Every day felt the same – the pressing crowds on the subway, the same coffee in my thermos, and the same conversations. Life was routine, and the predictability was my only solace. Until the day it wasn’t.
It began, as all days did, with my alarm’s grating buzz. Groggily, I shut it off and followed the monotony of my morning routine. I left for work, and the city swallowed me whole, guiding me to the subway platform. The screech of the train and the murmur of conversations surrounded me. But today, there was a growing feeling, like a song I couldn’t shake.
I walked into my office building, and Janet, our ever-smiling receptionist, chirped, “Late again, Alexander? Mr. Walters won’t be happy.” A wave of confusion washed over me. That was what she’d said yesterday. Trying not to think too much about it, I headed to my desk.
Lunchtime rolled around, and to my astonishment, everyone started setting up for Ben’s surprise birthday. My jaw dropped. We’d just celebrated it…yesterday. Feeling a mix of confusion and panic, I approached Daniel, my colleague and friend. “Didn’t we do this yesterday?” I whispered, trying not to sound as unhinged as I felt.
He laughed, clapping me on the back, “Maybe you’re getting old, or you’re drinking too much after work. Every day’s a party for you, huh?”
My heart raced. The rest of the day went by in a blur. Every conversation, every comment, every sound, was a mirror of yesterday. It was as if the universe was playing a cruel joke on me.
That night, sleep eluded me. I tossed and turned, my mind a whirlwind. I tried convincing myself it was just exhaustion, maybe stress. Tomorrow would be different. It had to be.
But when I entered the office the next day, my stomach sank. Janet, with that same stain on her blouse, gave me her repeated warning about being late. I felt a rising dread. It was happening again. Desperate, I grabbed a random colleague, “What’s today’s date?”
He looked puzzled, “It’s April 7th. Why?”
But April 7th was yesterday. My mind screamed in horror.
Days turned into a torturous loop. Every morning, it was April 7th. No one else noticed; no one else remembered. It felt like a prison I couldn’t escape. My once comforting routine now strangled me.
Desperate, I tried changing things. I skipped work, shouted at strangers, tried talking, pleading with Janet. Nothing changed. The world was set on replay, and only I was out of sync.
Days, or maybe weeks later, in my despair, something different finally happened. As I slumped at my desk, lost in my thoughts, a whispered voice brought me back. “Wake up.”
I looked around and found one of my coworkers, Lydia, standing next to me, her face pale and eyes wide with terror.
“What did you just say?” I murmured, feeling my heart in my throat.
She looked around nervously and leaned closer, “Wake up, Alexander.”
I stared at her, disbelief mingling with hope. “You remember? You know what’s happening?”
She nodded, tears forming in her eyes, “Not here. Meet me after work.”
Hours felt like eons. As the sun began its descent, I found Lydia in a quiet corner of a nearby park.
“I don’t know how, but I remember,” she began, her voice shaking. “I remember every repeated day. But I can’t bear it any longer. I’ve tried telling others, but they don’t listen.”
We talked for hours, sharing our experiences, our fears. But the more we talked, the more I realized the haunting truth.
One evening, Lydia looked at me, her eyes searching mine. “You need to wake up, Alexander.”
“What do you mean? Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because this isn’t real. We’re not real. You’re somewhere else, trapped, and you need to find your way back.”
I felt like the earth was being pulled from under my feet. “This has to be some nightmare. I just need to wake up, and everything will be back to normal.”
Her voice became a whisper, “But what if normal isn’t what you think it is? What if you’re running from something so horrific that this loop is your escape?”
The thought sent chills down my spine. Was this some elaborate purgatory?
Days or maybe weeks went by. My desperation grew. I needed to break free. Lydia became my anchor, reminding me every day that I had to wake up. But how?
Then, one ‘morning,’ a memory hit me. The subway, the screeching of brakes, screams, flashing police lights. The weight of something heavy in my hand, and a trail of scarlet…
Horror coursed through me. The memories became vivid. I was running, the weight of guilt and fear driving me. I’d done something terrible. The faces of my victims haunted me, their screams echoing in my ears.
Lydia’s words made sense. I was in a coma, my mind creating this loop to protect me from the monstrous reality of my actions. But I couldn’t stay here forever.
With newfound determination, I tried to force myself awake. Every day, I focused on the memories, the feelings, trying to reconnect with reality. And every day, Lydia whispered her plea, “Wake up.”
One day, it worked. The world around me crumbled, and I woke up to the blinding white of a hospital room. My body ached, and the weight of my sins bore down on me.
As my eyes adjusted, I saw the stern faces of police officers and the disappointed looks of my family.
I was a murderer, trying to escape my crimes, and now, I had to face the consequences. The irony was not lost on me. My mind’s prison had been a kinder jail than the one that awaited me.