Prologue

I wore a black suit and a white shirt, black tie, and black shoes; all polished and clean: clothes that might have been uncomfortable for me when I was a child all those years ago. I was old. I was getting old: brown hair slowly graying as the days went by. However, my appearance today gave me a sort of comfort against losing my youth; I had grown up. I had become more experienced with reality, and the world that tries so hard to revolve around it. I had grown up.

"Well if it isn't Charles?" The old nurse said looking at me. I smiled.

"How are you, Mags?" I asked as I sign myself in.

"Oh, I'm quite well." Mags responded. "How are your siblings? Elliot came by a week ago, but I haven't seen much of Janice lately." I pursed my lip.

"Well," I started off. "You know Janice, busy bee that one: Broadway and all that." I said with a tinge of sadness.

"It's alright." She gave me a small smile. She had known that the arts were kind of a harsh topic for me. Seeing how I had grown up with siblings that possessed an artistic ability and were such successes, while my last two books had bombed and did not appeal to audiences. "Well, how have you been, Charles?"

"Quite well, I guess. The divorce is being finalized next week." I said calmly.

The nurse smiled sadly at me. "I hope everything turns out okay then."

"Me too." I whispered quietly as I walked into the familiar hallways. "Me too."

I walked through the familiar hallways of the care home. I greeted the workers I had met the several times I have visited. I adjusted the black rimmed glasses that hung on the bridge of my nose. Once I was faced with the door of room 113A, I took a breath and then knocked.

"Come in." The hoarse voice from inside said. I smiled and opened the door slowly.

When I walked into the room, I saw the owner of the voice. She sat on a wooden chair in the corner of the room. She was not looking at me. She wore a pair of reading glasses and was immersed into her book. It was Alice and Wonderland. A book she had read all throughout her life. It was her favorite. I only smiled at what was before me. I clearly remembered those nights as a child, when that story was being read.

"Hey Mom." Mother looked up and only smiled at me. She then looked back at her book and continued to read. I frowned and felt a sense of remorse. "Look," I said as I took a seat on the chair that was near her own. "I'm sorry I haven't been coming by. It's just that the divorce—"

"Charlie," The old woman called. My posture changed and straighten from the sound of my own name. She had put her book down on top the side table. I looked fearful at the old woman. Her hazel eyes were looking into the depths of my own dark brown pools. I knew from childhood experience that I was in trouble when my Mother used that tone with me. She pushed a strand of loose white hair—that was once blonde—aside. "Do you want to hear a story?"

I remembered when I was younger, and how my mother would always have me sit on her lap and tell me all kinds of stories. Stories from modern time travelers to madmen who sang songs and paraded around. She told me stories of paradoxes and fixed points; things that would happen no matter what. My mother told me all of the adventures and travels of Charlie Abel and the companions that came along. My mother was the greatest storyteller in my eyes. She would tell the stories as if she had lived and tasted it all. Those stories made my childhood a little less sad. I did not have a sad life though. I knew that my family loved me. While growing up, I had extended family: old friends of my parents. I had a happy childhood, a happy life.

I nodded and she smiled. "I don't remember if I have told you this particular story—with my age and all it's so hard to remember…" She said sadly. "Well, after Yale, I had become the actor and writer I always wanted to be. I had published my first book and became more known in the business, after just two years. That same year I had gone back to my hometown of..." She looked out her window; the sudden pitter patters of rain stopped her from continuing.

"It's raining." I bluntly said.

"It was raining that day too." She piped up. However, I knew she only thinks it did because she could no longer remember if it actually did.

It maybe a depressing thought, but we won't remember what will happen today. We will forget. By the time I am my mother's age, I will forget today. There will be a day that I will no longer remember the stories of Charlie Abel, the time traveler, or the madmen who never looked decent while parading around. I will forget those summer nights as a child with my parents and my siblings with the stories. I will forget my firsts. I will forget my first friend, my first kiss, my first girlfriend, my first time, and my first love. I will forget the way her lips curved when she saw me. I will forget the glint in her eyes when she thought she had loved me. We will forget and it will be inevitable.

She was still fixated on the window. She stared at the raindrops; how it kissed the glass panes of the window, how a droplet collided with another and made an even bigger droplet. My mother was distant though. She was far off somewhere; or some time. She was still present in the room of her care home, but at the same time she wasn't.