Replay

A short story, very symbolic for me. Uncharacteristic of my usual writing style. Lyrics taken from Secret, by Maroon 5.

Watch the sun rise, say your goodbyes, off we go.

I sit in the car and look out the windshield at the headlights shining on the wet pavement. You walk to your door, and while you're getting in and pulling the seatbelt over your chest I'm replaying the moment over and over again. I could go back to yesterday morning to put ice cream in my coffee and sit by myself one more time, but instead I stay here and watch you click the belt into the buckle again and again. Click, click, click. I realize that I never really enjoyed using my ability till I met you.

Some conversation, no contemplation, hit the road.

You start the engine and we roll down the street, picking up speed. The wind blows my hair out behind me like a flag. I love your convertible, and I love the way you drive a hundred miles per hour, and I love the way you smile as you lift your hands from the steering wheel. Your eyes close and I think that you've never looked better than you do now. I look at the clock on the dashboard. It's the moment before the crash, and although I can't remember how many times I've lived through it, I'm terrified.

Car overheats, jump out of my seat, on the side of the highway, baby.

I throw myself through the door and I lie on my side in the grass, letting the smoke fill my lungs. The fire is spreading from the hood to the dashboard. The first time it happened I watch the flames jump onto your unmoving body, but this time I turn my head away until the burning smell is too strong to endure. This is attempt ten, or twenty, or more, and I've failed again. It doesn't seem to matter that I can control time, because I can't control you. I cry until I begin to shake and close my eyes. It's time to go back, back…
Our road is long, your heart is strong, please don't ever let go, oh no.

We're racing down the street again. This time I'm focused and I'm ready. I haven't changed the past yet, but I won't give up, I swear I won't. You lift your hands in the air and you're eyes are still closed. No one controls the wheel, but we're flying. Even when I slide over and put my foot on the brake pedal I don't care if you have to die all over again. Eventually I'll get it right.

I'm driving fast now, don't think I know how, to go slow.

Can a manipulator of time believe in fate? I'm beginning to understand how helpless I am fighting an event that already happened. There is no cause and effect. There's only here, now, and the death that I can't seem to prevent. I realize that if fate exists, this is what it feels like. Hurtling forward like a rocket on an empty highway. Your lips move and over the roar of the engine I hear you say, "Don't stop."

Where you at now, I feel around, there you are.

The car swerves, so I take the wheel, but as we lose speed your hands push me away, softly at first. Finally you throw me back into the passenger seat, against the door. You press on the gas and we fly faster than ever. "Stop," I say. "Please don't." The speed seems to slosh my brains into the back of my skull. For the first time in my life, I want to fast-forward. I want to escape into the future. But as long as you're alive I can't leave you.

Cool these engines, calm these jets, I ask you, "How hot can it get?"

You throw your hands up in the air like a little boy on a roller coaster. Now I hate you. I hate that your suicide is more important to you than I am. I hate that you're too busy throwing your life away to see that I'm trying to save it. Would you believe me if I told you I could rewind time? Or if I told you what you mean to me? The speedometer jumps from 105 to 110, and as you lean forward over the wheel to watch the needle I realize that I'm already too late. Maybe when you died the first time you died forever. No matter how many times I watch you kill yourself I can't stop you. I can't change this.

Sobbing, I lay back in my seat, ready to start all over again. This moment is mine to play over and over. To the rest of the world you died forty-three minutes ago, but to me you never will.

And as you wipe off beads of sweat, slowly you say, "I'm not there yet."

Author's Note

No reviews for now, please.