"Enjoy yourself," he said as he tossed me into the box.
"Make a few things, destroy 'em later if you want. It's nothing to me." He added one last thing before leaving me to the void: "No time will have passed when you return," he said.
"Spend as long as you want here, and when you do go back, it'll be the same time you left, down to the second."
In the time- or the absence of it, I should say- it took to grasp what had happened, small buildings were already forming in the blank space. Central figures to my childhood. My home.
The salon where I'd happily accompany my mother. All sorts of things, perfectly scaled and just the way I remembered them. Had I recreated them subconsciously?
I took a nap. When I woke up, my entire childhood town was back.
I was forever thirty-five here- a good, strong, age, and if I really *could* do as I pleased...
I made a sugary lollipop appear in my hand, just as a test. It tasted amazing.
My power wasn't limited to objects and buildings, either. I brought *everyone* back, old teachers, neighbors, friends- even made new ones. In that world, nothing was beyond my power.
Life was heaven.
My friends and I went out for drinks every night, with no nausea or hangovers or repercussions. My mother and I were closer than ever, and I was getting married soon.
The stone that sat on my finger was one I saw in a catalogue of things I couldn't dream of affording, but then... I didn't need a job. I didn't even need money.
With every last atom of the world bending to my will there wasn't anything I *couldn't* do.
So I got destructive.
I'd shoot my friends. I'd murder random kids in the park while their parents looked on helplessly, frozen by a realistic lag.
I'd manufacture bombs, and when I accidentally blew myself up, I realized I was immortal here, too. No matter who I killed, what horrible tragedies I cooked up- one nap, and the world reset.
My mother still gave me the tenderhearted smile of hers, even when I'd smashed her face in the day before.
Now, my problem isn't boredom- when you can do literally anything, there's no limit to reality.
I suppose the fact that I *can* do these things is what's the problem, because, outside this little bubble, my life has fallen apart. Alcoholic. Depressed constantly.
Here, I can be perpetually happy.
His words always come back to me: "Spend as long as you want here, and when you do go back, it'll be the same time you left, down to the second." Naturally, I don't want to leave. No one would.
But I can't leave- he's trapped me here- he must've known that if I do go back, I know I'll be caught, mid-fall, about a hundred feet from the pavement.
So I might as well enjoy the ride.