Aside from a few compulsory tales whilst at school, this was my first short story. It was written for "Digital Aubergine" - the publication of Warped, Manchester University's Science Fiction and Fantasy Society. Owing to the fact that the editor at the time, despite being a computer science student, couldn't work his email properly, this was never published in DA.

Because it was written for a low budget publication, it was important to write a very short short story, but I still wanted to write something with a bit of a twist in the tail. Hope you like it.

To whom it may concern,

I have always believed that time travel is possible - or at least, I've always hoped. I find it inconceivable that so many unique events are lost to us forever. Concerts by The Beatles, or any of a dozen other bands I could mention. Television programmes which are missing, presumed destroyed, yet which represented the combined talent of dozens of people. Surely there must be a way to reclaim the past.

Every time I see footage of an old concert, I look for myself in the crowd. Of course, I don't honestly expect to see myself - there are obvious logistical implications in the idea that we could all travel back to visit the same concert. What I suspect, however, is that in the future, when virtual reality finally matures, people will be sent back to capture every nuance of those lost events, for recreation in the virtual environment.

One thing I have always known, however, is that if I ever have the chance to travel back, I will let myself know that it is possible. Somehow.

Therefore, although I was surprised, I was far from shocked by today's events. You see, strange as it may sound to somebody that doesn't share my optimism for time travel, I have met myself.

The actual event occurred earlier this afternoon. Answering a knock at the door, I was (somewhat unusually for me) stunned into silence by the obvious identity of the man before me. He was old, certainly. Maybe fifty, maybe more, but with a whitened form of my excessive tresses falling across one eye. His face was worn and scarred, the beard and glasses were gone, but I knew instinctively that I was looking at myself. I invited him in.

'So it's possible then?' I was annoyed by the facileness of my opening statement, but I'd always expected to see myself on television and had not prepared for an actual confrontation with my future self.

'I knew you were going to say that.'

'And I suspected you were going to say that. Seems I won't change too much in the future.'

'Oh, I wouldn't say that.'

The conversation, clearly, was heading nowhere. I could only guess at his intentions by assuming they were not too distinct from my own. If I could travel now, I would go to a thousand places, but not to visit myself. Not face to face. Not unless there was a very, very good reason for potentially changing history.

'Why?' If he really was me, rather than some space-opera based quantum alternative of me, he would have had this conversation before. There was no need to elaborate. All I had to do was prompt.

'I had to warn you. I know I shouldn't. I know that you don't really want me to. But I must. Your whole future depends on it.'

'But it's not life or death - not unless you've got some incurable disease you want to warn me about.'

'No. Not life or death. Not in the way you mean. It's far worse than that.'

'I don't want to know.'

'Don't be such a fool! I'm you. I know what you think. I know what you're thinking right now. I know how I reacted when I was on the other side of this conversation, and I know what the outcome was. Listen to me. I wouldn't tell you unless there was no other way.'

'But aren't there rules about non-interference?'

'Of course there are, but this is far more important than any rules or regulations.'

I was torn between my moral obligations to my own future and the fact that this was me. I knew that he wouldn't be doing what he was unless there was no other choice. I gave in. 'Okay, tell me.'

'I know you still hope to meet someone, get married, settle down and have kids. Forget it. It won't happen. Instead you'll have a nervous breakdown. You'll end up spending most of your life looking at padded walls, with nobody believing a word you say. If you carry on, there's no way to avoid it. After I was warned, I tried to change things, but it still happened. The same occurred to the man who warned me, and the one who warned him.'

'So why bother telling me?'

'Because there is one way out. It's a difficult decision, I know, but you can have no concept of how bad your life will become. There's only one solution, and you have to take it. There's no other way.'

'You can't mean...'

'You know exactly what I mean. Just do it. It's your only chance at happiness. I can't help you anymore than that. I've got to go - I've taken too long already and they might find me.'

Before I could ask any more, he had vanished.

I can appreciate how strange this tale must seem to you, but that is how it happened, I can assure you. Had anybody else travelled back then I would not be doing this, but to hear myself speak like that, to see the fear and despair in my eyes, is far too compelling to ignore. For my own sake, and for the sakes of those infinite versions of me that second by second follow my every movement, I can see only one choice. Whilst I once thought that nothing could drive me to this, I can see now that my only hope lies at the bottom of a half-bottle of whisky and a large jar of aspirin. I can only apologise to the friends I leave behind, my one joy being that I have no remaining family to be hurt by my actions.

May the gods have mercy on my soul.

'Well, it's certainly not your average suicide note.'

'No sarge.'

'The poor bloke must be completely off his rocker.'

'The medics said that if he recovers, he's likely to be spending a long time in therapy, sir.'

'I almost hope the poor bugger dies, for his sake.'

'Apparently he's more than likely to live - unless there are any complications. They found him just in time, thanks to his uncle.'

'His uncle?'

'Yeah. He's the one who dialled 999, sarge.'

'Well I suppose we'd better get a statement off him then.'

'He's the old boy over there, sarge. The man with the long white hair.'

'Bloody hell! You can certainly see the family resemblance.'