[ WP ] What if ghosts are , in reality , glimpses of time travelers ?

It ’ s 3:46 AM, on the dot. Again. I ’ m in the kitchen with the alarm clock that usually stays next to my bed now plugged in and resting on the table I sit at. The room and entire house are dark; the curtains drawn on the blinking, bright cityscape sprawled out in front of my window. The only light is the glow of the red lines making up the time. 3:46. And then the alarm clock screen blinks, and it ’ s 3:47. That ’ s when it happens. It never fails to happen. A glowing figure appears in front of me, looking like a light burned into your eyelids from staring at the sun for too long. 
 
 The figure is saying the same thing it always says. “ Get away! Get away from her! ” It moves frantically, like it ’ s grasping at someone, pulling someone I can ’ t see away from something not there. The figure is me. I know the voice, the shape, the mannerisms. It ’ s a crude print of myself, planted at a certain time, playing over and over. A side effect of time travel, a glowing residue of someone displaced in time, repeating itself, its copy layered in different times in the same place. I have never travelled before, so I can only assume it is an image of my future self. I have never seen myself in this building, nor been involved in any struggle, so I again assume that it is something that is yet to happen. So, as the figure struggles in the air, my kitchen lit by the glow of a person who will eventually be me, I do the same thing I always do at 3:47 AM. 
 
 I dig my fingers into my legs, tight with concentration and think, trying to convince myself: *I will not use time travel. I will never use time travel, no matter what. If I ever have the chance to preform time travel, I will not go through with it. I will not ever time travel. * But the glowing figure stays, and continues with the crude animation, just like always. It continues to wrestle with unseen things, is thrown to the floor, stands, and begins to motion with its hand; stabbing the air with an invisible weapon, stabbing, stabbing, until whatever is being stabbed no longer needs to be. 
 
 Then, breathing heavily, it says its last words: “ It ’ s okay, you ’ re okay now, ” and finally disappears. 3:48. 
 “ It ’ s still doing that? ” a voice appears at the doorway. Dammit, he ’ s awake. He hates the apparitions that appear, they always keep the both of us up. He gets moody when he doesn ’ t sleep. 
 
 “ I can ’ t convince myself not to do it. ” My voice quivers, I try to hold back any tears. He despises it when I cry too. 
 
 “ You know they ’ re telling people they have to do it, right? ” He ’ s starting to sound judgmental, “ It won ’ t stop if you can ’ t convince yourself. ” 
 
 “ I ’ m trying! ” I cry, “ Why can ’ t we just move out, leave this fucking place! ” 
 
 “ No one will buy this place, ” he spits, “ No one will buy a place with a ghost-print showing up every night. ” 
 
 “ Can we just go to bed? ” I almost choke, my throat has a thick lump in it. “ I ’ ll try again tomorrow. ” 
 
 “ Convince yourself, ” he demands. “ Think about it all day, and convince yourself that you will never, ever time travel. ” I swallow, and nod, eyes watery. But it ’ s been weeks. Weeks of waking up and trying to trick myself into never following through. But the figure always reappears. Whatever reason I had, it was obviously worth everything I would have to go through. 

