I have to find him, Clara. Whatever it takes.
I know, Emmett. I'm not trying to stop you. I'm only telling you to be careful and come back in one piece.
Funny, how despite his unique status as time-traveller, time seemed to be the one thing there was never enough of.
Emmett clutches the likely once alcohol-soaked journal in trembling hands, ignoring the way the overpowering scent assails his senses, and flips through the available entries. Some of these entries are written in what is very obviously Marty's script—he would recognise that handwriting anywhere after so many years—while other pages are sloppy and near illegible, hieroglyphs on the page that take even him a few precious moments to decipher.
He almost doesn't want to believe these could have been written by the same person—by Marty—not with the morbid and concerning tone some of these private ramblings take, and Emmett is powerless to stop the way it feels like the world is falling out beneath him, threatening to devour him and send him straight to the pits of hell for such a grievous oversight.
There are months upon months of entries in this journal, everything easily traceable to what should have been an easily fixed mistake, and if he had the time to sit and read every single one, allow the weight of the mounting guilt to settle properly on his shoulders, he just might, if only to catch up on everything that he's missed—caused, albeit inadvertently—throughout the years. Years!
But that will do neither of them any good in the moment, so Emmett flips to the final entry in the journal—June 12th, just a few days ago now—and quietly thanks whatever higher power there is that Marty kept such detailed entries.
June 16—dispose of the vehicular corpse for good by sending it over the cliffside.
Stuffing the journal in his pocket, Emmett hurries out to the car, racing off at breakneck speeds.
It takes him nearly an hour to cut through the California traffic and another twenty-seven minutes to arrive at the chosen drop site. By the time he exits the car, his fingers and knuckles have turned white from how tightly he gripped the steering wheel the entire trip and he can feel the uncomfortable sensation of pins and needles halfway up to his elbows.
The sun shoots off the stainless steel frame of the car like a bullet and Emmett throws up a hand to shield his eyes from its expert aim. He can see the outline of a figure sprawled across the warped frame of the car and—
❝Marty!❞ he shouts, hoping to be heard over the violent roaring of the ocean below. ❝Wait—Marty!❞