Sophie Du

On Earth, I was born more than once. I had not seen the births; I had not known them for years, but I knew they were like me and that they were an extension of me. An extension of my thoughts, my years, my youth, and my face over the times. I began my search a long time ago and have found them all. I watch over them, but they do not know me at all. The time changes, and we remain cruelly unchanging. I have known time as an old friend, and I have watched everything go up and crumble down into dust. I live among them and will continue to live until the decade changes again and I pretend to be someone new.

My secret has never been discovered before, but there you are. You are standing across the street, meeting my eyes, and you are unmoving. I am walking towards you, meaning to get past like I would with any other stranger, but you are unblinking and looking through me like glass; it is hard not to notice. We become acquainted, and you tell me you know my face. I do not entertain mortals; I find it futile if they’re not the ones entertaining me, but I lean in and ask, But where? You tell me you’re a researcher for a historian. I ask if you’ve seen what I’ve seen. You say, Why would what we see differ? I tell you to follow me and write about me. You ask why I know that you’re a writer, but I don’t say.

I take you through the world and show you all the versions of myself that are unaware of me, and you wonder why we’re looking at all these people. They’re all me, I tell you. You stare at me as I speak. I think it is out of confusion, but your expression does not change, and I think I should understand why, but I have been here on Earth too long, and I don’t care enough to.

We travel.

I take you to the covetous places on Earth where we find my other selves. In a corner of the world, there is a small child, and he is crying, screaming, and lost. He is me, and he will not stop crying. You see, when you are a child with capabilities unknown, you look towards someone more capable for help, but when there is no adult present, you cry, you cry, and you cry—waiting for someone to help, for someone to soothe, but no one does, and no one comes for you.

We travel again.

In the other corner of the world, there is a boy, and he is sitting alone at the park with headphones on. I hear you mutter under your breath, typical teenager, and I cannot help but snort at that. It is a bit true. This version, he does not know the outside world yet and doesn’t know what will happen to him when he finds out that the world is not on fire. That the world does not burn like the inside of his house.

And again.

On the tilt of the axis, there is an old man sitting in a rocking chair on a porch, staring off at the sun. His eyes are almost closed, squinting painfully at the sun. He is wishing for the warmth to return. The warmth he had once felt all those years ago when he was young. He is not going to leave any time soon, though. That is what happens when you’re an extension of me. A side of me I cannot see. He lives old and lives and lives and lives. He hopes for the sun to burn him to ashes.

In the centre of the world, of the universe, and of all time, I am here. I am unchanging and unmoving.

I tell you that every time a version of me is created, it will take some of my emotions, my sentiments, and my soul with it until I am unable to feel anything at all.

There’s nothing you feel now? You asked.

I answered vaguely, There is something.

I am looking through you like glass, and I think I know you from somewhere.

I know you.

You were not stunned or stumped like me when you said the same thing to me.

I know.

But where? I find myself asking this time genuinely. 

You smile and lean in with a telling smirk, and I do not lean away.

You are not the only one who has walked the Earth all through time.

I do not walk it alone? I question—and in that moment, I forget that the clones of me take a bit of me each time so I can achieve immortality, and I feel something in my bones, in my chest, and in the tip of my ears.

It is warm and red hot.
You do not walk it alone. You answer.

–

Sophie Du is a sixteen year old girl living a mundane life in Australia. To escape from reality, she writes in all of her free time. Sophie usually shies away from sharing her work, but a step in the writing industry like this, no matter how small, is her beginning.