The Day

(3) My Love's Arising

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Chapter Three: My Love’s Arising

I startled awake, my heart racing. I didn’t even notice the crick in my neck anymore. What in the world happened last night? I mean, I know that Brent and I both died that night, but not literally together, holding hands! And not with the sappy love story ending like that, my mind telling me to tell him I love him, but just before I could, he dies. That’s so like some twisted version of The Notebook. And why am I sounding like a typical teenage girl trying to remember a hangover? Ugh, I need to get more sleep.

I finally look around my room, the sun blinding me, the same as yesterday. I once again glance at the clock, and see that it’s 8:45 am. I was getting up and getting dressed when something in the corner of my room catches my eye. An intricate and multi-colored crystal vase, with one single rose in it. I quickly finish putting on my shirt, and rush over to it, tripping on my rug on the way there. I gaze at the vase as if it was some wonder of the world. There’s no way, no way at all. That vase wasn’t there on the day of my birthday, the day of my death. Upon further investigation, I find that this rose has absolutely no thorns, and I furrow my brows in confusion. I try to pick off a petal, and I succeed, but another immediately grows back, confusing me even more.

I take one last look at the pedal and grabbed my bag, opening the door to reveal Mr. Meowsir, waiting just as he was yesterday, and instead of talking to him, I just rush to the kitchen, stopping by the garage to drop my bag off at the Bugatti, knowing I’d be able to take it again today.

Mr. Meowsir seemed to notice my ignoring him, which is also weird. Him and Brent, huh? This is getting stranger. I immediately go over to my mom, and she doesn’t notice me one bit. I even slap her, and there’s no reaction, so I do it a couple more times, even harder. Still, nothing. I look at the clock, I’m 2 minutes early, so I walk over to the pantry, and get Mr.Meowsir his dog food, and right at 9 am, I finally talk to my mom.

“Hey mom, how’d you sleep?” I ask carefully, reciting the script I had practiced for the past fifty-seven days, all of them the same.

“Like a baby,” she paused, looked over at a cabinet where my dog would usually be scratching, but instead, he was at his bowl, scarfing away his food. She still continued, “Say, do you mind getting that dog his food? I’m afraid I’ll have to send him to doggy boot camp if he scratches another of my cabinets.”

I didn’t know why, but what she says send me over the edge. “You know what?!? Why don’t you ever freaking do it yourself! You’re the one who bought him! I never asked for a dog! I never asked for this life!”

By the time I finish, I’m kneeling on the ground, doubled over from the pain of what I just said. Because I did ask for this, in a way. On the day of my death, my last thoughts were “I wish I could have just one more day.” And I did.

Some sick genie heard my wish, and granted it. Every day, I have to relive the day of my death, no way to change anything. It always ends the same way, Brent and I somehow ending up in the alley, and we get shot, but I always pass out before he dies, the last thing I see is him get shot.

Then, the next thing I know, I wake up, and it’s the morning of June 6th, 8:45 am. Ivellise and I always fight, Sarah and Brent always throw me a party, but sometimes it seems so new, because the memories of the day before are very murky. But not last night, that seems so etched into my brain, I could describe it forwards and backwards. I count the days by remembering the feeling of getting shot, and last night made it fifty-six.