Once again, you failed to save someone very precious to you. What a shame. You won’t be able to escape this day until you save them.
“I had the weirdest dream last night,” Stan said, half-chewed lasagna in his mouth.
Marie tilted her head, listening, but kept her eyes on the salad she was pushing around her plate.
“I can’t remember how it ended, something about pink squares, but it’s like I’ve been stuck in deja vu all day – even you making this lasagna for me.”
“That is weird”, Marie said in the pause while he swallowed.
“And Perkins at the office – I felt certain he was going to blow the presentation, so I brought a backup on a flash drive. Earned some serious points with the boss today,” he shoveled the last of his food in to his mouth.
“That’s great, honey,” Marie’s smile was tired, but Stan didn’t notice. She cleared the plates and brought him another beer. “I’m going to take a bath.”
It would be twenty minutes before he realized the bath’s faucet was still running. From then, it took him 30 seconds to walk anxiously toward the bathroom. Three more seconds to realize the carpet was wet. Two that the door was locked. An agonizing ten to break open the door to the all-white bathroom. His legs trembled and he stepped onto wet, pink tiles.
Stan’s eyes snapped open two minutes before his alarm. Marie was asleep, curled on her side and facing away from him. He watched her breath as it came and went.
What is happening to me? Stan wondered. He touched her hair and she shuddered slightly and inched further away, but Stan didn’t notice. Was it just a dream or… or a premonition?
Beep beep be- Marie hit the buzzer, rolled out of bed, and started down the hall to the kitchen.
“Hey, what if I call in today?” he asked. Marie, in her faded nightgown, stopped in the hallway. “We could have some fun,” he continued. “Go to the movies, or catch a baseball game, or something. What do you say?”
“What about your big presentation?” she said. Her voice sounded far away.
“Perkins can handle things this once without me. I’ll text him,” he smiled. I don’t know how this is happening, but I can fix this. I can make this all better.
Marie’s expression was inscrutable. “Ok. I’ll make breakfast and then we can go.”
At the movies, he let her pick and didn’t say a word about how the triteness of the romantic comedy’s plot. When she cried at the end, he held her hand. Out shopping, he told her to pick out whatever she wanted and never let his gaze stray to the young, attractive saleswoman. His cellphone, set to silent, buzzed. Perkins, he was sure, but he didn’t look. Stan’s eyes were for Marie. At dinner, in her new dress, they ordered lasagna. He had a beer. She drank a glass of wine and laughed shyly at his bad jokes. Stan felt like a teenager again, grinning ear to ear. He knew there would be hell to pay at work, but he would deal with that tomorrow. They went home, made love, and fell asleep early.
The sound of running water woke him. Ten seconds to the door across soggy carpet. He knew it was locked before he arrived. Five seconds of viscious kicking to open the door. He didn’t call her name. Rose-colored waterfalls over the side of the tub.
5:58. Stan’s eyes snapped open. Marie was asleep, curled on her side as though braced against a freezing wind. Her breath rose and fell, shallow and trembling. He reached out for her hair, but stopped short. His fingers curled to a fist and his body shuddered as the dream of yesterday washed over him.
Why? Why is this happening to me? What else could I possibly do? He lay frozen as the alarm went off, as Marie got up and went to start breakfast. There were tears on her pillow, but Stan didn’t notice. He showered and shaved as though in a daze, the tap still running. He nicked his throat. A drop of blood fell to the white sink. A crimson ribbon for an instant, then gone. His head swam. His knees went weak. He lunged toward the toilet and vomited bile.
When he looked back up, Marie was standing there in her faded nightgown.
“Oh, Stan. Let me help you,” she said, her voice gentle, her arms outstretched, her spirit absent.
Something hot and black in the pit of his stomach heaved upward. Stan thought that he was going to vomit again, but instead, his legs shot him forward, his hand grabbed Marie by the throat, slamming her head hard against the white wall. The sink was overflowing.
“Stan…” Marie gasped, eyes wet, wide, and trembling, “why… why are you…”
“You want to die, right?! ISN’T THIS WHAT YOU WANT?!” he roared. Shock, confusion, then misery rippled across her face. Stan slammed Marie’s head against the sink, and left her a puddle on the floor, his chest heaving in his rage. Red diluted to pink in a corona around her head.
5:58. Stan’s eyes snapped open.