Page 91 of Kiss Slay Replay

My skull feels like it’s shrinking and I’m nauseous. The aftermath of drinking before noon.

I shuffle into the kitchen for water, grab a mug I’m pretty sure is clean, and fill it from the tap. The clock on the microwave says it’s 3:07 p.m.

That can’t be right. “Did the power go out? Is that why people are outside?”

I flip on the light. If it did go out, it’s back on. So, what’s everyone outside for?

I yawn and double back to my laptop, press the space bar. It’s dead.

I plug it in and wait, chewing on my nails. I think of Steph. I hope she’s on the dance floor right now, twirling in her jumpsuit to Whitney Houston. I hope Jace is picking her up and tossing her over his shoulder, parading her around like he did back in college. I hope Wyatt is grooving, Evan rolling his eyes. I hope Luke is stoned out of his mind and Cass is rapturously drunk, that they’re getting the fun night away they deserve.

I’m sure Ravi has noticed that I’m not there. I wonder if he’s relieved. Or worried. I wonder if he cares at all.

His voice is in my head, louder than the throb of my headache. Stop. I’m sorry. I’m sorry! You’re right. You were right. About us. About everything. Come back.

There are no other timelines. No alternate universes. There’s only this.

Give me time. I need time. Funny because I have all the time in the world, and no time at all. I have forever, and only one day. Hours cut short by some looming horror.

My laptop wakes up, the screen brightening.

They’re not dancing at the wedding because the wedding hasn’t even started yet.

It’s 3:11 p.m. The clock on the microwave wasn’t wrong. It’s the middle of the afternoon.

Why is it this dark in the middle of the afternoon?

2

The headlines tell me nothing. No one knows what’s happening.

Whatever the hell is going on, it’s not just concentrated to the wedding. It’s the whole fucking world.

Or maybe just my world?

Maybe this all only exists in my reality, and the hurt and horror and dying is restricted to my experience?

Archimedes whimpers, and I understand that no, others are still experiencing this alongside me. It’s not just me who’s trapped; everyone else is trapped, too. They’re suffering, too. Only they won’t remember when the day resets. I’m alone in that.

Because it is somehow tied to me. It must be.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I refresh all the news sites.

There are conflicting theories. A catastrophic solar storm. An atmospheric anomaly. Russia. Chemical warfare. My heart beats hard and fast. I press my hands to my chest trying to contain it.

I close my eyes and see gas masks. Mass casualties. My friends dressing up in their wedding best only to choke on fumes. I see blistered skin. Chemical burns. Shriveled eyes in gaping sockets.

“This is bullshit,” I say, again refreshing my browser. “Why is this happening to me? I’m not a criminal. I’m not evil. I’m not the worst person in the world.”

Archimedes huffs from the closet.

“Thanks a lot, Archie.” New headline. Multiple reports of meteors and meteor showers. Utah. Nevada. Alaska. Iceland. Australia. Japan. “Is this an apocalypse scenario? Seems like overkill. I get it. I’m going to die in the loop no matter where I go. Point taken.”

I get up and fetch Archie from the closet. He allows me to pick him up. He burrows into my chest, and I stroke the extra soft spots under his ears. We sit on the bed, and I hit refresh.

A video pops up. Shaky cell phone footage recorded out of a car window, of a plane falling out of the sky and crashing into a distant field. Autoplay. Another video, this one taken from the Asbury Park Boardwalk down the shore, an hour south of me. Multiple planes dropping into the ocean. Autoplay. A plane taking out the London Eye.

“Um…” The page goes blank.