He browsed the shelves of historical research that had sat untouched for decades, the last patrons of these tomes were likely the professors that authored them. Here they sat undisturbed in this catacomb of knowledge.

He checked over his shoulder for no other reason than guilt. He knew what he was to do would be selfish, but it was the only way for him to be sure. He could not go through the remembering again, life was just too hard without the comfort and peace of the knowing.

A dense volume on hellenistic historical events called out to him. He slipped it from its place. He held it between his wrinkled fingers turning to the page number that matched his birth date. The dried paper, yellowed with age, rustled with each turn of the page until the spot was found.

"It won't work." Written in his own hand in red ballpoint pen next to the page number. His initials and today's date accompanied the note.

A cold shiver of terror ran the length of this spin to the end of his toes. He put the book back as fast as his decrepit muscles would allow and picked up the one next to it.

"Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. STOP!"

Filled every lage of the record book written frantically in red ink overtop the printed material.

He dropped the book to the floor. Its weight met the polished marble floor with a resounding crack. He hobbled from the aisle, his gold handled koi fish cane clacked in cadence with the hard soles of his shined shoes.

He turned into another aisle at random. The first selection was too obvious. Of course he had done this before, he had made so many of the same choices, why wouldn't this be the same? Random. That's the ticket.

He pulled a book from a shelf of mathematical theory,

"You aren't meant to know." Was written in the familiar red ink on the inside of the cover. He flipped to the next page.

A hand clasped his shoulder. The breath left his body. He frozen in terror as the strong hand turned him round.

"You're not ready." The voice commanded.

He lifted his eyes from the book to his assailant, it was him. Himself. A younger man. A different man by age alone.

The blade pierced his diaphragm just below his sternum. His heart pumped his blood in pulsing gushes cascading to the marble floor. A bloody pool formed around his polished loafers. His cane fell to his side. The man embarrassed himself, holding him dearly in his last moments he whispered a final command.

"Try again."