Page 2 of Time Traveling Space Bastards

I planned to get shitfaced when I got home, pass out, and do nothing all day. I worked at an indie book shop and the owner, Kevin, was a complete turd, but he at least gave me this day off every year with little grousing.

Therapy and anti-psychotics didn’t help me deal with what I saw. Nah, that was all focusing on making me think it was all in my head and trying to prevent future hallucinations. It was real and I couldn’t talk to anyone about it without them thinking I was insane.

Sometimes, they just made fun of me, but there were a few seventy-two hours holds in here and a lot of side effects from the various drugs they put me on until I started playing their game and pretending like it never happened.

Now that I was away from all those people, I still didn’t talk about it with people because I’d learned my lessons, but I needed to make sense of it. They clearly weren’t going to come back and explain like they promised.

So, I wrote a story. Fuck, I wrote a whole series. I couldn’t exactly ask on the internet if my story had happened to other people. There were way too many bots and trolls for that. So, I self-published it thinking maybe someone would read the blurb and reach out.

That was kind of a bust. I sold exactly twenty-five copies. Of an entire four book series. There were supposed to be five books, but I had a wicked case of writers’ block and had no idea how to end the series because I still didn’t know what all of this meant.

I asked Kevin to stock my books in his store and he gave me this long-winded, pretentious speech that I frankly drowned out right after he said no, but sometimes, he said things like he read it, liked it, and was waiting for the last book. He’d never admit it, but he’d say things when he was yelling at me that you’d only say if you’d read my books more than once.

Parking wasn’t great at my apartment either, and my neighborhood wasn’t as safe as Damon’s. Still, I’d done this enough times that I could walk of shame in a stolen hoodie without getting mugged or murdered.

Except there was a bus stop near my apartment that wasn’t there before and I knew that bus stop. The graffiti looked like it was done by someone with a hard on for Sci-fi movies, but the bus stop itself was a little too nice to have been put in by literally any of the cities I lived in.

That was the same bus stop that landed in our pool when I was home alone at seven-years-old and started all the bad shit in my life. Which meant they were back. Oh, that was rich. They promised they needed to fix a little machinery and they would be back in minutes.

It had been twenty-one fucking years.

I had no proof they ever crash landed in our pool because that fucking bus stop was really a time machine or a spacecraft or some shit and they were all aliens who kept calling me the Devouring Mother. They took their bus stop time machine to fix it and were supposed to come back for me in minutes.

My parents came home and found me shivering by the pool, refusing to come back inside because I was waiting for the aliens and their bus stop.

So, yeah, that was how I ended up with a schizophrenia misdiagnosis and a lot of fucked-up shit went down until I left as soon as I turned eighteen.

I wanted answers about all of this, but they were going to have to listen to me pop off about what they put me through first.