I Married To My Murderer

Noah!

Noah.

Noah.

"Hey!"

"Hello."

Noah.

"Are you alright?" Someone shook me.

I saw the boy in front of me, gazing at me with a perplexed expression.

I quickly gathered my thoughts and nodded, trying to shake off the disorientation. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just lost in thought for a moment."

In my right hand, I have a condom bundle. In my cleared out hand, I have a scanner. As I look up at the white ceiling, I realize that I have zoned out at my part-time job, thoughts swirling about my potential future murderer.

"My killer has green eyes," I murmured unobtrusively. "He must be a foreigner."

"What did you say?" The boy extended his eyes in stunning. "M-m-murderer?" I quickly shook my head, realizing how bizarre my comment must have sounded. "Oh, sorry, I was just thinking out loud about a book I read recently," I said with a nervous laugh.

The boy looks at me skeptically before shrugging and continuing with his work.

I passed him the condom bundle and the scanner. "Here you go. Enjoy your night," I said with a casual tone.

The boy pays me in a rush and runs out of the store. I would not accept myself either if I were him.

"Sssshittt." I hope he keeps this thing to himself, but the uncertainty gnaws at me.

I sit down on the chair and began to type in the points of interest. Noah. Tall. Green Eyes. White hair. Is he a nonnative? Despite his local-sounding title, the thought lingers in my mind. Is he a half? I keep in mind the motion picture blurb. That motion picture will be discharged after six months. So, I have less than six months to live.

Noah. My future self knows that individual. Right now, I have no idea who that individual is. It implies that I will meet him some time later. I will know him sufficiently that I will grin at him, huh? Silly. Who grins at their killer? Would I truly lose my capacity to think clearly some time after I die?

With trembling hands, I retrieve the blade from my pack; its cold metal is sending a wave of unease through me. It's been four days since I saw myself pass on within the dull rear way. I can't disregard it. I can't rest at night. Every time I glance at the knife, I can't help but imagine the excruciating pain it could inflict, sending shivers down my spine. In the event that I can select how I pass on, I will select an easy one. Like falling and snoozing. I would, maybe, take resting pills and kick the bucket rather than let an outsider butcher me to death.

The corroded blade is unsharpened. It has strange images on the grip. I am speculating that the killer must be from a cult, or he must have tremendous resentment against me. Slaughtering somebody with a corroded cut takes more exertion. It also harms a part. I checked it online.

That guy also cautioned me. He must have known. How will I alter the long term in case my killer, as of now, knows that I will attempt to alter the long-term ? My Trump card is my capacity to time-travel.

A sense of impending doom engulfs me, suffocating any glimmer of hope or escape.

"Excuse me?"

I put the blade in my pack. It's a fellow wearing a face veil, a baseball cap, and expansive, dim shades. Fair to be beyond any doubt, I saw the time: 1:24 AM.

I am not the most insane individual in this world. There are some people like him who wear dark shades at night.

"This." He hands me the delicate drinks, chocolates, sweet bread, and waffles. He is wearing dark, free pants and a dark turtleneck. I check things one by one, keeping an eye on the others. He appears to be recognizable. Where have I seen him before?

"Can you make it quick?" He inquires of me with a chafed voice. That voice... I have listened to it several times recently. I packed his stuff and allowed him to pay the bill.

"Have we met some time recently?" I took the cash and asked.

"Keep the change." He picked up the sack. "I am out of your league."

"What?" I grunted. "You think that I am hitting on you?"

"No?" He inclines toward me. Damn. He is tall. "What are you trying at that point? Just look at yourself."

"Excuse me?" I crossed my arms. "See for yourself. You look like a sociopath killer who slaughters part-timers at night when they do not get their sugar intake."

"Interesting." He giggled delicately. "In the event that I am a mental case killer, shouldn't you encourage me like that?"

"That..." I scratched my chin. "I was fair in asking you whether I knew you from some place or not. Your voice appeared commonplace. Here." I put the changes in his hands. "If you don't mind, do not visit again, please."

He jerks my hand off, throwing the coins on the floor. "Do not touch me." I gaze at him. "Do you have chiraptophobia?"

"What did you say?" He hammers the counter. "I do not know you. I do not like outsiders touching me."

"Ah... Then, we can't have a one-night stand." I shook my head and chuckled. "Bye."

"So, you were being a tease to me." I can't see it, but I am beyond any doubt that he rolled his eyes at me. "You should see your face in the mirror. Who would need to snare up with you?"

"At the slightest, I am not perplexed by the appearance of my face." I tapped my tongue. "Not at all like a certain someone."

He taps his finger. I could tell that he was grinning. "You'll lament it if I appear on your face."

"Is that so?" I challenged him. "Are you a celebrity or something? Well, indeed, in the event that you are, I won't lament it."

"You!" He took a profound breath. He picks up the sack once more and takes off from the store. After he is gone, I lower myself onto the chair, steeling my resolve as I delve back into planning for the inevitable—the looming threat of being murdered.

"Noah!" I said my murderer's name out loud. "Noah Whitaker . I can never forget this name." I can feel my heart racing as I realize the danger I am in. But I refuse to live in fear, determined to uncover the truth behind Noah Whitaker's intentions.