I didn’t understand. I was ... I was on my street! How? Somehow, nothing made sense. Everything seemed unrealistic and blurry. I looked at the scene around me. Two men adorned on horses backs, sweat lined along there brow like soldiers, the horses pawing the ground impatiently.
The men had dusty skin, weathered and calloused, as if the ground had been imprinted upon them. They wore hats, and glinting like stars on a velvet sky, guns hung from there belts like prisoners at the gallows.
Where was I? Adrenaline coursed through my body, I tensed up. Something wasn’t right. The men pulled the gun from there belts, slipping off their horses with predatory grace. The walked towards me, their eyes glinting savagely. A drum began to pound, slow cracks splintering the air like thunder claps cut short. My heart lurched in my mouth. They stowed their guns, and turned toward each other.
I blinked, and suddenly, they were facing each other, merely a breadth away. Both spun on there heels, and took slow, deliberate steps away from each other. Hands hovering above their guns, they paused. The drum cut short. Both men cried out, spinning around; brandishing their guns.
I screamed, and the sound mingled with the bang that echoed around the street, tearing at the air and sky and clouds, shattering them like glass. I crouched low, shaking. Both men remained standing, until one swayed and crumpled to the ground like a discarded ragdoll.
The horses snorted and reared, and a sudden thought flashed across my mind. I shouldn’t be here. I stepped back, and fell in a trough of water. The cold water filled my lungs as I gasped in shock, but I couldn’t feel anything. I coughed, and stood up. My clothes were dripping, but I couldn’t feel the way they clung to me. In a moment of pure foolishness, I raced towards the dead man and pulled out his gun.
“The Sherriff of Texas- dead...” The voices swirled around me, like water that chases a spoon when it drags through the liquid, but I placed the gun to my leg.
The trigger snapped into place, and a bang echoed.
Blood pooled on the floor. A red rose on a barren wasteland. I touched my leg in shock. I couldn’t feel pain. I should be screaming; I wasn’t.
Why?
I couldn’t feel this pain because I didn’t belong here. This was Texas, 1866, I lived in London, 1666 The puzzle pieces fell into place. I didn’t belong. And then I realised why I didn’t understand. I hadn’t understood, because one minute I was on Baker Street, the next here. And then my whole body did begin to hurt, all over, as if tongues of flame were being dragged along it. I screamed.
It was 2011, and one man was sat watching a TV programme about Cowboys in Texas. He’d just been watching a documentary on the Great Fire of London, and then switched over. He was confused. Why? Because there, in the corner of the TV, was a huddle of black pixels, as dark as night, with ribbons of grey playing through them, and, strangely, they formed the silhouette of a young girl...
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