VERSION CONTROL
774 Words
There were no clocks in the city anymore.
Ellis noticed it as he drove:
No digital signs.
No analog displays on street corners.
Even the dashboard clock in his car was blank.
Just a black void where time used to be.
But he already knew what time it was.
It was always 3:17.
Ellis drove without a destination, letting instinct take the wheel. The sky was grey, too uniform, like it had been painted on glass. The traffic lights blinked green forever. He passed the same pedestrian three times — same face, same outfit, same limp.
Reality wasn’t just glitching anymore.
It was stalling.
Trying to keep him from doing something.
Trying to keep him from remembering.
So he fought back.
He pulled over, opened the glove box, and took out a black notebook — the one he always kept for court notes. It was mostly empty.
He started to write:
“I am Ellis Granger.
I am not dead.
I am not the killer.
I am not the victim.
I am the constant.”
He underlined the last line three times.
He returned to his apartment — or whatever passed for it now.
The hallway lights flickered red.
The photos on the wall were blank.
His keys didn’t fit the door.
But the door opened anyway.
Inside, everything was still. No dust. No sound. No mirrors.
On the table sat a cassette recorder, old and heavy. A post-it was stuck to it. One word written in his own handwriting:
“Don’t.”
He hit play anyway.
[RECORDING STARTS]
“If you’re listening to this, it means you’ve broken containment.”
“They’re going to come for you now. Not people. Patterns. Memories. Versions of yourself you abandoned but left breathing.”
“This loop is older than you. Older than any of us. You didn’t create it. But you made it conscious.”
“You did kill him, Ellis. But not why you think.”
“You were trying to stop what he’d become.”
“The moment you pulled that trigger, the loop latched onto you instead.”
“Now the only way out is to kill yourself… before the version that deserves to die becomes the one who remembers.”
[RECORDING ENDS]
Ellis dropped the tape player like it had burned him.
He stared at his hands.
They weren’t shaking.
They were steady.
Too steady.
Like they’d done this before.
That night, the door appeared without warning — this time in his apartment, where the kitchen wall used to be.
Same matte black surface.
Same lack of a handle.
Same faint hum of red light leaking from the cracks.
He didn’t hesitate.
He stepped through.
This time, Room 317 wasn’t a room.
It was a hallway of doors. Dozens of them. Some wood. Some steel. One made of mirrors. Another made of concrete, cracked and pulsing like flesh.
Each door had a symbol carved above it:
A noose
A watch
A knife
A circle made of eyes
A loop
His name
One door stood open.
The inside was pitch black.
He entered.
There was a person. Him.
He was sitting in a chair, bathed in flickering red light.
Same coat. Same jawline.
Same everything.
But Ellis looked calm. Resigned. His hands were folded in his lap like he’d been waiting for years.
“Finally caught up, huh?” the Other said.
“I’m not doing this again,” Ellis replied.
“Oh, you are,” the Other said. “But this time, you’re different. You remember more than the last version. Which means we’re getting close.”
“Close to what?”
“To choosing which one of us gets to leave.”
Ellis’s voice was quiet. “There is no leaving.”
“Not for both of us.”
He pointed to the corner.
There was a gun on the floor.
Old. Heavy. Familiar.
Ellis reached for it.
The Other did the same.
“You killed Carter,” Ellis said. “But you didn’t just kill him. You planted the watch. You carved the word.”
The Other smiled.
“I did what you couldn’t.”
Ellis’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I made it real. I made it stick. You? You were always trying to fix it. Save people. Break the loop. But me?” The Other stood. “I made the loop to remember us.”
“You’re not me.”
“I’m the version that wins.”
They both raised the gun.
The lights went out.
One Gunshot
Silence.
Then a thud.
When the lights flickered back on…
Only one Ellis remained.
- Writer
