I've always loved time travel. I have read all the books, watched all the movies, participated in on-line chats, and done everything I can to allow myself the hope that somehow, some way, I can travel backwards in time. Some want to do it because they think it would be fun. I have a much more important quest. I want to stop my best friend from being killed.
It happened nearly 40 years ago, in 1994. We were young, barely in our teens. Naomi was a sweet girl, always willing to help a stranger. That's what she was doing that day. A man came up to us saying that he had lost his dog. I told him that we had to get home, but Naomi offered to help. I didn't see anything wrong with it--if I had, I guess I would have called the cops. But he didn't look like I thought a bad guy would look. He was around 50 or so, and he smiled easily. He had a picture of a pretty little dog and seemed about to cry, and so when Naomi offered to help, I figured that she'd be fine. I was 13--what did I know?
So I went home and waited for Naomi to call. She didn't, though--not that night, not ever. Instead, her mother called me at around 5pm, wondering if Naomi was staying over to have dinner. It happened sometimes, though she always called to let her mom know. When I said that she wasn't there, her mom asked me if I'd seen her since school. I told her that I hadn't seen her since she'd helped that guy look for his dog, there was silence on the other end, then Naomi's mom asked, very quietly, "What man?" I told her what I remembered, and she thanked me and hung up. She never talked to me again. Later, she told news reporters that if I had said something earlier, her daughter might still be alive. My mom tried to make me feel better by telling me that wasn't true, but I knew it was. But how could I have known?
I thought about that often. How could I have known that man was evil? He didn't look evil. He didn't look like the kind of man that would trick a girl into trusting him, then hurt her, strangle her, and throw her in the landfill like a piece of garbage. As the news about the man--the man who was never found--spread, I began to collect articles about the murder: first long stories with determined optimism--it was only a matter of time before this man was caught. As the days turned to weeks, months, years, the articles grew smaller and curter, hope dimming until the only mention of the case was a retrospective in the years after.
That man--I used to dream about him. I'd see him, and sometimes in the dream I'd bring Naomi's attention to the man--"Look, Naomi, isn't he nice? Why don't you go talk with him?" Other times I would try to plead with him to leave her alone, but the scene would play itself out as if I wasn't there. I saw the whole thing happen--I saw him take her by the hand to look for the dog. I saw the hand grow tighter around hers as she realized something was wrong and she tried to get away. I saw him drag her into his van and then hit her over and over until she stopped trying to resist. I saw him take her clothes off, tie her up, then do horrible things to her. And I saw her lose all hope. That was the worst. I saw her give up. When she did, it was like the fun went out of it for him, and he put his big hands around her neck and tightened them, just for a minute. That was all it took. Then he wrapped her in a bag and threw her away in the dump. Nobody noticed; nobody cared. Why should they? Nobody knew Naomi was missing.
The dreams were what started it for me. I thought--those dreams are so real! What if they really WERE real? What if I'd gone back in time and actually seen it? Maybe I could do something. And so I started to read. I hated science, but I learned as much as I could so I could find a way. I did everything I could, talked to anyone that might have any lead, and spent my life in search of a way to find myself back with Naomi so I could save her.
It happened the first time in my early 20s. I went back to the place where I had left Naomi, and I concentrated. In my mind's eye, I saw it all again in my mind's eye. I saw the man come to Naomi, and I heard her say that she would help him. Without thinking about it, I screamed. Naomi, startled, looked at me. So did the man. "Run!" I cried. She did, and so did the man. Others in the park looked at the two of them, not noticing me at all.
But it still ended the same. The man dragged her into his van as I watched helplessly. Others tried to follow him, but it was too late. Naomi and the man were already gone. I was almost relieved, knowing that it must have been a waking dream.
It wasn't until I got home that I noticed the change. My house seemed brighter, more airy. I couldn't quite put my finger on the difference, until it struck me--there was no guilt in the air. I didn't know why until I went to the clippings. They weren't the same. Instead of my name, Naomi's mother spoke of a woman who saw the whole thing--a woman who shouted "Stop!" Article after article asked that woman to come forward. Any information she could give would be useful in identifying the unknown suspect.
I couldn't believe it. Others had really seen me! My cry had made others aware of the danger! Maybe, then, there was more that I could do!
Well, year after year passed, and time after time I concentrated myself into the past. Sometimes it worked; sometimes it didn't. When it worked, though, it only managed to slow things down, never stop them. It seemed that the outcome was inevitable. So what good was my interfering in the past doing?
I decided to try one last thing. I went to an antiques store and bought a Polaroid camera--the kind that developed instantly. Thankfully, there was film available still for those fools that didn't trust digital. I then visited one thrift shop after another until I had the right combination of clothes--clothes that would fit into the 90s without question. Then I went to the corner, and I concentrated. And I waited.
I didn't have long to wait. I saw Naomi and the man, struggling. Quickly, but careful not to jostle the camera, I took a picture. I waited until the film developed, and then I ran. I quickly grew out of breath--I was, after all, at least as old as the murderer by now--but I knew that somehow I was running for Naomi's life. I didn't stop until I had reached the police station and turned in the photo. When the police started to question me, it was easy. My attention snapped, and I was immediately back to my own place and time. The camera and photo, however, were missing.
As I walked up the street to the house that had been mine since childhood, I half expected to see a much-older Naomi meet me. Of course, though, that didn't happen. Once again I had not managed to save her. Sadly, I went in and opened the scrapbooks containing the articles.
The first one was pretty much the same. Girl's body found abandoned in landfill. However, the second, third, and fourth one were quite different. They detailed the story of a middle-aged lady, breathless, who had turned in a photo to the police, a photo that gave them their only break in the case. The photo showed the kidnapping as it was happening, and it was more than enough to give a face to the kidnapper. Further articles spoke of the arrest, subsequent trial, and death sentence given to the man, who clearly deserved it.
That was new, yes. But what followed made me understand the importance of what I'd done. After the man had been found and detained, a search warrant had been issued. In the van, poor Naomi's backpack. In the house--a journal complete with full details of the torture and death. Then--page after countless page of what he planned to do to others--it was quickly realized that Naomi's details hadn't been added after her death. No, they'd actually been written before her death. Her murderer had a game plan, not only for Naomi but for twenty-five other children. Yes, Naomi was gone, but those others never had to suffer what she suffered. Naomi's fate couldn't be changed, but evidently others could. And for that, I'm thankful.
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