Trevor huffed and he puffed, sweat soaked the back of his shirt as he waddled down the High Street. His heartrate was off the scale. He had to catch the last bus.
Huff, puff. Nearly there: then, a sudden pain in the chest. His knees buckled; he slumped over.
He was out only for a moment. Back on his feet, he entered the bus station then stood puzzled. It was past eleven at night, but the sun was shining.
It was the bus station, but not as it should be. The buses were old and the people wore dated clothes. He stood, hands on knees catching his breath.
Then, he saw the young man.
Trevor’s face cracked in a grin. Now he understood. Trevor was a true believer in the paranormal. Leaning on a bus was a boy he recognised: there was no mistake, it was Trevor himself when he was eighteen.
He used to hang about this bus station stealing handbags. That started his life of crime. It progressed to mugging, robbery, and violence. He spent most of his life in jail: what a waste.
Trevor knew at once some higher power had called him to save his younger self.
With great confidence, he marched up to the teenager. ‘You must stop stealing,’ Trevor bellowed.
‘Don’t waste your life.’
The boy shoved him away.
Trevor stood tottering, clutched his chest and fell dead on the ground.
The boy, checked the coast was clear, stole Trevor’s wallet, and ran off.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 