My gut-wrenching cry is muffled, as though I’m shouting through concrete walls and unable to get the fullness of it out of my lungs quick enough. Everything feels as though I’m experiencing a fever dream, like when your feet are glued to the spot and no matter how hard you try… you can’t move or run fast enough.
All I want is to get to him, so I use all the strength I have to fight through the mud and water and sprint as fast as I can to him, watching in devastation as his hand reaches for me. Whatever was holding me back before suddenly vanishes altogether and I’m finally able to get up and run.
So I do. I scramble as fast as I can up the small ditch of the lake. My feet feel heavy, like they’re encased in thick cement, but that doesn’t stop me fighting to get to him with all the strength I have left in me. Choked sobs scorch the skin inside my throat, and pain riddles through to the very marrow of my bones but I don’t stop.
I can’t.
He didn’t.
And neither will I.
“STAY HOME, HEATHER!!” he brokenly screams with the last bit of energy he has. “DON’T YOU DARE LEAVE THE HOUSE!!! NO MATTER—” He begins coughing profusely, choking on his own blood “DON’T… FORGET!!”
I release a cracked sob, crying out for him once more. “RICKY!!”
And just before I manage to reach him, a beam of light explodes between us and everything turns white.
“NO!” I bark loudly, stretching my arm towards the memory of her. The intense morning light shines in my pupils as they spring open in shock the moment I hit the soft carpeted floor of my bedroom. I scramble backward in fear until my back meets the far wall.
“Shit.” I huff nervously through the word as it seeps from my lips.
That’s never happened before.
Not during any of the two-hundred days I’ve relived so far, but what does it matter? I drag my knees towards me, resting my elbows on top of them—inhaling deeply to control my staccato breaths and rapid heartbeat. I run my fingers through my thick black hair, and sigh in frustration, punching my bedside table with as much force as I can muster.
I remember everything.
No matter how many days I’ve lived without her. That never changes. I’ve tried countless ways to save her life, to bring her back to me, and nothing has worked. I always wake up on October thirty-first, with the loss of her beside me. The drainingfeeling of knowing I have to go through it all over again but also not caring at the same time.
Because any chance I have to keep her alive will never be a hardship.
I just want her with me.
Need her with me.
“Alright,” I say to myself. “Get up, Ricky, let’s” —I push to stand and groan at the ache in my right side, rubbing it to somewhat ease the pain— “get the day started all over again.”
I stretch as best as I can, cracking my back at the same time, then walk the few steps towards my closet and drag open the door. I pull a pair of black jeans from the shelf to the right and put them on. Pairing them with my usual black Henley and black Chucks.
Just like… always.
I make sure everything is the same
From the clothes I wear, to the words I speak, and the food I eat.
Nothing changes. I repeat each day just as I remember. Because the more accurate the day is, the better chance I have of finding her in the graveyard. I wake up, in fear of changing even the most miniscule thing and possibly losing her forever.
Jogging down the flight of stairs towards the lower level of the house, I grip the end of the bannisters and swing myself around the edge and into the open-plan kitchen. Usually, I’d change my cereal once a week because I hate eating too much of the same thing, but for the past two hundred fucking days I’ve eaten a bowl of Lucky Charms.
I just had to pick the worst cereal on the worst day of my life.
I pour the cereal in a bowl, listening to the tiny pieces hit the ceramic of the bowl, turn around to open the fridge behind me, and—
“What the—” I pick up the usual carton of milk, realising… “Out of date?” I scowl to no one but myself. “What the fuck?”
“Oh my god!?” My mother’s cry of shock echoes from the living room, and I freeze, wondering if I might be hearing things, or the last two hundred days of repetitive motions have done something to my brain and I might genuinely be going insane.
Delicate sobs from inside the living room confirm I’m not the only person in the house, which isn’t normal either. Usually, my mother is at work until the afternoon on Halloween. I place the cereal bowl and its contents on the kitchen island and close the refrigerator before slowly making my way into the living area. The news caster’s words come through the speakers the closer I get to the other room.
