The Five-Minute Moments of Elliot Hughes

During a temporal anomaly, a mosaic of moments piece together to form the full picture of Elliot Hughes | Est. read time: ~15 minutes.

A misplaced sense of performance anxiety clamped across Stephanie’s chest with each order she took from the regulars of Jade’s Café. It was far from her first day. Still, she was hard-pressed to shake the feeling that each order could be her last. 

Maybe this is the latte that’ll get me fired—and then I die alone. 

Her olive visor grew damp as the lunch rush nerves continued setting in. A bead of sweat permeated its fabric, landing on the newly constructed breakfast sandwich before her.

Shit. 

She wasn’t sure if she said it under her breath or in her head, but she hoped for the latter as she handed the soiled sandwich over the counter. 

A moment later, a frazzled man of about thirty burst through the front door and beelined for Stephanie, skipping every other person waiting their turn.

“Steph! Get me a coffee. Black.” 

Stephanie felt the blood rush to her face as she scanned her brain for where she knew this man from, but couldn’t place him. The line of impatient customers building behind him amplified her anxiety.

“Elliot,” he said. “We’ve met.” 

Stephanie didn’t think so. 

“The line starts over there.”

“Just your drip. It’ll take three seconds. I’m in a rush.” 

Stephanie’s therapist called these ‘Salmon or Tuna moments.’ Salmon swim downstream, taking the path of least resistance. The tuna travels upstream and fights the current. Dr. Leslie always encouraged Stephanie to make as many ‘Tuna decisions’ as possible by opting for the difficult choice. But Dr. Leslie wasn’t there, and the tightness calcified across her chest at the thought of telling this stranger to take a hike. 

“What was the name?” 

“Elliot, remember?” he rolled his eyes. 

“That’ll be $3.50, Elliot,” she said, infusing his name with as much venom as she could muster. But as Stephanie’s eyes bore into his, Elliot’s gaze seemed only to pass through her. She wasn’t Stephanie—she was an obstacle. She placed the coffee cup on the counter, filled to the brim, in hopes that it would spill on his way out—a silent rebellion. 

In a single motion, the man named Elliot grabbed the cup and sauntered toward the café entrance.

“You didn’t pay!” Stephanie called out. 

“I know,” he swatted away her words like a fly. “and I never will.”

* * *

Bryan and Ana lay in bed together as the twelve o’clock sun peered through the blinds, sending scattered rays across Bryan’s equally scattered sheets. His hand courted hers in a playful dance before their fingers finally interlocked. He rubbed his thumb over the penguin engraving on her white-gold wedding band that stared at him with contempt. He was quick to unfocus his eyes and look away. 

If he didn’t see it, was the ring even there?

Bryan tried embracing what should have felt like a perfect moment, but could only stare blankly at the revolving ceiling fan overhead and lament over the future he and Ana would never have—the future he didn’t deserve. 

Though they usually enjoyed each other’s company effortlessly, moments following intimacy were often plagued by discomfort. Typically stellar with banter that would flow with the deftness of an Olympic game of ping pong, the chemistry between the two devolved to that of two strangers sitting side-by-side at a bus stop. 

Ana spoke first. 

“When do you want to head back to the office?” 

“We can go now if you’re ready.” 

“Okay. I need to pee first.” 

He watched Ana disappear into his master bathroom, overcome with gratitude that someone as perfect as she would get in bed with him in the first place, and yet grieved for the futility of their circumstance.

Moments like these were numbered and Bryan knew it. 

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, attempting to exhaust his chest of all that inhibited him. The fear, the doubt, the guilt–he wanted them all gone.

Ana always turned on the sink faucet upon entering the bathroom, which Bryan likened to the sand of an hourglass counting down the time he had left to put on his pants. Lost in himself, Bryan was oblivious to the silent struggle occurring opposite the closed bathroom door, masked by the sounds of running water and the clinks of his belt buckle. 

Ana’s gasps for air. A crushed windpipe. A dead thud. 

The door swung open but it was not Ana who emerged. She remained on the floor with lifeless eyes staring at the baseboard she could no longer see. 

Instead, Bryan looked up from his tied shoes to meet the empty gaze of Elliot Hughes, who stood with a handgun trained on his forehead. Questions of how and when Elliot entered his home (and how Elliot knew his address) briefly flickered in Bryan’s mind but quickly faded as his eyes glossed over the penguin engraving on Elliot’s white-gold wedding band. Bryan unfocused his eyes and looked to the floor. 

If he didn’t see it, was the ring even there? 

Bryan shuttered with as acknowledged it was. He deserved this moment and surrendered.

“Elliot, I am so sorry.”

“I know.” 

Seconds later, Bryan’s body lay limp on his bed with the sun’s scattered rays across his equally scattered sheets. In his final split-second of consciousness, he couldn’t help but lament over the future he and Ana would never have–the future he didn’t deserve.

* * *

Graham remembered reading in an old book that it’s better to count down from three than up to it when building up to an action. With enough hesitation, counting upward can continue indefinitely but a countdown always ends in zero. There’s nothing else to do at that point except make the metaphorical leap. 

The book was about overcoming fear when making sales calls. 

Graham wondered what Master Closer Eaton Scott would say if he knew his “sure-fire tips and tricks” were being used to jump off a bridge. 

The wind kissed his cheek like it was saying ‘goodbye,’ and Graham allowed the blowing gusts to traverse his thin frame and conduct a shudder down his spine. A pang of nausea welled up in his throat as his eyes locked onto the azure abyss waiting to receive him below. 

Three, Graham closed his eyes. 

Two. 

One. 

Nothing. Graham’s feet continued to dangle over the water as he worked to keep his balance on the railing.

Eaton Scott would be ashamed.

He closed his eyes and started again. 

Three.

Two. 

One. 

A call from behind interrupted the countdown. 

“You’ve got a pink moose on your bobsled.” 

Perplexed, Graham turned to find a man, drenched, sitting with his legs crossed on the cracked concrete by the railing.

The look on Graham’s face must have been perplexed enough to communicate his unspoken thought: What did you say?

“Saying nonsense usually works better than shouting at you. Come sit,” the man patted a dry spot next to him, ushering Graham to join. “Elliot,” he added, gesturing to himself.

Graham didn’t budge. “Do I know you?” 

“We’ve met.” 

“When?” 

“A few times,” the lines above Elliot’s brow deepened as he shook his head, growing impatient. “Listen, Graham–don’t jump. The fall isn’t going to kill you but the smack of your back hitting the water will be enough to paralyze you. You’ll spend your last moments wishing you could thrash and claw for the life you just threw away. I’m not saying you’re never going to kill yourself, but this moment—it ain’t it.” 

A motley of conflicting emotions stood on each other’s shoulders and tightroped from brain cell to brain cell as Graham attempted to construct a response for this stranger he was supposed to know. He was confused, deflated, embarrassed, curious, and overall emotionally on-edge. His eyes welled up as he searched for the right words to say. 

Elliot picked himself up and approached Graham, leaving a pool of water in his wake. He clasped his calloused hands over Graham’s trembling shoulders.

“Can you tell me about what you’re going through?” 

“No—it’s stupid,” Graham said.

“I doubt it is.” 

Graham thought it funny how a missed quota could initiate a downward spiral of self-loathing and bring him to a new low atop this high bridge. He thought it funny that a single failure couldn’t simply be an isolated event but had to become a pattern. A failure today highlighted a lifetime of failures before, and the lifetime of failures to come. He thought it funny that he hadn’t just failed–he was a failure. A missed quota, a lost job, an unpaid bill, a newly developed drinking habit he couldn’t afford—every step further cemented something he’d always known in his soul: he was a piece of shit.

But Graham couldn’t say all of that. As he told Elliot, it was stupid. Clogged by the pit in his throat, his words transmuted to tears and streamed down his face.

Following a compassionate sigh, Elliot cocked his head and said, “I’m sorry you’re going through whatever you are. While I’m sure it doesn’t feel like it right now, what you’re going through will pass. Everything isn’t necessarily going to get better but you’ll get better at dealing with it.”

Elliot glanced away and the corners of his mouth lifted into a small, sad smile. “I’m about to disappear, but do me a favor—don’t let this be the last time I see you.” 

With a gentle pat on Graham’s shoulder, Elliot left as suddenly as he appeared.

After a moment in thought, Graham counted down from three, turned his back to the ledge, and jumped—landing in the puddle left behind by the man named Elliot.

* * *

La verdad adelgaza, pero no quiebra. ‘The truth may be stretched thin, but it never breaks.’ The Don Quixote quote echoed in Marta’s mind with every curve and bend of the six-mile trail she ran nearly every day. 

Lies laid the fragile foundation on which her life was built, with ‘Te Amo’ being the first stake. 

Marta loved Marcos, but she wasn’t in love with him, and she pretended not to know the difference. The façade persisted when he got on one knee and asked for her hand and it continued long after the day she said, ‘I do.’ 

Five years, two kids, and two affairs later, Marta and Marcos started sleeping in separate beds. 

Back issues. 

Different sleep schedules. 

She wanted to keep an ear out for the kids. 

The excuse changed with the weather. 

Five years, two kids, and two affairs later, Marta regularly ran this six-mile trail in perpetual preparation for a race she never intended to sign up for. She relished the time away, her runs being the rare moments she didn’t have to lie and could reconnect with the person she had grown distant from over the last five years, two kids, and two affairs: herself. The runs evolved from a physical activity to a figurative device. 

Marta looked ahead to the coming trail segment and gave the same slight grin she always did. It was her favorite part of the trail. She knew this beat like the back of her hand and felt she could run the entire path with her eyes closed. This curveless stretch gave her the safety net she needed to do exactly that. 

After noting that nothing was obstructing the way before her, Marta wiped away the beads of sweat on her forehead, closed her eyes, and charged on. With each stride, she imagined her legs pushing the Earth down beneath her like a ball floating on the surface of a body of water. She wasn’t subject to its gravity. Instead, it yielded to her weight. The mental model helped her feel in control and instilled a level of confidence she only felt while running this trail. That confidence was challenged a moment later when she found herself sprawled out on the ground after crashing into something she did not notice before commencing her dash. 

It was a man, sprawled out alongside her. 

As he picked himself up, he spoke in rapid English. The only phrase she recognized was “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Marta said in broken English, still on the ground.

“Oh, Marta!” the man said in near-flawless Spanish. “I forgot you ran this trail.”

“Have we met?”

“I’ve run this path a few times,” he extended his hand out for Marta to grab.

As she hoisted herself up from the ground, she grew hyperaware of every minute detail defining the man: his calloused palms; the weathered wedding band engraved with the outline of a penguin; the color gradient of his brown-yet-graying unkempt beard; and the way the tops of his hands felt as her thumbs glided across them. He was old and rugged, but there was a bright and youthful kindness in his eyes. 

Over the last five years, two kids, and two affairs, Marta regularly fell in love with strangers who showed her kindness—not in the literal sense. She would fantasize about growing old with them, developing the love she knew she had given up on feeling for Marcos. 

A pulse of electricity surged through her chest as her gaze lingered on the man a moment longer than she originally intended, but he shook his head back and forth in negation. “I’m not it, Marta.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I know you want out but I’m not what’s going to make it happen. You know that. Just talk to him.” 

He bid her ‘farewell’ and ran on ahead, leaving Marta alone in the cage she built herself.

* * *

Three steps sounded behind the partition after the confessional door shut, followed by a slight creak from the wooden seat as the priest sat down. He cleared his throat to subtly let it be known that he was ready.

A voice broke the silence from the opposite side. 

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been fifteen years since my last confession. Or a few weeks? Or a few minutes? I don’t know how to answer that anymore. I confess that I have stolen, lied, cheated, overindulged, killed… I’ve hurt so many people I don’t keep track anymore.” 

The priest remained silent, giving the man space to continue.

“They’d deserve it,” he continued. “Or I’d do it because I could. Or because it didn’t matter. Because they wouldn’t remember. Or because I’d get bored. I can’t tell you all the different reasons why I’d do it. There are too many.” 

“Then why confess?”

“Because maybe they didn’t deserve it? Maybe it did matter? I’ve gone back and forth with how I feel about it all. I’ve seen people at their worst in a given moment. I’ve seen the terrible things they’re capable of. So why not steal, cheat, or kill—especially if it’s all washed away? But I’ve also seen them at their best. And one day, I couldn’t help but think to myself, ‘Maybe that’s the version of me they deserve, too’.” 

He heard the priest shift uneasily on the other side and continued. 

“You’re the only person I’ve met that I haven’t staked out, you know. With everyone else, I camp out long enough to see what makes them tick. I learn everything I can about them—at least what they’ll let me learn in the moment. But not you. That has less to do with you and more to do with me. For the sake of my own sanity, there needs to be some mystery. I can’t know everything about everyone. I’m not God, you know?” 

From behind the screen, Elliot Hughes heard the confessional door shut. He thought the priest had left but the sound was followed by the echo of three footsteps, the creak of the wooden seat as the priest sat down, and the polite cough he always made to signal that he was ready. 

Elliot rolled his eyes with a sigh. With time, five minutes had begun feeling shorter and shorter.

 “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…” 

* * *

Elliot Hughes was more familiar with the concept of “high noon” than anyone else on the planet. For twenty years, he would experience the same five-minute moment, on endless repeat, until he finally didn’t. When the anomaly began, it took him three hours to notice the Sun remained at its highest point in the sky, never dipping. It took him even longer to notice that every clock he passed would reset to 12:00 every five minutes. 

Elliot’s first instinct was to see his wife.

“Have you seen Ana?” he asked Alex at reception after finding her office empty. 

“She and Bryan went out to lunch.” 

Nearly twenty-four hours of sleuthing led Elliot to Bryan’s apartment, where he found the two in bed together, in perpetuity.

“You bitch,” he spat. “How could you do this?”

During Elliot’s first few iterations of finding them, he was angry. He shouted and screamed as he punched holes in the drywall. Anger was replaced with sadness. His shouts and screams became howls and weeps while he ruminated about where he had gone wrong. 

And then back to anger. Elliot killed Bryan and Ana five different times in three different ways, never quite feeling the sense of satisfaction he thought he would.

Bryan and Ana looked at Elliot, horrified, when he appeared at the foot of the bed as noon hit. 

“Elliot?” Ana gasped. “How’d you get in here?” 

He shook his head, accepting that no outcome of this five-minute moment would bring him the closure he sought. 

“I get it. I wish I didn’t, but I do. I’m sorry I brought you to this.”

In truth, he didn’t get it. He wished he did, but he didn’t.

Not yet. 

Elliot would later admit to himself that taking responsibility for Ana’s betrayal helped ease the pain he felt from it. Karmic justice was easier to reconcile than cosmic injustice. He gave a final wave goodbye and turned to depart, leaving the two in bed together, in perpetuity.

Elliot found himself floating through this life as a narcissist. If there was something he wanted, he’d take it. If it wasn’t his, he’d steal it. If someone irritated him, he’d hurt them—sometimes fatally and without remorse. 

The weight of Elliot’s actions never burdened his conscience. Each moment washed away the last and was subsequently washed away by the next. How could he feel guilty for killing a man who’d be alive five minutes later? 

His execution wasn’t always so flawless. 

It was common for Elliot to go through a handful of iterations with someone before making a bold move. He liked to test the limits of what he could get away with before taking his leap. Even in a world without consequence, Elliot was risk-averse. 

Such an aversion, assuaged by alcohol, was cast out when he met a man named Graham atop a bridge he would momentarily jump from. 

“Hey! What are you doing?” Elliot called out as he approached, his speech slightly slurred.

“Nothing! I’m fine!” Graham shouted back. 

“If you’re going to do it, go ahead and commit.” 

What came next was a blur to Elliot. He rushed forward to grab Graham’s shoulder and push him off the bridge and grant the end he seemed to be looking for, but was received by panic and a death grip. Graham clung to Elliot’s forearm, pulling him over the edge as well. It wasn’t clear to either person if this response was a reflex or a change of heart. 

At two hundred feet, water might as well be concrete. After smacking the surface of the river, Graham and Elliot slowly sank, descending as a heap of broken bones with fluid-filled lungs.

And then the clock struck twelve, putting Graham back atop the bridge and leaving Elliot in the depths below, bones back intact and lungs expelled of all water. After that moment, Elliot’s unburdened conscience grew heavier. Experiencing the pain of death made him think twice before inflicting it. 

It was around this five-minute moment Elliot grew increasingly aware of his own mortality. While the clock of the universe stood still, his own ticked on. His hair grew grey, his skin wrinkled, and his body increasingly frail. 

Elliot would spend his remaining years wandering the continent, leaving no stone unturned. If there was a skill, he’d learn it. If there was a trail, he’d take it. If he crossed paths with another, he’d learn as much of their story as they’d let him during their five-minute moment.

In his older age, Elliot retired to the wild in solitude. Moments once spent learning of peoples’ pasts and presents were exchanged for ones inhaling the five-minute stills of nature. 

He had all the time in the world and none of it.

For all the moments he spent cursing his own immortality, Elliot now found himself constrained by what time he had left. 

As he sat atop the highest point of a canyon during his final five-minute moment, the high noon Sun radiated a familiar warmth throughout his weathered body.

Elliot wondered who the world would be losing.

Elliot Hughes, the murderer? The thief? The narcissist? 

Elliot Hughes, the traveler? The wanderer? 

None of them? All of them? 

Knowing no answer would be forthcoming, Elliot closed his eyes one last time and drew one last breath. 

And the Sun finally began to fall.