‘I’ve invented a time machine,’ said Stanley.
The psychiatrist’s office was sterile in a comforting way. Like a pretend room in a furniture store. It celebrated homeliness while denying the realities of it. No stains. No cluttered surfaces. No suggestion that sometimes it’s all just too much and does it really matter if you put away the dishes?
‘I see,’ said the psychiatrist. ‘And did you suffer any traumatic events prior to the invention of this ‘time machine’?’
‘I’m not delusional,’ said Stanley. ‘Look, here’s a photo of me in ancient Egypt. And this is me with Leonardo Da Vinci. After it was taken he tried to steal the camera and we both wound up in an Italian prison. This one is of me at Hitler’s thirteenth birthday. Obviously he couldn’t grow the moustache at that age. I kept going to his birthday parties waiting for him to turn evil but gradually I realised that morality isn’t black and white and people are the accumulation of experiences, not the result of a single defining moment. Plus killing Hitler is such a cliché. I might be a time traveler but I’m not a hack.’ (more…)