Welcome to the end of your life. The mercy of your God can be estimated based on the strength and frequency of your bouts of déjà vu - how often does he let you reroll, when is spacetime peeled back for your benefit, has the universe accrued scar tissue at the joints of your life, the crossroads where your choices matter? How many times have you repeated a phrase - are you locked in a timeloop, tightly wound around your body’s deterministic failure to adapt? Are you waiting for quantum syzygy to free you from a sinister, ceremonious routine; the wood-panelled pentagonal basement, the thunder and wind, your cowardice, the skulls clattering to the pavement outside, scalps hanging from the power lines.
You are reminded of a snuff video in which a hired killer makes latte art using the fluids of his victims, white and red brushstrokes on the dark surface of the pond under which bodies twitch: a woman, a man, a preteen girl (their daughter?), an infant, hauled limp out from the trunk of a black van. They are drunk or sedated and except for the baby their struggles barely disturb the liquid illustrations of pandas, cats, and owls.
Furthermore, the mercy of a god directly corresponds to its form, running approximately from cthulhu (cold-hearted) to cherub (forgiving). While living your torments again and again and again and again may not seem beneficent, the tentacled alternative is an arrow straight to death.
Do you feel as though your life is accelerating toward its end? Are the days passing faster and faste
Can you feel time slipping from betw
The thrum of the generator over the fault, which was displaced by an earthquake 300 miles to the south, disturbs the vibrationally sensitive, many-whiskered titan slumbering below: a sliver of its power crawls up the shaft and out from the pipes wearing a malleable humanoid skinsuit and slaughters the bungalow’s inhabitants as they sleep, stuffing the smashed generator and their bodies (all six of them) into the linen closet before returning to the chasm. There are no redos.
Dead but conscious inside the closed circuit, the labyrinth, the great happenstance collider. I will never fade back into the universe because these events cannot be escaped without regret, without spilling the blood necessary to summon the being that resets the situations. I watch him die again.
Your own suicide denied as your friends drop dead, each corpse another stitch tethering you to consciousness. The pills don’t work; you wake up yesterday.
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