Kill Me, Kiss Me

FOURTEEN

    AIR burst within him, and he gasped, jolting upwards.

"I'm sorry --" A woman's voice trailed off into the stale space, "Theo, are you alright?" Pale fingers stretched forwards towards him across the table.

Theo's heart continued to hammer within his chest, pounding as if it was trying to tear his arteries out of his ribcage and ultimately, his muscle and skin. Magda's exquisite face faded in and out, red lips blurring into her pearly skin and large eyes.    
He was back.    

He was truly back in time again.

"Theo?" Her chair rattled back, and she leaned across, "Theo, you don't look too well."

How did this happen? How come he's sitting here, across this woman again? Before, yes before, he had been in the car with Alexandr, and it had tipped over a barrier, down? And so... he had died? Was that it? And now, he's somehow back before it all took place.

He glanced up dazedly, tracing the lines of Magda's faded face.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" Her lips drew taunt with worry, "Are you feeling dizzy? Nauseous?" She rounded the table, stretching out a hand towards his forehead.

Theo shook his head, catching her wrist, "No, I think... I'm fine. Didn't you have something you needed to take care of?"

She dropped her arm tightly and stroked her phone, looking away, "Ah, yes... I do have to go."

    Her back straightened, and she looked up at him with piercing clarity, shedding the muted hesitancy she had just a second previous, "I really enjoyed the dinner, it was very good talking to you. You don't look too well, take care of yourself, I'll check in with you later. Oh, and do remember what I've told you tonight." She smiled softly, "Stay safe."

    Casting a whirlwind behind her, she turned with flair and strode away, heels knocking on the polished floor, a perfect mimicry of the tick of the clock - clack, click, clack, click, clack, quieter and quieter, but still present. Even when he caught her image sliding into her car, in his mind, the rhythm carried on.

    Theo grasped the glass stalk of his wineglass tightly, pressing the coldness into his skin, imprinting the sharp sting into the memory of his flesh. He was still alive. This sting, this pain, it was clarity, it was undeniable proof. But what really had happened? He couldn't make sense of anything. One moment everything was falling around him in weightless reverie, darkness enclosing in on him, and the next he was here, sitting at this table, drinking wine, eating, talking.

    So, what was it that had transpassed between now and then?

    He tipped his head back against the hard seat and took a series of deep breaths. Think, this was what he was best at. This had happened once before. Why had it happened then? He had been running with Mariah down the street, bang! She had fallen before him, blood spattering across his cheek, the men had seen him, he had tried to run, and... he had found himself in front of the elevator at the office. The men, they had said something—

    "There's one more besides the target."

    "You know the protocol."

    They had a gun; he had tried to run. A cold finger trailed down his spine, dispelling all heat that the wine had collected inside his stomach as the frightening sentiment came to coherence. What were the chances of him outrunning a mercenary who had a gun? And this time, he had hijacked the car, and it had gone swerving straight through the lane, through a barrier, down into the abyss. What were the chances of him surviving a car accident like that?