The Argumentative Voice

The door to Tara’s apartment was dirtier than she remembered, smudged with months’ buildup of unwashed hands. When did that happen? she asked herself, running her gaze down the door jamb and knob. Both were equally filthy. I cleaned this last week.

She pushed through, brow furrowed, and froze, gaping at the mess.

A half-assembled bed lay in the middle of the room and boxes lined the walls. Packing tape, various tools, and cat toys were scattered on the surprisingly clean-looking carpet. A litter box sat in the far corner and she could smell it.

Quickly, she shut the door and returned to the lobby. Wrong apartment, wrong apartment. You’ve never done that. She walked up the stairs more slowly this time, counting every step she took. Number two-oh-one came into view, just as dirty as it had been three minutes previously. But she stepped across the threshold, staring, realizing it was, in fact, hers.

Stupid, Tara, she thought. Your key opened the goddamn door, didn't it?

Mail lay on the kitchen counter, and she rifled through it, looking for the tenant’s name. But “Tara P. Kloss” was printed right smack in the middle of every envelope.

"This can’t be right," she whined.

Oh, don’t be dense, she argued back.

She tore open her utility bill, still hoping for some miraculous misunderstanding. But the date confused her even more, “March 10th, 2020.” And the number at the bottom of the letter was shockingly low. She thought back four and half years, trying to recall her rent too. What a joke her life must have been that she thought twenty-twenty had been cheap. Back then, it hadn’t been easy to pay for this studio apartment and be able to have a pet.

Rufus!

Movement jostled her periphery as an orange cat stretched on the far window-sill. Tara melted into herself, while ice spread through to her toes.

“Rufus, there you are, sweet kitty.” She made her way to the window, hands out. It’d been months and months since she’d last held him. “Look how limber you are,” she murmured after he leapt down and began to circle her ankles. He mewed and sniffed her, seeming supremely interested in her strange familiarity. “Yeah, I smell weird, I’m sure. Time travel must do something odd to your pheromones.”

Time travel? she thought to herself.

Yes, what else makes sense, you idiot?

Oh, maybe a lucid dream. Or did you take a mushroom, by chance?

You’re insufferable.

“Or maybe I smell different because…” She trailed off, not wanting to say it to Rufus’ face. Because I’m cat-less in twenty-twenty-four.

Rufus bumped his head against her jeans. She let him for a minute before scooping him up into her arms and stroking his head down to his tail. “I missed you.”

She walked around the room, feeling the dread begin to pile on. A bed yet to be assembled? She remembered how she'd finally splurged and bought a frame around this time. No more mattress on floor. The kitchen was clean, she supposed, but it looked so sparse compared to how she’d been living the past couple years.

Yeah, well, quitting teaching really saved you, didn’t it? she thought to herself. You’re finally making a living wage, cleaning houses. And your father thought you were nuts...

Wait, March tenth, twenty-twenty? said the argumentative voice. March!

Tara whirled around, dropping Rufus, who scampered to the bathroom, and grabbed the mail stack. She tore into everything, finally coming across a paycheck from John’s Junior High.

Fuck. I’m a teacher.

Another envelope contained a list of requirements for an upcoming field trip the school had organized to the art museum. She still had to call all the parents about chaperoning for that trip.

A manaical laugh escaped her. Well that never happened, did it?

Nope. Not even virtually.

“Ugh, I have to teach the kids Zoom and negotiate webcams and get the parents to supervise class time and, oh god, Tik Tok…” she trailed off, the list teeming, building silently, though still quite deafeningly, in her mind.

Rufus bumped her leg, startling her out of her doom stress. He mewed loudly, and began nudging around the kitchen cabinets. She checked the time. 4:23. In a cabinet, she dug around for a soup treat and prepared it, her thoughts calcifying like an epitaph.

Here lies Tara, beloved house cleaner who literally threw a party for herself when she quit John’s Junior. She is survived by twenty-one of her twenty-two students, and one webcam that never made it to its destination.

Oh, are we feeling sorry for ourselves, now? I thought we were still in denial.

Shut up. I’m feeding my dead cat.

Somewhere between penning yet another obituary, this time her own, and placing a custard dish of pre-made, industrial cat soup on the cat-mat, she found her calendar. Tuesday. Today was Tuesday, March 10th, 2020.

That meant school tomorrow.

Dread weighed her down even more than before, the kind of weight that made her clasp her hips and press in, hard, as though she could squeeze it into the center and the pressure would somehow exert an upward force up and out of her head.

Oh just get the gun, already, if you’re so depressed about it, she thought to herself.

Better yet, find a belt. The argumentative voice was in agreement for once. It was a goddamn miracle.

The next few days played in her mind. Tomorrow, the state of emergency would be declared, but it'd be a pretty normal day. Then on Thursday, she’d bring in her stash of board games and educational movies and say “screw it” to the public school curriculum. Friday, she’d go to a meeting after school about how to keep school open during the pandemic. And on Monday, the school would decide to use the teachers to enforce mask mandates and she’d reach her limit before lunch came and get reprimanded by the principal for being irresponsible in "flatting the curve." (Don't make me laugh, said the argumentative voice.) Come the following week, there would be hasty (and shoddy) plans for how to get students into online teaching. Then she’d have to do double-time, writing lesson plans for in-person and online alike, trying to appease the legal system, her bosses, the parents, and her own sanity.

Double time? More like quintuple time. Infinite time. Time that will never cease, but did, but then didn't...

Yes, in other words, The Nightmare.

What could she do differently, knowing all of this, and especially knowing that it would be another three years until she would quit? If she quit right now, there was a chance for Braden…

That’s true, you have always blamed yourself, said her thoughts.

You think he’d still be alive if she wasn’t his teacher? You think it had nothing to do with the lockdown, the isolation, the perpetuity of gloom and fear, the mandates? Nothing?

I never said that.

Even if they could hire another teacher to replace you, you think he’d change his mind?

Tara’s thoughts didn’t answer the damned argumentative voice.

Instead, she watched Rufus lick his lips and dip his head toward his water fountain. “Roofy,” she whispered fondly. “Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

Within a few minutes, she had packed a bag of his necessities and a few toys, plus his bed, and put him the carrier. She left the apartment, turned down the hall and walked to her friend’s doorstep, knocking politely.

The door opened.

“Hi, Tara, what’s up?” Marnie smiled at her, then brightened even more at the sight of Rufus. “Rufus! Hey you stinker!”

“Marnie, I need a favor. Can you keep him for a few days?” Tara shifted uneasily, biting her lip. Her thoughts swirled incoherently. She tried to look sane, like she always had to, and hoped it was working.

“Oh, of course. You know I love this little creature.” Marnie was basically in love with Rufus, so Tara knew she’d say yes. “How long will you be gone?”

Tara smiled sheepishly. “I’m not sure, exactly. Are you able to keep him until I call you?”

“Girl, if you left him here for a year, I would not mind at all!” She reached out her hands and Tara obliged. Bye, baby, she thought, pushing it forward until Rufus mewed.

“You’re the best. Thank you, Marnie,” said Tara, feeling the unbearable weight of commitment.

Marnie set everything down and gave Tara a hug. “You look so tired, Tara. Take care of yourself, okay?”

Tara nodded and smiled wanly.

“Thank you again,” she said. Then she waved and walked back to her apartment.

Immediately, she began hunting.

Oh, where is it? she asked herself.

You don’t remember?

There was a hurry in Tara’s heart now that she’d let Rufus go. Wait—no, that wasn’t true. She hadn’t had him for two years. She’d already grieved. Hell, maybe he’d live longer with Marnie. She raced through the apartment, tearing open boxes of linens, clothes, and more unassembled furniture. Finally, she found it: The bottle of clozapine.

After this, we’ll be better, she thought to herself, tossing the pills back. We’ll wake up, renewed. Braden will be happier and maybe his mom won’t be in and out of the hospital. Rufus will have never gotten out, never hit by that stupid truck.

Don’t be silly, said the argumentative voice, though it was growing rhythmically weaker in time to her heart. There’s no after. You just went back, didn’t you? Back in time. God knows how that happened.

Oh, shut up, already.

———

Author's Note: A few of you might remember this story from roughly five months ago when Alex McEvoy ran his Covid time travel challenge. I edited it slightly and retitled it to fit Liam Storm's Feb '25 Time Travel Challenge. Here's the link, as it's still open (and I'm not submitting it at the last second like usual, lol).