Ella`s Story
My Love From The Future
BOOK ONE

Chapter 7 : Crystal

Episode 7 : April 11 2019 Thursday Evening 8th grade

Copyright © 2019-2025 Gary Brandt. All rights reserved.

The schoolyard is hushed in the early morning light, the damp grass glistening under a pale Wednesday sky. Most students have already shuffled into classrooms or linger in the hallways, their voices a distant hum. Eileen sits alone, her back pressed against the rough bark of an old oak, her journal open on her lap. The air carries the sharp chill of late May, and she tugs her hoodie tighter, her pen scratching softly as she writes.

A van pulls up to the curb, its engine rumbling, and four girls spill out. Three head straight for the school, their backpacks bouncing, but one—Crystal—veers toward Eileen, her steps hesitant.

"Hey, Eileen," Crystal says, her voice soft, almost lost in the morning breeze.

"Hey, Crystal. What's up?" Eileen closes her journal, looking up with a curious smile.

"Why're you out here alone? Where're your friends—those girls you always hang with?"

"You mean Roxana and Ella?" Eileen shrugs. "They were up late last night, some kind of drama. They'll spill later. They're skipping first period, maybe more if they sleep till noon like they sometimes do."

"Looks like you're skipping too," Crystal observes, settling on the grass beside her, her eyes scanning the empty yard.

"Yeah, if they get to skip, why not me?" Eileen grins. "What about you? You skipping too? What's your story?"

Crystal's gaze drops to her hands, twisting a loose thread on her jacket. "It's complicated. There're people in that class I don't want to see right now."

Eileen's curiosity piques. "Really? A boy?"

Crystal laughs, a sharp, bitter sound. "You must be the only girl on campus who doesn't know."

"Nobody tells me anything," Eileen says, leaning forward. "My dad's a prosecutor, my mom's a cop, so I never hear the good stuff. But you can tell me—I don't blab, especially not to my parents."

"Can I trust you?" Crystal asks, her eyes searching Eileen's face.

"Totally," Eileen says, her voice earnest. "I'm gonna be a lawyer someday, so I know about confidentiality."

Crystal hesitates, then exhales. "Okay. I live in a group home on Jackson Street. Six girls, including me. I was twelve when I moved in—both my parents are in prison, and my grandma's too sick to take me. Nobody else in my family wanted me; they've got their own kids."

"So that's why you come in that van?" Eileen asks, piecing it together. "You all live together?"

"Yeah, the van's our ride everywhere," Crystal says. "A few months ago, two older girls planned to sneak out to a 'party'—really just some guy's apartment. They said it'd be fun, but it was just a bunch of beer, vodka, pills, and other stuff. I was twelve, didn't want trouble, but they talked me into it."

"You snuck out?" Eileen's eyes widen. "Where was your house mom?"

"Margaret was glued to her TV show, not paying attention," Crystal says. "We went out the back, over the fence. An older boy picked us up in his car in the alley."

"His car?" Eileen interrupts. "How old were these guys?"

"The driver was nineteen. His brother's twenty-two, old enough to buy the alcohol."

Eileen's face hardens. "Did they… hurt you? You can tell me."

"No, it wasn't like that," Crystal says quickly, shaking her head. "When we got there, my friend Shawn was there—Leshawn, but we call him Shawn. He's fourteen, so we were the youngest. Everyone started drinking, mixing vodka with beer, popping pills—some called them 'zannies.' People got wasted, acting stupid. Some girls were running around in their underwear, messing with the guys. Shawn and I went to a back room to get away, but we had a few beers too."

Eileen studies her, her voice gentle but firm. "Did you and Shawn… do anything?"

Crystal looks away, her voice barely above a whisper. "We hung out, and he kissed me a little. Then we messed around, and… it just happened. We had sex. I didn't plan it—it was weird, not like I thought it'd be. I've been avoiding him since."

"If you were drinking and didn't mean to, that's still not okay," Eileen says, her tone serious. "My dad says if you can't consent, it's rape. Is Shawn pressuring you now?"

"Shawn's a good guy, I've known him forever," Crystal says. "But his friends think I'm his girl now, so he acts like he owns me to impress them. I like him, but that night ruined everything. I just want to be left alone. Nobody owns me."

"This was when you were twelve?" Eileen asks, horrified. "Those guys could go to jail. Have you told anyone?"

"Like the police?" Crystal scoffs. "No way. There's no evidence, and the other girls won't talk—they'd get in trouble too. They'd deny it. And I'd be a 'cop caller,' the worst thing you can be on my block. That can get you killed. You live in your fancy neighborhood—you don't get how it works where I'm from. The rules are different."

"Really?" Eileen frowns, skeptical. "This is a small town. You're making it sound like some big-city gangland. Is it that bad?"

"It's small, but it's no different," Crystal says, her voice hard. "My parents were in the game—dealing drugs, moving stolen goods, trading guns. They got set up, took the fall for an OG, a crime boss. That's why they're locked up, and I'm in the group home. It's the same here as in Chicago or LA, just smaller."

"Does your house mom know you're sneaking out?" Eileen asks.

"She knows," Crystal says. "But she won't do anything—she'd get in trouble. She gets paid a ton to keep us there, so she looks the other way. Stuff happens every day, and she ignores it."

"You could talk to my parents," Eileen offers. "Maybe they can help."

"A prosecutor and a cop?" Crystal snorts. "No offense, but that's a bad idea. The other girls would blame me, and I'd end up in juvie. Thanks, but I'm good."

"Are you pregnant?" Eileen asks, her voice low.

"No, I got lucky," Crystal says.

"Are you still… with Shawn or anyone else?"

"No, just that once," Crystal says, her eyes flashing. "Why all the questions? You a cop too?"

"No, I'm not a cop," Eileen says, her voice softening. "I like you, and I'm worried. I won't tell anyone, not even my friends. But you can talk to me anytime. If there's a way I can help, let me know."

"Thanks, Eileen," Crystal says, her expression warming. "You're cool. But don't try to help—you'll get hurt. I've always been on my own, and nothing's changed."

"I might have ways to help I can't talk about," Eileen says, pulling out her phone. "Give me your number. Call me if you need me."

Crystal hesitates, then nods, taking the phone and typing in her number. "Thanks, but stay off my block. You have no idea the trouble you'd find there."

The bell rings, sharp and insistent, and the girls head inside for second period, Eileen's mind swirling with Crystal's story.

By fifth period, Roxana and Ella finally drag themselves to school, their eyes heavy from the previous night's drama. The final bell rings, and the girls gather their bikes from the rack, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the pavement. Eileen, her face set with determination, stops pedaling and turns to them.

"I've got a favor to ask," she says, her voice urgent.

"What's that?" Ella asks, adjusting her backpack.

"Let's ride down Jackson Street on the way home," Eileen says. "And bring Helana. I want her to use her powers to get a feel for the place."

Ella stares at her like she's lost her mind. "Jackson Street's not on the way home! It's over the bridge, past the creek. First, it's way out of our way. Second, we're not supposed to go there. Third, we'll be late, and our parents will freak. Are you crazy?"

"And the bridge doesn't even have a bike lane," Roxana adds, her voice tight. "We could get hit."

"Okay, yes, I'm crazy," Eileen admits, her eyes blazing. "But I'm on a mission—a secret one I can't talk about. I need to know what's happening over there. That neighborhood's been there my whole life, and I know nothing about it. It's just 'over there,' where we never go. Please, just this once. If we ride fast, it won't take long."

"Is this about a boy?" Ella asks, narrowing her eyes. "Are you stalking someone again?"

"No, it's about a girl," Eileen says, her voice firm.

"What?" Ella and Roxana exchange shocked glances.

"Are you… into girls now?" Ella asks.

"Huh?" Eileen blinks, then laughs. "No, I'm not gay. All I can say is a twelve-year-old girl was assaulted over there, and it happens a lot on that block. I want Helana to help me understand the neighborhood. I'm going to be a lawyer someday—this is the kind of stuff I need to know."

"Helana, is she for real?" Ella asks, her tone skeptical. "Or is this about a boy?"

"Don't put me in the middle!" Helana's voice hums in their minds, amused but firm. "I won't read her mind without permission. Her intentions don't feel malicious, so maybe you can help with her mission. It's a rough area—I can sense that from here—but I can protect you from physical threats. I can't stop a speeding bullet, though, so there's some risk."

"We should do it," Roxana says, her voice resolute. "Eileen's mission might be a calling from God. We have to."

"Crap, I'm gonna regret this," Ella mutters. "Fine, but we pedal fast—over the bridge, to the traffic light, turn around, and back. No stopping, ever, for anything. Got it? And let's stash our phones in our lockers so we don't get tracked."

The girls have never pedaled so fast, their bikes kicking up dust as they race across the narrow bridge, the creek glinting below. The wind whips their hair, and their hearts pound with a mix of fear and adrenaline. On Jackson Street, a few young men lean against a chain-link fence, tossing out lazy catcalls—“Hey, baby, what’s up?”—but nothing more. The girls reach the traffic light, whip around, and speed back, collapsing in a breathless heap on their side of the bridge, safe but shaken.

“Thank you,” Eileen pants, her cheeks flushed. “That was quick. Helana, what did you see?” Helana’s voice is heavy, thoughtful. “The emotions there are overwhelming. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of those bugs—emotional parasites—are swarming. There’s too much to unpack, so I’ll focus on one thing: angst. Not just teenage angst, but a deep, pervasive kind.” She pauses, gathering her thoughts.

“Every being has an internal identity template—a vision of who they believe they’re meant to be, defined by how they’d complete the sentence ‘I am.’ When your external reality aligns with that template, you’re fulfilled, happy. When it doesn’t, you’re consumed by anxiety, driven to do whatever it takes to become that person. Failure breeds depression, even suicidal thoughts. Across the bridge, I sensed one older woman, a grandmother baking banana bread for her grandson—his favorite. Her internal and external identities match perfectly. She’s content, wanting nothing more than what she is. But many others, especially the young, are far from their templates. They’re angry, anxious, depressed, lashing out—sometimes violently—to claim the life they feel entitled to.”

“In your world, children are taught to aspire to certain identities—success, fame, wealth—but often lack the resources to achieve them. No matter how hard they try, they fail, over and over. Others chase fictional templates from music videos, books, or stories—lives that don’t exist. They spend their days chasing a lie, failing to become the fiction. I felt one young man’s angst vividly. His template is fame, a big house, a flashy car, money, women lining up to date him—images from music videos and tales of superstars. It’s a fantasy few achieve, and he never will. He’ll likely die young, chasing a life that’s not real, his sorrow turning to self-hatred, dulled only by drugs or alcohol.”

“This angst is a persistent grief, a pain so deep many seek constant intoxication to escape it. If I scored the angst on Jackson Street from one to ten, I’d give it a seven. But here’s the hard truth: in your neighborhood, with its big houses and green lawns, I’d score it a five. The pain’s nearly as bad here, just hidden by money and nonviolent coping mechanisms. Before you judge Jackson Street or try to fix it, look closer to home.”

“Are you sure you’re our age?” Ella asks, half-joking. “You sound like my guidance counselor.” Helana laughs. “I’m channeling my social studies teacher. This is what we study in my school.” “So how do we fix it?” Eileen asks, her voice fierce. “Four girls can’t fix a planet with billions of struggling people,” Helana says gently. “It’s more complex than I’ve described. The reason I came to you is because, in the future I saw, you did make a difference—not a complete fix, but a step forward. That’ll take generations, but you moved the needle. If you try to solve it all now, you’ll burn out, feeling the same angst as those who fail their dreams. Grow up, take it one step at a time, and you’ll do remarkable things. That future is still within reach.”

“Are you making a difference in your future?” Ella asks. “Have you seen it?” “I plan to,” Helana says. “But I can’t look into my own future—it’s forbidden.” “Forbidden?” Eileen asks. “Like, against the law?” “Not a law, exactly,” Helana explains. “When people in my world peek at their future, they often see something they dislike and jump back in time to change it. That causes unintended consequences, usually making things worse. They keep bouncing through time, trying to fix it, but temporal inertia snaps the timeline back. The result is brain damage—temporal loop hallucinations, where overlapping timelines blur their perception. They can’t tell what’s real and go mad. No cure exists, so it’s forbidden.”

“But some do it anyway?” Eileen presses. “It’s like riding your bike into traffic,” Helana says. “You can, but it’s foolish. Some, in my world and yours, choose foolish things.” “Girls, we gotta go!” Ella interrupts, her voice urgent. “Or Eileen’s mom will roll up in her police car, lights flashing, and drag us home in handcuffs.” The girls laugh, the tension breaking, and pedal home, the weight of the day trailing behind them.

Later, in the quiet of her room, Ella opens her diary, her legs aching and her mind racing.

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NEXT >> Chapter 8
TinkerBell

Three teenage girls—Ella, Roxana, and Eileen—seek advice from Eileen's prosecutor father about saving their troubled town, but their nervous behavior and slip-ups reveal they're hiding their friendship with Helana, an interdimensional being they've trapped in a genie bottle. When Helana's existence is exposed, Mr. Callahan takes on a parental role over all the girls including the invisible Helana, grounding them while trying to understand the supernatural situation they've gotten themselves into.

<< PREVIOUS Chapter 6
6

Thirteen-year-old Roxana has a tense conversation with Helana, a telepathic being from another dimension who lives in a perfume bottle, where Roxana demands promises that Helana won't harm her friends and questions her about her powers. When Helana reveals glimpses of Roxana's future involving dating, marriage, and children instead of becoming a nun as planned, Roxana has a panic attack and calls her friend Ella at midnight, who reassures her that she doesn't need to change her life plans immediately.

FIRST Chapter 0 Sleep Over

Thirteen-year-old Ella and her best friends Eileen and Roxana encounter an interdimensional being named Helana during a sleepover, who appears as different benevolent figures to each girl and reveals glimpses of their legendary futures. When Helana tries to leave after accidentally revealing herself and disrupting their timelines, Ella cleverly traps the entity by claiming authority over her domain, forcing Helana to stay as their `genie in a bottle` despite her pleas to return home.