The alarm on my phone shrieks to life and I and slide into consciousness. Waking up is never a quick process for me. My eyes creak open, then shut again. Sun is filtering in through the window of my crappy little dorm room, coloring the pasty cinder block walls with a mellow light. That means it’s well after eight, and my alarm has been going off for a while now. I glance over at the other bed. Empty. Looks like my roommate has been up for a while, as usual. Good. He hates being bothered.

The last vestiges of a dream are fading away, but what’s there fills me with unease. There was something about… No, it’s already drifting away like smoke. All I know is that there’s death and confusion. And a strong feeling of…what to even call it? Of knowing. I guess that feels right. I shake my head.

I stretch out my limbs and heave myself out of bed. My first class starts soon, and it’s Thursday, the day where I stacked all my main classes. I should get going. But then I stop. Something feels…off. I don’t know, can’t put my finger on it. But I get a feeling I shouldn’t go to class today. What is it? I get a dim recollection of the dream, that it has something to do with this. It’s a pretty poor excuse to skip out on class, but whatever the reason, the feeling won’t go away. There’s this fingernail, scratching at the back of my mind. I know I won’t be able to focus on anything today. I guess that’s as good an excuse as any.

I check the dresser. Nothing. Everything’s dirty and scattered on the floor. I pick up a black t shirt that smells okay and throw it on. Grab my wallet off the desk, check it for cash. Nine bucks. Should be enough for coffee and breakfast. I pull on some jeans and stuff my wallet in, then jog out the door.

As I’m walking to the closest coffee shop, I get a feeling again. Not like déjà vu, not really. But something like it. Like I’m walking the same paths. Well, of course I am. I live here, I have a routine. I have my classes. I go to this cafe all the time. Of course it feels familiar. What the hell is going on with me today? Even for a philosophy major, I’m not usually in my head like this.

When I get to the shop, I run into my roommate Jonathan. He’s a good guy, but…how do I put this? Real pretty boy. I kinda-but-not-really hate him. On the rare occasions we go out, he’s a magnet for girls, but never follows through. Never has the time, he says. Which is why it’s a little odd that he’s here. He doesn’t usually go for…well, anything that’s not studying. He tends to be a bit of a hermit, but here he is, in line waiting for his order.

“Hey, man!” I call out, and trot over to him.

“Scott!” he says.

“What’re you doing here? Don’t you have class right now?”

“Don’t you?” he asks, mock conspiratorial tone and all.

“Long story. But seriously, I never see you skip.”

“I didn’t,” he says. “Class got canceled. So I figured I’d grab some caffeine then hit the library.”

“Order for Jonathan!” a voice calls out from behind an enormous, hissing espresso machine.

A cardboard cup slides across the counter. He grabs it and takes a sip, then winces.

“Ugh. Excuse me?” He flags down the barista. “I asked for soy. Is this soy?” The barista takes the cup, sniffs it, then sheepishly shakes her head. “Would you mind making another one? I can’t have dairy.” She rolls her eyes, but goes back to the grinder and starts making a new drink. He hands me the cup.

“Here. Want it?”

“Um, sure,” I say. Hey, that’s four bucks I don’t have to spend. I use the cash to buy a cinnamon roll instead.

“Look, there’s another reason I’m out here today,” Jon says. His eyebrows bunch, like he’s got something weighing on him. “I realize I’ve been working too hard.”

“Well, you are pre med,” I say. “That’s nothing to take lightly.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get that. But it’s real easy to get burned out. So I’m trying to take it a little easier. So um… There’s this party tonight. Rachel’s throwing it.”

Rachel? The nursing student. Friend of Jon’s. I kind of…well. I smile thinking about her, then go red once I realize what I’m doing. But I don’t ask about her. Instead, I ask, “On a Thursday?”

“Yeah, on a Thursday. Does it matter why? I’m going, I think you should come.”

“Jon…”

“Come on.”

I don’t know why I’m so hesitant. Rachel will be there. And I have been working so hard lately. But I really don’t feel like doing anything right now. Even coming out for coffee was more of an undertaking than I’m in the mood for. I throw out the first excuse I can think of. “I mean. I would, but I have this huge paper–”

“Forget about the damn paper! At least for one night. Look, I’ve been working too hard, and quite honestly I think you have too. I mean, you’re skipping today for a reason, right?”

I don’t tell him about the feeling, or the dream. I don’t think he’d understand. But maybe he’s right. Maybe it is because I’m working too hard. And besides. There’s that feeling again. That this party just…feels like something I should do.

“Sure,” I say eventually. “Why not?”

***

I’ve got a drink in my hand. Rum and Coke, I think? I’m not really sure. I just asked some random sophomore to mix me something. I’m not even really tasting it. I take a swig. The cheap liquor and soda burn my throat. Smoke, from cigarettes and weed, mingles with a melange of boozy breath and sweat from so many people packed into the small space. The air clings to the inside of my lungs every time I take a breath, like sucking in a mouthful of tar. I hate parties.

There are dozens of people here, none of which I know. The party’s off campus, at some shitty apartment complex (even as lax as the RAs are at the dorms, they’d never allow something like this). Guess it must where Rachel lives, but she’s nowhere to be found. Jonathan either. In this chaotic mass of humanity, they could be anywhere. The feeling, the one I’ve been getting all day, twists in my guts. Feels like really bad heartburn, like my breakfast coming back. The drink might have been a bad idea.

But I decide “screw it.” I’m here, might as well make the most of it. I down the drink. Whatever it is, it’s strong as hell, definitely not rum. Probably pure everclear with a dash of Coke for color. It hits my stomach like a bomb, but I don’t regret it. Probably will later, but not now. Within minutes, I can feel the tendrils of alcohol weaving into my eyes and ears; my vision starts to soften, my balance goes a few degrees off center. Y’know, it’s actually kinda nice. I don’t let go nearly often enough. I go looking for Rachel.

The sea of people has separated a bit, tightening into clutches of conversation. Over here, there’s a group talking about school. Classes they’re taking, courses they’re failing, professors they’re fucking. Nothing that interests me. Over there, a douchey guy is mansplaining the finer points of Bitcoin to an assemblage of very clearly uninterested girls. One of them tries to speak up and prompts an immediate “Well actually…” Ugh. Hard pass. And…there’s a guy with a snake. Why is there always some guy with a snake at these things? I’m about to head over to a hastily erected beer pong table to try my hand when I hear a voice.

“Scott!”

I whip around, looking for the source. I can see a hand waving, a round, freckled face with brown, wavy hair bobbing up over a sea of heads trying to flag me down. Rachel. Finally. She’s in the kitchen (well, kitchenette), and I weave through the clusters of people to get to her.

“Rachel,” I say. She reaches her arms out, seemingly for a hug, so I go for it. Our arms kind of bump and tangle, and now that I think about it, I’m not sure if she was actually going for a hug or not. I break it off, go for a weird casual high-five-to-hand-clasp maneuver. The whole thing is incredibly awkward. I curse my boozy brain, though if I’m being honest, that probably wouldn’t have gone any better if I were sober.

“Hey,” she says. She flashes this little smile, the one that got me when I first saw her.

“Hey,” I say back. Smooth.

“I’m glad you came,” she says. “Jonathan said you might be here. I was hoping you would.”

Really? I smile, just a bit, but rein myself in. That could mean anything. But the mention of Jonathan reminds me…

“So where is Jonathan anyway?” I ask. “He dragged me to this little shindig, but I can’t find him anywhere.”

“Oh, you know Jon,” she says.

“Yeah, I guess…” I say, but I’m not really convinced. Do I know Jon? This isn’t really his scene, or mine. And…how does she know him? I mean, they’re both medical, kind of, so that could be it. I guess pre-med and pre-nursing are pretty similar. But he never actually said where they met. Come to think of it, where did Rachel and I meet…? That drink must have been stronger than I thought; you don’t easily forget meeting a girl like that. I shrug it off. The campus is big. We could have met anywhere. I’m sure once the alcohol wears off I’ll remember.

My rumination is cut short by a commotion. One of the conversation clusters is widening, like there’s something happening in its center. Rachel and I shoulder our way through the crowd to see.

There, in the living room (judicious term), on the stiff, cheap-apartment carpet, is Jonathan. On top of him is this huge behemoth of a guy, and he’s pounding Jon’s face into the floor. I’ve never seen anything like it. It looks like something out of a movie, some big jock twit clobbering a lesser being. It’s weird, usually when there’s a fight, people shout, yell, egg them on or scream at them to stop. But nothing. Everyone seems too shocked to make a sound. There’s just breathing and the wet-meat noise of fist connecting with face.

After a minute of this, Jonathan reaches into his pocket. He shuffles around for a second before whipping out something small, metallic. It glints in the dusty lamp light. Oh god. It’s a scalpel. Where…no, I know where he got it. But why would he just be carrying that?

Now is when I decide it’s enough. There’s a blade involved, someone could really get hurt here. I jump in, try to pull him off. Maybe I can get him to stop. The guy must be a linebacker or a wrestler or something, because it’s like trying to move a statue. He shrugs off attempt like it’s nothing and shoves me away. I stagger back into the crowd of people. I shake my head and try and get myself centered, but the grain alcohol is really kicking in. I stumble to the floor, and just watch as it all unfolds.

Jon swipes the knife, slashing with no control, no aim, just waving it, hoping he catches flesh. He connects with the guy’s chest, and the jock’s shirt sprouts a clean hole and a gout of burbling crimson. The blood splatters onto Jon’s face, but you can barely tell; the guy’s fists made it plenty red already.

Jon slashes again, and again, but can’t see, can’t focus. The guy grabs Jon’s wrist, and with a clean motion wrenches the razor-sharp blade from his fingers. No grunting, no sound, just like the crowd. He grips the knife overhand, blade facing down. And then that’s that. Jon doesn’t stand a chance. The jock’s arms fall like a piston, plunging the scalpel into Jon’s ribcage.

“NOOOOOOO!” I shout. Apparently, this is enough to shake the rest of the spectators from their apathy. They all fall on the big guy at once, pulling him off of Jon. He must have had a good grip on the knife, because when they yank him up, the scalpel comes with him. Blood gushes out of the wound in Jon’s chest, and he starts gasping. The guy looks down at his hands as if he can’t believe what just happened, then runs out of the apartment. Nobody stops him.

“Shit,” I say. “Shit!” The sudden realization of what’s happening, what’s about to happen, hits me. People say that adrenaline sobers you up immediately, but I think they’re full of it. All it does is mix with the booze and make me even more confused. I crawl over to where Jon is laying, blood pooling around his chest and head.

“What…oh god, what do I do?” The metallic tang fills my nose, overpowering the smoke and sweat, making me gag. Blood seeps around my fingers, growing sticky as I try desperately to tear Jon’s shirt off, to at least see the wound. My head is spinning, pounding, the alcohol and sensations and disorientation crashing together into a hammer battering at my already wearied mind. “Jon, you have to help me! Help me help you! This is your thing! Tell me what to do!”

But he doesn’t. He has this look of…calm. Like he knows what’s up, and he’s not afraid. He grabs at my shirt, but doesn’t quite have the strength to grip it. I lean down close to him.

He looks up at me and whispers one word: “Again.”

His eyes go loose, the light fades out of them; the fuzzy non-stare of the newly dead.

I scream, then everything goes dark.

***

My alarm goes off, and I’m awake. Some time after eight o’clock. Seems like it’s been going off for a while. I turn off my alarm before it wakes up my roommate, though there’s little worry there. I glance over at Jonathan’s bed. He’s gone already, like usual. It’s Thursday, my heaviest classload day, so I should really get a move on. A feeling niggles at the back of my mind. Like a bad dream that you can’t quite remember, that creeps at your subconscious and spoils your whole day. I ignore it. The day’s too busy to worry about something so insubstantial.

I pick up a black t shirt from the floor and give it a sniff. Hm. No. I dig a flannel button-down shirt out of my dresser and throw it on. I open my wallet, check for cash. Nine dollars. Should be enough for coffee and breakfast. I pull on my Chucks and a pair of jeans and stuff my wallet in the pocket.

Walking the concrete path from the dorms out to the town at large, and it hits me. That disorienting feeling, the one I felt this morning, washes over me. Stronger this time, making my eyes water and unfocus. I can’t describe it. It’s… it’s as if some kind of gray nothing is spreading, overtaking everything, the color washing out of the world. Except not literally, it’s more like…like the soul is draining out of reality, and ice crystals are feathering through in its place, cold and empty, an endless fractal pattern repeating over and over again, spiraling in and down. I blink and it’s gone. The fuck? I shrug it off. I don’t have time for this.

I order my coffee, eat my cinnamon roll. I’ve got plenty of time before class.

The day is pretty uneventful. Great Questions, Postmodernism, an intensive class on Kierkegaard and one called East vs West: Perspectives on Epistemology and Reason. Yeah, not everyone’s idea of a good time, but I enjoy it. Not sure what I’m gonna do with it, but…

After class, I run into Jonathan. He’s just getting out of his pre-med classes and flags me down. He brushes his shiny blonde curls out of his eyes, and flashes a bright smile. God, he’s such a pretty boy. But he’s never been smug about it like most guys like that are. I want to hate him for his good looks, his easy charisma, but he’s just so damn nice, I end up liking him like everyone else.

“Scott!” he says. “How’s it goin?”

“Not too bad. Got a paper assigned on epistemology. Twenty pages, due next week.”

Jon’s eyebrows twist in a quizzical expression. “I feel like I should know what that word means.”

“It’s a branch of philosophy that deals with theories of knowledge and about what it means to know. How do we know things, how can we prove that what we know is justified, how–”

“Yeah yeah, that’s great,” he says, obviously losing interest. “Hey look, man. I get that you’ve been working your ass off. Max hours this semester, that’s really gotta be taking a toll, right?”

“I…” I pause. I’m not sure. Is it? I feel like it should, but I actually can’t remember. “I guess.”

“I tell you what,” he says. “There’s this party tonight.”

“On a Thursday?”

“Yes, on a Thursday. You gonna let me finish?”

I hold up my hands in a “go for it” gesture.

“So there’s this party tonight. Rachel’s throwing it.”

Rachel? Jon’s friend. Nursing school. I’ve always thought she… It hits me again. That forgotten dream feeling. What is this? It’s not as strong as it was this morning, but there it is. This almost-dizzy sensation. It’s like mentally falling down a flight of stairs, this feeling of vertigo, of a near-weightlessness, tumbling towards the inevitable stop. A path I’ve been set on, and couldn’t change if I tried.  I open my mouth to say no. I hate parties. But then, for some reason, my head starts nodding “yes.”

“Great! See you there!” Jon claps me on the back and jogs off towards the Sciences building. I stand there on the path, feeling…not lost. The opposite of lost, but with the same sense of hopelessness. Gravity is pulling me down the stairwell, and all I can do is protect my vitals as I plummet to the bottom.

***

That night, there I am. Shitty apartment complex. People. Weed smoke and sweat fumes. Sophomore hands me a drink. I sniff at it, then hand it to some random person. I think I’d rather not tonight.

This…feels familiar. Not just “walking the same path to class” familiar. A different kind of familiar. Déjà vu, or something like it. The feeling I’ve been at this exact place. I mean, things aren’t exactly the same, but they’re close enough. Sorority girls, Bitcoin, guy with snake. It’s like a rerun of a show I know I haven’t seen, but I know it’s a rerun. Like even though I’ve never watched it, I know that millions of people have, millions of times. It’s this stretching sensation, like my muscles trying to walk one way while my skin walks another. Jesus. Maybe Jonathan’s right. Maybe I have been working too hard.

“Scott!”

I turn to see who called me. It’s Rachel. I can see her hopping up and down, trying to see me over the heads of dozens of people somehow crammed into this tiny apartment. I make my way to the kitchenette where she’s standing. She’s leaning on the counter, next to a salad spinner and a knife block with half of the knives missing.  

“Hey Rachel!” I say, with  more enthusiasm than I actually feel.

She stretches out her arms, seemingly for a hug. I just stand there. She puts her arms down.

“*ahem* Well, it’s nice to see you here. Jonathan said you might be coming. I’m glad you did.”

“Yeah, I thought about just staying back at the dorm to study, but…” Why did I come out? I guess it was to see Rachel. But as much as it excited me earlier, I’m just not feeling it. The half-forgotten dream memory wafts up into the back of my mind.

“Hold on,” I say. The back of my neck starts to itch. Like something is about to happen. I turn, make my way through the crowd. I hear a sound like someone smacking a turkey with a baseball bat. This giant jock-looking asshole has sucker punched Jon, and he falls to the ground. I watch for a moment as he just pounds on Jon’s face. Jon reaches into his pocket.

I don’t know why, but I decide now is the time to act. I run up to the altercation. I think about trying to yank him off of Jon, but a thought comes out of nowhere, telling me that he’ll be too strong for that. So instead, I plant a foot on the carpet and aim a kick at the guy’s neck. He goes tumbling away, but the shove takes my balance. I stagger and then trip, falling over Jon. The breath is knocked out of me, but overall I feel okay. Just a little pain in my chest. I stand up, but my legs decide to ignore the instruction, crumpling underneath me instead. What the hell? I look down, and blood is leaking out, soaking my flannel. I look to Jon, and he has a scalpel in his hand. Where the hell did he get that? No, it’s obvious he got it from one of his anatomy labs. But why does he have it here? And…god, I feel so cold.

I try to breathe, but it feels like someone’s standing on my chest. I fall. My back is on the floor. The hit didn’t feel so bad before, like a weak punch, but now it’s agony. Each time I breathe in it feels like I’m sucking in fire. Not that I’ll have to worry about that for long; each breath gets shorter and shorter. Rachel is standing over me, saying things I can’t hear.  I feel… distant. Like this is happening on TV and I’m just watching it. Jon gets up. Walks over to me. He leans down close. He doesn’t seem worried. That should be reassuring, but instead it chills me. The edges of my vision start to go black, narrowing onto one point. I…can’t see anything except his face, Jon’s face, hovering over me. All the sounds around me are so tinny and hollow, but his voice is clear as a bell:

“Again.”

***

My phone alarm finally reaches my ears and I slowly awaken. I grab the phone and check the time. It’s after eight. Good thing Jon usually doesn’t sleep in, otherwise the alarm might…

No. There’s something happening here. Not just something, this sense that it’s the same thing. A déjà vu, or something like it; something worse. It’s too much. It’s like being buried in quicksand, going under, under, the swampy stuff filling my mouth, my nose, my eyes. I feel like crying, but I feel so constricted that I can’t even manage that. There’s a weight, pressing all around me, and I’m sure that if I can just figure out what the hell it is, it’ll go away. For some reason, I think of that Weezer song. If you want to destroy my sweater, hold this thread as I walk away… The sweater is strangling me, I just need to find a thread and pull it, and this…whatever will unravel.

I’m paralyzed. Not really, but I just can’t seem to will myself to get out of bed. So I stay there. I know that it’s Thursday, and most of my classes are today, but I can’t bring myself to care. I don’t read. I don’t watch videos on my phone. I don’t masturbate to relieve the boredom like I might on a normal day. Because when it comes down to it, this doesn’t feel like a normal day, even though everything about it feels so mundane.

I think through all my philosophy classes. Is there anything that’s remotely like what I’m experiencing here? There’s Solipsism, the belief that oneself is the only thing that exists, and all of reality is a figment of one’s own imagination. No, that’s a crap philosophy, utterly unsatisfying as an argument, because it’s impossible to prove or disprove. Plus, it just doesn’t feel right. Anything else? Not really. Philosophy teaches you how to think. They don’t prepare you for what happens when you feel like you can’t. Maybe I should have majored in Psych instead, this seems more in that realm.

So I just lay there. All day. Thinking, puzzling, rolling this thing around in my head. My back and neck are sore, my legs go tingly from lack of motion. The blankets feel hot and cloying, but I just leave them where they are. Around five or so, Jon comes back from class.

“Scott!” he says, friendly as usual. “How goes it? You usually don’t miss class.”

“Feel like shit today,” I tell him. It’s not a lie.

“You feeling sick or something? Cold? Flu?” He reaches out a hand as if to feel my forehead. I bat it away.

“No, nothing like that. Just…couldn’t do it today.”

“Ah,” he says. “‘Mental health day’ as they call it. Dude, I totally get it. Hey, y’know what might pick you up? You should get out. Have a little fun.”

“A party,” I say. Not sure why I would say that. How would I know what he’s talking about? But for the first time today, the quicksand feeling starts to loosen. The sweater feels like it’s not as tight.

“Actually yeah. That’s exactly what I was thinking. Rachel is throwing–”

“I’ll be there.”

***

Here I am. Apartment complex. Snake. Bitcoin. Sophomore hands me a drink. I take it and toss it back, then ask for another. I down that too, and take a third. I get a feeling I’m going to need it. I can’t put my finger on why, but I just do.

I head straight for the kitchenette. Rachel is there. She turns around and smiles. I don’t smile back. She’s leaning on the counter, and there’s a knife block by her left hand. She’s brushing the wood with her fingers, seemingly trying to find the right words to say.

I chug the rest of my drink. You’d think that it would cloud my mind, the fug of booze dulling my senses. And it does, but it does something else. It starts to strip away my anxiety, my troubled surface thoughts, peeling them away like paint thinner lifting pigments. All the accreted crud of daily life dissolving, leaving only the deep, core thoughts. Just like a lot of the greats. Hell, I think I read somewhere that Albert Camus was blitzed out of his mind when he wrote the Myth of Sisyphus.

Sisyphus. Why does that seem important?

I can feel it. A thread, one minuscule little thing sticking out, something that can guide me through this mental labyrinth I’ve been stuck in all day. I pull it.

Sisyphus, the tragic Greek figure. Died and sent to Hades for eternal punishment, forced to roll a boulder up a hill. It would take him all day, and he would sweat and strain, only for it to fall to the bottom at dusk. Then the next morning, he would repeat the process, and again every day for all of his miserable afterlife. Camus imagines that Sisyphus is happy, because he’s accepted his lot. He’s accepted the absurdity of the situation, knows that it’s unchangeable, and so is happy, knowing that he’s where he’s supposed to be.

But something always bothered me about that story. Why? Why would he just accept it? I mean, Sisyphus is dead, he’s in Hades, but Greek heroes enter and leave Hades all the time. So what’s stopping him from just…walking away? Leaving his boulder where it is and just doing his own thing? Or better yet, why doesn’t he trudge his cursed ass right up Mount Olympus and spit in Zeus’s immortal face? Demand a gods-damned explanation? What’s making him accept his fate? I’m getting closer, the thread is there, my grip on it is tightening. I can feel the resistance, but one solid tug ought to do it.

What if…

What if he didn’t know? What if he didn’t realize that it was his fate? What if he just woke up, with a sense that he was supposed to roll his boulder, and then just did it? And then woke up the next day and did it again? What if he accepted it because he couldn’t remember anything else? What would that feel like?

Like déjà vu, probably. Or something like it.

The thread pulls, and pulls, and the sweater unravels. The quicksand dissipates, the clogged passageways clear. Finally I can see it, the pattern, how all the pieces fit together. I understand. It’s the only thing that makes any sense.

It’s time to drop my boulder and spit on a god.

Rachel opens her mouth to say something, but I shove her out of the way. Her hand knocks over the knife block and a huge kitchen knife slides out onto the counter. I’m glad I had those drinks, because I don’t know if I’d have the courage to do what I’m about to do otherwise.

I grab the knife and stalk into the living room.

“Piss off, asshole!” I hear from one of the clusters of people. Jon’s voice. Talking to that jock troglodyte, and…there he is. The big monster man is clenching up, preparing for the assault that I know is coming. Before he can do it, I come up behind him and drag the knife over his throat. Blood, dark crimson in the low light of the apartment, spurts from his neck. He falls to the floor, hands grasping at the wound. Jon gapes at the man I just killed, then looks to me. His eyes dart back and forth for a few moments as if he can’t believe what just happened.

“Scott, what the f–”

I don’t let him finish. I grab him by the shirt and press the knife to his throat. Everyone at the party crowds around, wanting to stop this insane scene, but not wanting to get too close.

“Cut the shit,” I say. “I don’t know what this is, or how it’s happening, or how you’re involved, but this stops.”

Jon looks around, takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes, and nods once. Everyone in the apartment stops what they’re doing, stands up straight, and goes stock still. Like they’re robots or something. For all I know they might be. My blood runs cold at the sight.

“Okay, Scott,” he says. He puts his hands up in the universal “I give up” move.

“Tell me what the fuck is going on here,” I say.

“Can you take the knife away first? Nobody here will hurt you, I won’t hurt you.” His conversational tone, the one I always hear him speak with, is gone. He sounds like…almost like a professor teaching a class.

“I don’t think so,” I say. “I’ve seen you take a knife before. I think you can manage.” Flashes of memory flit across my mind, of Jon being stabbed, slashed, punctured. Eyes, throat, chest, arms. How am I seeing this?

“Alright, Scott. That’s fine. Whatever makes you feel comfortable.”

I try to lick my lips, but my tongue is like sandpaper. I speak anyway.

“This is all a lie,” I say. “You, that neanderthal, R….Rachel. I’ve lived this day over and over. None of this is real.”

As I say it, all the memories come crashing in at once. Memories of this one day, lived over and over, different thoughts and choices and actions, different starting points, but all the same endpoint, all of them laid on top of each other like paintings on panes of glass. Dozens, hundreds, maybe more. My brain strains at the task of parsing it all out.

Jon shakes his head. “No, no. You’ve got the basic idea, but this is real.”

Real? What is real? I don’t even know anymore, don’t know how I could know if I tried. Time to ask the question.

“How long have I been here?”

Jon sighs, as if he doesn’t want to answer. “That’s a hard question to answer. Concepts like ‘when’ and ‘where’ don’t have as much meaning–”

“Drop the Doctor Who bullshit. How long?” I press the knife into his neck, can feel it bite through flesh. But no blood comes. It’s like cutting into rubber. I’ve seen him bleed before, so why isn’t he now? Can he control it? What is he?

“I don’t really have a way to answer that.”

“Okay then, how many times have I done this? Lived this day?”

Jon’s eyes dart away.

“How many!?” I scream. Tears sting at my eyes. My voice cracks. I tell myself it’s because my throat feels raw, from exertion, from drink. I almost believe it.

He hesitates. “Eighteen thousand, five hundred twenty two.”

I finally let go of his shirt. Drop the knife. Eighteen thousand…that’s over fifty years. Of this.

“So what is this? Is this…Hell or something?”

“Hell,” Jon says. “That’s a new one. Usually you say ‘dream,’ or ‘coma.’ You even once accused me of ripping off that Keanu Reeves movie.”

“Which one?” I ask, the desperate attempt at humor falling flat.

Jon smiles, and for a moment, I get a glimpse of the man I knew. Or thought I knew. “I said the same thing.”

“So which is it?” I ask.

No answer. I try a different tack. “New one… So I’ve figured this out before?”

“Yes.”

“How many times?”

“About a dozen.”

My mind is tumbling in circles. I can barely comprehend what’s happening.

“How…?” I start, but can’t quite finish the sentence.

“I’m not entirely certain. Perhaps the collected memories build up and reach critical mass. Perhaps it just takes a certain set of circumstances for you to analyze it in the right way. But every so often, you do realize.”

“That it’s not real,” I say. My stomach feels like it’s about to implode, a feeling that has nothing to do with the three heavy drinks I just downed. In fact, since starting this conversation, I don’t even feel drunk anymore. It’s as if I’ve been rebooted. The realization doesn’t help. It just feels like another kick to my oversaturated brain, like I’ve been robbed of a legitimate bad decision.

“I’ve told you already, this is real.”

“But what is it?”

I’m expecting him to say something like “your mind wouldn’t understand” or “I’m not permitted to say,” or some other kind of incomprehensible bullshit. But he doesn’t. Jon just stands there. He can’t answer, or he won’t. My mind is whirling, spinning, struggling to take in what I’m experiencing.

Then something catches the edge of my thoughts. There, in the back. A question, tickling, itching. Starts small, but then it grows, like a tumor, and every bit as malignant. I’m afraid to even look at it, to recognize it. I don’t want to give it any attention, because then I’ll have to acknowledge it, what it means. I’m terrified to ask the question, but it comes tumbling from my lips before I can stop it.

“Who am I? Is Scott even my real name?”

No answer. Just that same passive stare. I grab his shirt in both hands and shake him.

“IS IT!?”

Jon takes both my arms in his hands. I’m about to shake him again, but his movements are so…gentle. Less like a professor now, and more like a parent to a child. He takes my hands off of his shirt and lowers them. I let him. He still doesn’t speak, but he gestures to my pocket. To my wallet. Hands shaking, I reach in and pull out the little fold of leather. I open it. I check this thing every day, always look in it for cash, for my breakfast of coffee and cinnamon roll, but I never look at what’s staring me in the face. The ID.

Scott Free.

That’s not a real name. Nobody names their kid that. Nobody names themselves that. I…I can’t…

I feel my knees hit the floor. The party full of people are still standing around, statues, sentries, columns in a temple of…whatever this is. My mouth is like a desert, but somehow I find the will to speak.

“So I’ve done all this before. Learned…this.”

“Yes.”

“And me figuring it out won’t stop it? Won’t end it?” I know the answer, but I ask anyway. Tears prick at my eyes again as the desperate hopelessness dawns on me.

“I’m afraid not.”

“But why…” My voice catches as a sob bubbles its way out of my throat.

“Because that’s how it is.” He kneels down next to me. There’s a look on his face that’s…not pity, but something like it. He goes blurry as tears spread a haze over my vision. “I understand it’s hard. But maybe things will be different when you try it again next time.”

“Again…” I say. Everything goes black.

 

***

 

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. My eyes sticky with sleep, I fumble for the device. It’s after eight. Good thing my roommate isn’t here, or I’d catch it from him. I tap the screen and turn off the incessant chirping, then swing my legs over the edge of the bed. It’s Thursday, which means I have a long day ahead of me.