The Special Ones

Most people wish to be special. Some wish to see the future, some to read minds, and some to go back and correct their past mistakes. But what they don't know, is that their wish isn't as impossible as they think.

Rooftop Of An Unknown Building
7:00 P.M.

"You don't have to do this, man. Look at me!" The pleas fell on deaf ears as a man in a muddy, torn shirt stepped towards the ledge. The wind at this height was vicious, and a strong gust would be all it took to send him plummeting to the ground below. "Look at me!"

The man raised his head, the tears in his eyes glowed in the moonlight but refused to fall. With utter conviction, he looked the other man in the eye. "Yes, I do."

A gust of wind nearly sent him over, and knocked his glasses from their perch. If either had watched them fall, they would have seen them crash just inches in front of a frantic woman running out of the building, holding an unconscious boy in her arms with blood spattered across her chest.

"Come on! We can control this! Can't you see? We're meant for so much more! I could take us back, we could stop everything! We could -" the man on the ledge took a step closer to the edge. "No. We couldn't. This isn't how it was meant to be, Mike! If what you really want is to fix everything, this is how! This, is the only way!"

"Think about the repercussions here! Think about the Butterfly Effect. Who knows what other things you could be effecting by doing this. Think about -" The man on the ledge spread his arms out by his side, and looked up at the sky. He was hoping for one last glimpse of starlight. He was disappointed. "I have to. You've seen what the world becomes. I have to try and save them."

The man on the ledge took his final breath, and tipped himself backwards. The shrill shriek of a woman was the last sound he heard.

Lucas Talbot's Apartment, Union City, California
3:30 A.M.

Lucas jumped up in bed, asleep one moment and wide awake the next. His breathing was fast, but nothing next to his heart. Though the darkness was all that was in front of him, he could still see the image of the terrified man on the roof, and the woman spattered in blood not of her own. It was all so incredibly... real.

But even as he sat there, panting in the dark as cold sweat permeated his sheets, the one image that kept replaying through his mind, was of himself. The image of him plummeting from the rooftop, going on about how it was all for the greater good.

He laid back down with a sigh, then thought with every ounce of sarcasm his tired mind could muster dreams about killing yourself. That can't be a sign of depression or anything.

The End

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