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“The sixth time I was murdered that week was probably the least painful, but it was also the most personal.”

Isaac Menchaca
Aug 28, 2017 · 3 min read

Every day was the same. Same time waking up, same schedule, same people, same everything.

I was stuck in a loop. Want a rundown of my day? My only day? The only day I’ve ever known?

I wake up, 8:00 AM. The room I am in, must be my room, was dirty. I was somewhere between 16 and 17 years old, which I only knew because my school ID said Junior. I go to school, pass my tests, stress over my grades, eat lunch, finish class, and I go home. On my way home is when things get dicey.

See, I drive to and from school with one of the family cars. Every day, I’ve been struck on the highway by a drunk driver. At 3:22 PM, to be exact. I’ve tried going different routes, swerving away, swerving into the car, staying at school for extra time. Nothing works. Drunk driver. Every. Single. Time.

I woke up again. But this day was different. Forget this, I thought. It was the first time I spent a day differently than all my other days. All the same days. But not this one. I ditched school.

Boy, was that a mistake. After the people who looked out for me left, I presume they are my parents, but I can’t remember anything before the 17th of January, 2017. That was the repeated day. Anyways, after they left for work, I went to work. I decided to figure out what the hell was going on.

Why have I been replaying the same day for years and years? Why can I remember how many times exactly that I’ve had this day? 743 to be exact.

I have no idea why this happens. But today, I live.

I go through the day like any normal teenager. I eat some breakfast, play my video games, and I watch some lame documentaries. Eventually noon rolls around and I make myself a sandwich.

Wait a second, I thought.

If I stay home all day, how will a drunk driver kill me today?

They wont.

3:20 rolls around. Two minutes.

My brother Jack opens the door.

“You’re home early.”

Jack didn’t respond. He came towards me in the kitchen.

3:21 PM.

“You okay buddy?”

Jack walks slowly around me. His seething eyes look towards the drawer to my left, where we kept the knives.

“Jack, I know what this is. Its 3:22. I know what happens.”

I stare at the fist rearing up aside my brother’s shoulder. I can’t explain how I feel. I’m sweating, my fists are clenched and I feel like I’m about to burst with fear.

Jack’s shirt was one I got him for his birthday in November. He had just turned 19. The shirt was a reference to one of his favorite video games. He loved that shirt and I was so proud that I did well with my gift.

But now its all over, and I’m afraid. The shirt no longer looks like a warm source of pride, but the creatures on the shirt looked intimidating and fear inducing.

The fist surged forward into the tip of my nose and I black out.

)
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