Titch :: Chapter 1

Time is a fickle thing. It commands the lives of men, hands slowly ticking away precious moments of existence. To lovers, a moment can be eternity, and eternity the tick of a clock. Humanity is built around the passage of time; measuring seconds, days, years. Yet of all the things misunderstood in this world, time stands triumphant. Only when the clock stops does time come to life, for only then can it be interpreted in its true nature. Time is a dimension of its own, and this Daniel Prodan was fully aware of as he stared into London, 1876.


The man was in pain. That's all he knew. His head was pounding, his heart was racing, and it felt as if someone had torn his leg from its socket. Rain had soaked him to the core, his now heavy clothes adding to the weight of his injury.

The pain emanated from a huge gash cut out of his right thigh. He had gone searching for adventure, for authenticism, and of course he had found it. Naïve as he was, earlier that day he had decided to visit East London's most vicious slum, the Old Nichol. It was only 25 minutes' walk from Westminster, nestled between the Themes and Hackney Road. It was to be a bit of off-the-tracks tourism for the real feel of London, a thrilling excursion before his departure. This in mind, he had headed east.

Suspicions confirmed, the Old Nichol was probably the closest to hell Daniel had ever encountered. He had arrived to a maze of rotting streets hemmed in by bleak buildings that stood like graves in an empty field. Daniel passed down narrow, muddy streets, skirting pools of filthy liquid and the carcasses of dogs and cats. No grass grew in the dark and putrid labyrinth. The narrow canyons of blackened brick tenements blocked out the sun and all color was leached away except for the dull grays of smoke and soot. I was hard to believe he was still in London.

Eyes watched him greedily through broken windowpanes as he traversed the streets alone. Daniel immediately regretted his lust for adventure. He had been there no longer than ten minutes but already knew the weight of his decision. Turning on his heel, he quickly paced away from the filth heading east toward the border of the slum.

He didn't get very far.

A man, cheeks almost hollow from starvation, appeared from the shadows. He was shouting madly and wielding a knife, foam forming in the corners of his mouth. A bitter bile rose in the back of Daniel's throat as he realized the man's condition. He was suddenly hit with a rush of sensations: quick pulse, hot skin, trembling muscles. His body was being immobilized by fear. He bolted the opposite direction, but not quick enough. By time he had resolved to run, the skeletal man was already upon him, the blade inches deep in his thigh.

Daniel staggered back in pain. The knife withdrew, flakes of rust and blood flying off the dull blade. His attacker was coming in for another blow, but not before Daniel could push him to the ground. Now writhing in the mud, the man continued to yell, his words rarely forming complete thoughts. With his handkerchief tied firmly against the wound, Daniel limped away as quickly as he could manage, cursing himself all the while. He couldn't believe he had done something so stupid. He had acted on an impulse. It was beyond foolish, especially in his abnormal situation. He had to get back. Not to the West End, but to his own time. He had no faith in the doctors of 1876.

Pain surged through Daniels body as he struggled to keep moving, each step a testament of will. The man could hardly move and quickly developed a permeating limp. He was beginning to suspect that the attacker had severed an artery. Without attention, the wound would surely kill him. The tendons—or what remained of them—screamed as his foot caught on the cobblestone and pain flooded his brain with angering thoughts. The white handkerchief had turned a frightening shade of ruby, only adding to his panic. What a way to end a vacation. He had been enjoying a very placid two weeks before his thrill-seeking personality had kicked in. Daniel felt like a fool.

By the time the man made it back to 24 Park Lane's grand estate, he was falling apart. Seconds from fainting, he was hardly able to stand as thunder shook the world around him. Making his way around the perimeters of the mansion, Daniel slipped into the backyard, his limp leg dragging uselessly in the mud. Rain flooded his sight, adding to the struggle, mocking him as he clung desperately to life. Being sure to watch for any staff, he passed the garden pavilion and headed to the very furthest boundaries of the perimeter, which was deeply overgrown with trees. The master of the estate was out this night, obliged to attend the new Lycum theater debut.  Shakily, he unearthed his Polaris Outlaw 525 ATV from its hiding spot deep within the trees and shoved the key into the ignition.

It quietly rumbled to life, the custom exhaust stifling its engine. The gauges twitched, begging for action. Daniel glanced at the ring on his right hand, its off-yellow tint invisible in the darkness. It was cracking, having almost reached the end of its life. Pushing the thought out of his mind, he revved the engine twice before kicking the machine into gear. The rumble of the motor sent another spasm of pain through his leg, only encouraging his escape. With that, Daniel sped forward, the vehicle ripping muddy tracks in the ground.
He was gone.