited Harold James just fine since he never seemed to do anything anyways. The man who'd stolen years of my life seemed to have gotten off scot-free. I pressed the return button.

. . .

I stared wearily at the pile of ungraded tests sitting on my desk. You'd think I'd have a teaching assistant to take care of mundane tasks like this, but the university claimed none were available for my classes.

I got that kind of answer a lot. Like my office. It was the same one I'd had since I joined Fremont University as an assistant professor. Most tenured professors got a plush office with a secretary, but I was still stuck in a cramped, windowless office that was either too hot or too cold.

Of course I knew who was responsible: Edmund Reid, the university president. He had a doctorate in Physics, but over time he'd become more bureaucrat than physicist, even if he wouldn't admit it. I'd made the mistake of correcting him once when he was talking about the quantum entanglement of subatomic particles, something clearly beyond his grasp. He'd had it out for me ever since. However, having submitted my patent applications, I'd soon be rid of him.

With a sigh, I set to work grading the tests from my Intro to Relativity class. Yes, Edmund had been responsible for that too. One thing I knew though, once Edmund found out about my patents he'd race down to my basement office to try and weasel some of the proceeds out of me. Fat chance. The only reason I'd even bothered developing new technology was to finance the development of my time bubble. I documented everything I did to make sure Fremont wouldn't get a penny of it. This time I had the upper hand.

Hearing a knock at the door, I ignored it and continued grading. After several more knocks, the door flew open, hitting a filing cabinet. Taking a quick glance, I immediately recognized the short, balding man with his ever-present scowl.

"Very busy right now, Edmund," I declared while I continued grading. "Have to finish grading all these tests since the university hasn't seen fit to provide me with a teaching assistant."

"Well Paul," he answered in that annoying high-pitched voice of his, "budgets are tight and what assistants we can afford are assigned based on seniority. Unfortunately," he gave a slight laugh, "you're the low man on the totem pole."

I wanted to answer, "thanks to you," but kept the comment to myself. I looked up at him and gestured towards a chair. "What do you want?"

He remained standing. "I've heard an interesting rumor, Paul."

I didn't bother looking up. "Yeah, what's that?" I asked in an uninterested tone.

"Seems you've applied for some patents."

I graded a few more questions while answering. "I've been working on some projects on my own time."

"Need I remind you,” he answered smugly, "that your contract with the university states that any patents you generate become the property of the university?"

Putting my pen down, I looked up. "I'm well aware of what my contract states." I fixed my eyes on him. "It seems you've forgotten that clause only applies to work performed using university resources while on university time. All my work was done at home using my own equipment. Plus, I've got the documentation to prove it."

"I see," he answered. He was much calmer than I'd expected. "Since we seem to have two different interpretations of the contract, we'll have to let a court decide."

"There's no way you'd win," I answered confidently.

"Perhaps not," he replied with a thin smile, "but the university must protect its intellectual rights. After all, we have to pay the lawyers whether we sue or not. You of course would have to hire an attorney, which can get very expensive."

Walking toward the door, he stopped and looked back at me. "Plus, these kinds of cases can last for years. So even if you did win, your patents would be worthless."

I looked down at my desk. I thought for sure I'd win this time. But once again my work was being stolen, and there was nothing I could do about it. I needed the proceeds from those patents to fund my work and didn't want to lose precious time. "How much do you want?" I finally asked in a defeated tone.

He smiled triumphantly, "I think a forty percent donation of the patents to the university would be an appropriate gesture on your part."

I just nodded.

"I'll have the papers drawn up," he declared before leaving.

And just like that, Edmund had once again gotten the better of me.

The patents turned out to be profitable far beyond my wildest expectations. Even after the university's 40% extortion payment, there was enough money left to finally start building my time bubble. My resignation letter was short and to the point: "I quit!"

It felt good handing it to Edmund Reid. Just wish I could forget the smug look on his face as he tucked it into his desk.

. . .

The foul stench of urine and vomit assaulted me as I appeared. No surprise that he'd be in a place like this.

The bathroom door opened and in walked the man I'd grown to hate more than any other. It'd be another four years before he met my mother, but he looked exactly as I remembered. Figured nothing else about him had changed either.

"Hello, Neil," I announced in a low, threatening voice.

He looked me over with bloodshot eyes. "Do I know you?" he slurred.

I gave him a hard stare. "No, but I know who you are. I hear you like to beat up women and kids. How are you with people your own size?"

His face went white at my words. As I began walking towards him, he backed away and fumbled for the door behind him. By the time I'd taken two steps, he was gone. Always knew he was a coward.

It felt good to see the terror in my step-father's face. He'd certainly given my mother and me more than our fair share of it and had no doubt any woman he married would suffer just as my mother did. I was going to make sure that would never happen.

I tapped my wrist interface and appeared outside the bar, I crouched behind a car and waited. Stumbling out of the bar, Neil fell several times as he kept gazing over his shoulder. Even as he tried unlocking his car door, he continued to look towards the bar, a wonderful expression of fear on his face. Once in the car, he roared out of the parking lot, nearly running down a pedestrian in the process.

I waited until he was a couple of blocks away before using my wrist interface. The thought of appearing in the back seat of his car was quite tempting, but even my time bubble has its limits. Instead, I appeared about twenty feet in front of his car. My eyes watered as I stared directly into his headlights. I didn't know if he'd seen me until I heard engine rev.

Even knowing that I was in no real danger didn't deter the terror I felt as I watched the car barrel towards me. Holding my finger over my wrist interface, it was all I could do to hold it still until the car was within five feet of me. Appearing in the same spot fifteen seconds later, I heard the sound of squealing brakes.

Turning around, I saw the car a short distance away with the driver's door open. Neil clung to the open door, his eyes wide with fear. Without saying a word, I began walking towards him. He stumbled backwards and fell to the ground. Frantically, he crawled back into the car, speeding away even before he'd gotten the door closed. I had one thing left to do. I tapped the wrist interface.

His apartment was a dump. Then again, I wasn't surprised. My mother had spent most of her time cleaning up after him. Filthy clothes covered most of the furniture with empty beer cans and frozen dinner packages strewn about the floor. The only good thing about the apartment was that it was on the fourth floor, which would just be high enough.

I waited for him in the bedroom, my back to the shoddily built window. It wasn't long before I heard the apartment door open and the sound of heavy breathing as he walked into the bedroom.

Stopping in the doorway, he stared at me and started shaking.

"You took off before I could finish," I sneered. "Just wanted you to know that people go to jail for what you've done." I couldn't help but smirk as I added, "and you know what happens in prison to guys who mess with kids, don't you Neil?"

Figured that last statement would do it. "I'll kill you!" Neil cried, rushing towards me with outstretched arms. Waiting until he was just inches away, I tapped the wrist interface and re-appeared behind him.

The sound of crashing glass was followed by a horrified scream. Peering out the broken window I watched Neil hit the pavement and lay there motionless.

With a smile, I wiped my hands and jabbed the wrist interface.

. . .

My first encounter with Steve Freeny occurred in January of my freshman year in high school. He was a heavyset boy who stood a head taller than anyone else. Even though he'd only transferred to our school a few weeks before, everyone already knew he wasn't someone you messed with. I was on my way home from school when he stepped out of the alley in front of me. I'd stood there petrified.

"Einstein," he sneered at me, grabbing me by the jacket and pulling me into the alley. Shoving me against a wall he continued, "I hear you're pretty smart. That true?"

When I didn't answer, he threw me to the ground. "I asked you a question Einstein!"

"Yes," I called out in a trembling voice.

"That's better," he answered yanking me up by the arm. "I only let smart people do my homework for me."

"What?" I asked before I could stop myself. He shoved me back against the wall and pressed his arm against my neck.

"It's very simple," he laughed. "I give you my homework and you write all the answers down. Then I copy them and turn it in."

He pressed his arm more tightly against my neck. "Got it?"

Unable to get any words out I nodded.

Releasing me, he pulled some sheets of paper from his jacket. "Meet me here before school tomorrow with the answers to all of these," he demanded harshly. "And all the answers better be right," he added, "or you'll be in no condition to do anybody's homework."

It was like that all through high school. Any school work that wasn't done in class I did for him. I'd seen what'd happened to other kids who'd told teachers about bullying. Teachers can only protect you while you're in school, giving bullies ample opportunity for revenge. It wasn't all bad. Steve kept other bullies from bothering me. I guess even bullies can be bullied.

I only met his father once, but it was enough. Steve had been sick so I had to bring some homework I'd done for him to his house. It was in a rundown section of town with boarded up houses and empty lots. Almost missed his house since it didn't look much different than the abandoned ones.

The doorbell didn't work, so I knocked on the door. When no one answered after a few minutes, I knocked again. This time a large, obese man clad in nothing but sweatpants opened the door and growled at me. "What'd ya want?" He stank of alcohol and body odor. It took me a moment to overcome my fright.

"I'm bringing Steve his homework," I finally stammered.

"Steve," bellowed the man before trudging over and plopping down on the couch.

My tormentor came out of a back bedroom. I figured with his father there, he wouldn't be so mean, but I was wrong. "You got my homework, Einstein?" he demanded.

"Right here," I answered, handing him several sheets of paper.

"Everything better be right this time or I'll pound you," he replied, grabbing me by the collar and pulling me close.

"It is," I pleaded.

"Good," he laughed, giving me a shove then slamming the door shut.

I just stood there trying to understand how Steve could get away with that behavior in front of his father.

Through the thin walls of the house I heard the man call out. "Hey Stevie. That the kid you got doing your homework?"

"Yeah."

There was gruff laughter. "Chip off the old block. Wouldn't have gotten through high school without Fred ... Bob ... or whatever that guy's name was."

Walking away, I had yet another person to hate.

. . .

Part of me always wondered why my father had deserted us. I even went as far as hiring a detective to track him down, but never did anything with the information. Oh, I could have paid him a visit and heard his side of the story, but what good would that do? Because of him, my only memories of childhood were poverty and a string of bad step-fathers.

Turns out my father had done all right for himself. He'd gotten a good job, remarried, and even had a few more kids. Too bad they wouldn't exist when I was done. Then again, as far as my father was concerned, I'd never existed either.

My mother was already pregnant with me when my father was deployed to Afghanistan. His army unit was one of many which patrolled the treacherous mountain areas searching for Taliban hideouts. Making his death look combat related would be easy.

Harsh? Maybe, but it was the only way. If my father died in combat, my mother would be eligible for military benefits which would provide for all our needs. She wouldn't have to marry one loser after another out of a desperate need for money. Besides, after what my father had done, he deserved it.

A cold wind whipped through me as I appeared on a small cliff. Putting the rifle down, I got on the ground and peered at the valley below. I knew where my father's unit would be since I'd popped into the army camp to get the rifle and review the patrol logs.

As the unit came into view, I released the rifle's safety and put the scope to my eye. As the men drew closer, I put my finger on the trigger and studied each one. At last I saw it, my father's bulbous nose, the only trait of his I'd inherited. I pulled the trigger.

. . .

Fighting to catch my breath, I lay there on the vault floor shaking. I'd never been shot at before and it was something I never wanted to experience again. It'd been all I could do to reach over and activate my wrist interface.

It took a while, but I was finally able to crawl onto the console chair. Leaning back, I closed my eyes and couldn't help but smile. In spite of my miscalculation about how quickly my father's unit would return fire, I'd done what I needed to. He was the last one.

I'd dealt with the people who'd caused me the most hurt and soon their actions would be erased from my memories forever. I sat at the console and typed in the time bubble deactivation code.

I knew I'd integrate with the new timeline when I deactivated the time bubble. However, I had no way of knowing what my life would be like or even if I'd be alive. The only thing I did know was that all those terrible memories would be gone. As I reached for the Enter key, I began to wonder what things would be like if I remained in the time bubble.

I imagined discussing the finer points of the Theory of Relativity with Einstein or sharing quantum physics ideas with Heisenberg. I could see Rome at the height of its glory, watch Newton conduct his greatest experiments, or even be in the audience at Ford's Theater. With all of history at my fingertips, the possibilities were endless.

I closed my eyes and tried to get those thoughts out of my mind. Forgetting my past was all I'd ever wanted and all I had to do was deactivate the time bubble and I'd be free. Hell, I'd even killed my own father to make it possible.

Everyone who'd hurt me had gotten what they deserved. Did it really matter that I still remembered what they'd done? As I sat there, a flood of memories, all bad, hit me like a punch to the gut. I looked at the wrist interface with a sad smile. It mattered. With a shaking hand, I reached over and hit the Enter key.