Page 90 of Kiss Slay Replay

The apartment is quiet, save for Archimedes softly purring beside me in hopes he’ll get some of my McDonald’s.

“Cats shouldn’t have McDonald’s,” I tell him, giving him a tiny bit of bacon. “This is bad. All of this is bad. Everything is bad.”

He disagrees. A taste of bacon, and he’s a different animal. Loving and snuggly.

“No more,” I tell him, gathering any uneaten food and putting it back in the bag for later. I’m looking forward to cold McDonald’s, which just goes to show how close I am to hitting rock bottom.

The day stretches out in front of me, empty and chillingly uncertain. The days I’ve put behind me replay in my head. Every kiss, every kill. Every death. Theirs. Mine. Ours.

I am so fucking tired. Dangerously tired. I feel hollow. I feel completely untethered. Completely alone.

I pull Archie close and set up my laptop at the foot of the bed.

“What should we watch?” I ask him.

I can’t stomach a drama or romance or comedy. Definitely not a rom-com, though I briefly consider Groundhog Day for recon, out of sheer curiosity, but Bill Murray just seems like a real asshole and, personally, I can’t get past it.

I hover my cursor over Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

It’s not what I should be watching, because it would sure be a coincidence if my recent foray into horror media had nothing to do with the fact that I’m stuck in a specifically horror-themed time loop.

But it’s the only thing. It’s all I want. To watch a bunch of unsuspecting strangers meet some cruel fate and sit here day-wasted mumbling condolences. Maybe I’m retraumatizing myself. Or desensitizing. Or maybe it’s just nice to watch it happen to someone other than me and the people I love. To know that it’s fiction. That whatever the horror is, it isn’t real. The credits will roll and everything will be fine. It will be fine. It will be fine.

I know in my weary bones it’s the one thing in the world right now that will make me feel better, make me feel less alone. So I hit play.

—

I jolt awake on a wet pillow. It’s soaked in whiskey-scented drool. My laptop is at my feet, the screen black.

It’s dark outside.

I must have fallen asleep. I must have slept through the whole day.

I reach for my phone to check the time, but it’s off and I’m too overcome with dread to turn it on. I can’t imagine the venomous messages I must have from Cass. From Evan. Though, Evan probably isn’t mad. He’ll just have lost respect for me that I won’t be able to get back, which might be worse.

The possibility that I could be stuck in this timeline doesn’t exactly make me feel great. I get my cigarettes out of my bag and light one. It’s an earned luxury—smoking in bed. I lean against my damp pillow. Archimedes howls in protest of my contaminated exhale, scurrying into the closet.

“I’m a bad mother. I know.”

I feel too guilty to keep dirtying the air. I put the cigarette out in my mug from earlier, which has the tiniest sip of whiskey coffee left.

“I’m sorry, Archie.” I drag my ass out of bed to the bathroom so I can shower off the smell of cigarettes and liquor and fast-food grease.

There are voices outside. My street isn’t sleepy, but it’s never quite this loud. The words are muffled, but the tone is distinct. It’s a tone I know deep in my caveman DNA. Something’s wrong. I move to the windows and peer down.

There are way too many people out on the sidewalk. Cars double-parked. General commotion. Everyone looks up.

For one terrible second, I think it’s at me. Then I realize they’re looking past me. Up at the sky. I press my face to the windowpane and crane my neck to get a better view.

The sky is clotted with thick gray clouds. They’re strangely fluffy. They strangle the moonlight, any starlight. It’s dark. Everyone seems very concerned about it, which makes me concerned about it.

I can hear Archie quietly complaining from the closet. He hisses, which he never does.

“What is it? What are they looking at? A plane? Helicopter? Wouldn’t I hear it? Do you hear it?” I ask Archie. “Why is an aircraft so fascinating?”

Different fears manifest in different ways. This fear is cold. It pricks the soles of my feet and scales up my body, my skin erupting in goose bumps. “I don’t like this.”

I knew there was a possibility that the horrors would persist even if I skipped the wedding, but I think I dissociated to the point of not actually accepting that possibility.