Little more action packed than my other stories, 1,700 words.
He saw them waiting for him as he walked up the stairs to his flat. He thought about running, down the dark narrow flights of stairs, spilling onto the pavement then ducking down the alleyway behind Gigliotto’s but then thought better of it. Running never worked, would only buy him a few minutes, and he was feeling tired anyway. There where only two goons this time, both in identical black suits, suits that he now knew had been specially made to blend in with the fashion of the 2030s.
“Mr Withers?” The man nearest him had risen up, blocking the hallway, one hand fingering the buttons on his suit, the other hanging tensely by his side.
“Yes?” he said in his best casual voice, hoping that they weren’t what he thought they where. Debt collectors, police, even fucking quarantine would be better than that.
“Under section 302 of the Futures Act you have been detained by your future self. You are to come with us and will be released in exactly 3 hours.”
Fuck.
Withers felt a wave of nausea wash over his body. Three hours. Too long, far too long. It was the third session in the last eight months and he was not sure if he had the energy to last this one. What else could he do though? He’d learnt long ago that you couldn’t run from or bribe company employees. The men walked him down the flight of stairs, one on each side of him. Outside was parked a black Falcon.
Paid for by people like me, Withers thought. He was ushered into the front passenger seat, goon number one drove while goon number two slid silently into the seat behind him.
“So, can you at least tell me who is going to win the flag this year?”
Silence.
The joke hadn’t been especially funny, he was too tired and scared to make it sound right but the complete lack of response grated on Withers already frayed nerves. Sure, he knew they were probably bugged so they didn’t give any of that kind of information away, but at least they could have said something.
“Gee, you really turn into a fucked up arsehole Mr Withers.”
“You’ve only got your self to blame, sir.”
It wouldn’t have been exactly comforting, but at least it would take his mind off what was about to happen.
Mike stared straight ahead, his lips curled ever so slightly into an expression of disdain. These freaks where all alike, scared snivelly guys who where ratting there way up in some boring office job. No wonder they got beat up, fuck he wouldn’t mind beating the freak up himself.
Mike tried to guess what he was doing right now, probably getting ready for that shitty job he had as a bouncer, looking at himself in the mirror in his blue jeans and tight black t shirt. He had looked better back then, had been happier to. He sometimes thought about sneaking away during these jobs for a few hours to go and see Christy. She probably wouldn’t even notice if she was drunk enough, he could go back to her apartment and…
It was a hopeless day dream though. Every fucking second you spent on travel was examined by four different nervous looking guys who kept on jabbering into his earpiece about blending in, and reminding you for the 100th time of some shitty schedule they’d written up for you. It was a shame, Christy had been a pretty amazing girl, wild, beautiful, confident. Mike wondered if he could land a girl like that now. The thought depressed him.
They were now driving through an industrial area, factories and warehouse lined both sides of the street. It was a bit past five o’clock, yet the streets were almost deserted. They passed a solitary teenager, hands thrust deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold.
The car turned left into a small empty underground car park and parked in the middle bay. Mike got out, opened the door for Withers, avoiding his eyes as best he could. He didn’t like talking to the clients, left that to Paul as much as possible. Of course Paul didn’t mind, he liked being the leader, swaggering around in those aviators that he thought made him look tough. Paul was a little bitch when it came down to it though. He was always going on about how he had to do most of the work and how Mike was slack. They both knew though that if the little freak needed carrying back to the car afterwards it would be Mike who would have to do it.
Withers was growing in excitement. He stood in the middle of the bare interrogation room, one hand in his pocket, the other clenched in a fist by his side. His heart was racing and he had a slight erection. Something that he both enjoyed and was repulsed by. The door in front of him was opened and one of the suits poked their head through the door.
“He is here now sir, shall we send him in?”
He, Withers liked the delicacy of that word. It distanced him from the snivelling wreck that was being held outside the door. Helped him to forget that every punch he was going to drive into that weak, spineless body would echo back through time to crunch into his own skull.
“Handcuff him and send him in.” Withers said. “You can wait outside.”
The suit pulled his head back through the door and nodded to someone that Withers couldn’t see. After a short pause he saw himself being thrust through the door, landing on his knees. The door clanged behind him.
Withers looked up and saw himself, a mid forties version who was fatter and balder, but undoubtedly himself. It was a strange feeling knowing that in years to come, you would grow to hate yourself with such passion. The look on his future self’s face was a mixture of intense loathing and contempt. He stood there, both hands clenched, and Withers suddenly felt certain that this would be the worst session he was ever going to go through.
“You spineless little fucking worm!”
The kick caught him square on the jaw, jarring his head backwards as he fell to one side. He wondered how the hell he was going to last three hours of this.
The interrogation room had a cheap white clock hanging over the door, it read 7 : 30. Two long hours had passed. The young Withers lay in a heap in the middle of the floor, he was bleeding from his mouth, and his arm was lying on his back in a twisted, unnatural looking position. A steady drip of blood came from a gash on his forehead, and his eyes were squeezed tightly shut. Above him the old Withers stood, a look of satisfaction on his face. The last two hours had been both exhausting and exhilarating. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cheap looking red plastic lighter.
“While I am aware that you have already suffered extreme pain, there is one more ordeal I wish to put you through.”
Withers’s voice sounded much calmer now. He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if each word had been thought over in advance. Slowly, he tilted the lighter so that the bright yellow flame licked over the metal. He stood in that position for a long time, until the silver metal began to turn red. Bending down he grabbed the arm of the unconscious heap lying at his feet. For a second, he hesitated, a shudder seemed to ripple over his body but in an instant his face was once again cold and emotionless.
“This is for the memories,” he whispered, pressing the lighter into the soft pale skin at the pit of the young Withers’s elbow.
The sun had well and truly set when the three men returned to the car. Paul walked ahead, jangling his keys in his hand. Behind him, Mike staggered under the weight of the unconscious Withers. Mike felt a little uneasy at times like this, not that he’d ever admit this to anyone. He felt real pity for Withers now, pity strengthened by the fear that he may one day go through the same thing. For anyone who worked so closely with the company, there was always the stronger temptation to use the services provided. While Mike felt no particular hatred towards who he had been in his past, he sometimes worried that as he grew older he might develop a certain masochistic streak. He wondered if in the future he’d feel he was wasting his life now, if he would look back on this period of his life as a time of wastefulness and laziness. Sometimes he thought about getting a more demanding job, or trying to re-establish contact with his daughter, stuff that he guessed his future self would care about but he hadn’t gotten around to doing anything yet. Instead he had taken to climbing up the fire escape to enter his house through the back, then stealthily peeking through the window to ensure no one was waiting for him. As he dumped Withers in the back seat his eye caught a mark on Withers’s left arm.
“Paul, take a look at what this fucker has done to himself.”
Paul leant back from the drivers seat and whistled with amazement.
“The sick little bastard.”
Upstairs Withers was preparing to leave. He had been a little rattled by today, it had been enjoyable but some part of him felt he had gone too far. Far back in his mind the slow beginnings of guilt had already began to form.
“Thank you again,” he said, a little too hurriedly to the suit at the door and began to walk towards the departure area.
“I’m afraid you cannot leave yet sir,” the suit said and moved to block his path.
“Under section 302 of the futures act you have been detained by your future self. You are to return to the interrogation room and will be released in exactly 3 hours.”
Somewhere else in the building an old man sat waiting with a steel cane in his hand. Smiling grimly, he stroked a faint scar under his left elbow.
Some things could not be forgiven.
but its well written as well. 
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