Chapter Eight
1588 Words
Soren's POV
Violent coughs tore through my chests. My eyes snapped open against my will, then immediately clamped shut as merciless fluorescent light drove spikes of agony straight into my skull. The brightness was like torture, each photon a needle piercing through to my brain.
Then I heard it. That voice.
That gravelly, unmistakable rumble that made my stomach plummet into a free fall. Mr. Jake Smith's throaty voice cut through the fog clouding my mind, and despite the searing pain, I forced my burning eyes open.
"Are you finally awake?"
"Is this heaven?" The words escaped before I could cage them. I'd never been religious, never swallowed the Christian fairy tales about pearly gates and eternal bliss. But if Mr. Smith was standing there. Breathing. Talking. Alive. Then maybe the afterlife is real. But that logic crumbled instantly. How could someone like me end up in paradise? I'd always assumed I'd wake up screaming in flames ten times hotter than the fire that killed me, my voice raw from eternal torment. That's where monsters like me belonged.
A sharp crack against my skull made me wince, stars exploding behind my eyelids.
I blinked at the old man through my confusion. "That's to reset your brain. Now, get up."
"Where am I?"
He stared at me with complete disbelief, then turned toward someone lurking in the shadows, a doctor I hadn't noticed, clipboard clutched like a shield, watching me like I was a specimen under glass. Wait. Doctors in the afterlife? I thought Christians believed in a place without pain, without sickness, without medical procedures?
"I think he hit his head so hard he's lost his memories, doctor. Run some tests." Mr. Smith's voice carried that familiar edge of irritation that used to make my skin crawl.
"The injury didn't affect his memories according to our initial tests, but I'll run more to be certain." They discussed me like I was unconscious furniture, their voices floating over my head as if I didn't exist.
The doctor's footsteps echoed as he approached me. "How are you feeling? What can you remember?"
"What day is it?" My voice cracked like old parchment.
My gaze landed on something that turned my blood to ice water. A calendar sat mockingly on the nearby table, its bold black numbers staring back at me. June 1st, 2022. My heart hammered against my ribs like a caged animal. Impossible. This was impossible.
"Monday. You cracked your skull in a fight. So immature." Mr. Smith's words hit like a physical blow.
No. This couldn't be happening. Minutes ago, I had been in that hospital room with Maya. The flames had been everywhere, consuming oxygen, consuming hope, heat so intense it felt like my skin was melting from my bones. But when I stared down at my arms, I saw nothing. No burns. No blisters. No scars. No evidence I'd ever been near fire.
Was I trapped in some kind of twisted trance? Has the last two years been nothing but an elaborate nightmare?
None of that mattered now. In this version of reality, Mr. Jake Smith was alive.
I launched myself from the bed with desperate fury, legs nearly buckling as I threw my arms around his solid, warm body. I squeezed until I could feel his ribs, smell his familiar cologne mixed with cigarette smoke and something indefinably about him. He shoved at my shoulders, trying to escape, but I clung like a drowning man to driftwood.
"You're alive," I choked out, my voice shattering.
He finally wrenched free, stepping back with wide, alarmed eyes. "Please check him. Something's wrong."
Strong hands seized me from behind—multiple sets pinning my arms and legs. I thrashed like a wild animal. "No, I'm fine!" Panic clawed up my throat. "I just woke up from a nightmare and…"
"Don't fight it. They need to run more tests. You'll be fine." Mr. Smith's voice sounded distant, underwater.
"I AM fine!" I kicked and struggled until sharp steel bit into my arm. Almost immediately, my muscles turned to liquid lead, betraying me. I fought to hold onto consciousness, but it was like grasping smoke.
"What is happening…"
Darkness swallowed me whole.
---
When I opened my eyes, I was back in my room in the Smiths' mansion. My phone sat on the bedside table like an accusation. The date remained unchanged. I wasn't hallucinating. I was in 2022.
If I'm in 2022 and just woke from a nightmare, then Maya is still alive and it was all a horrible dream but why do I feel nostalgic and can remember every single thing that happened? Is that common?
Holding my breath like I was about to dive into arctic water, I searched for the fire incident. Nothing. No articles. No tragedy. The hospital still stood. Slowly, carefully, I searched for Maya. I still had her social media handle buried in my bookmarks though I'd trained myself not to look for years, but muscle memory guided my fingers.
I smiled when I saw her recent reply to a comment on her post. She was alive.
It didn't matter if it had been just a nightmare, I would make sure she stayed that way.
The door opened and Mr. Jake Smith studied me for a long moment before entering. "Are you okay?"
I nodded, and I caught the ghost of a smile crossing his lips.
"We have a crucial meeting with the board today. I'm introducing you as my successor. If you're not mentally prepared, we can postpone…"
"No, I'm ready. I'll meet you downstairs. We should take the Mercedes today."
His eyebrows shot up. "You're riding with me?"
"Good." The smile lingered as he turned to leave.
I felt like I'd lived this conversation before. Every word. Every gesture. Nothing was new.
---
Mr. Jake Smith waited in the garage when I arrived. We climbed into the car in perfect synchronization, like actors who'd rehearsed this scene a thousand times.
"Is there something you want to discuss?" he asked as the driver pulled away.
"How's your health? Still doing monthly check-ups? Following doctor's orders about diet? Is there anything new the doctor mentioned?"
He stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "Did the accident scramble your brain that badly?"
I realized I'd never asked about his health before our relationship had always been purely transactional. But the pain of losing him in my nightmare was still raw, bleeding fresh, as if it had actually happened. I couldn't risk it this time.
"I'm fine. Just worried about you. Old people get sick."
A soft chuckle escaped him. "Good thing I'm not old, eh? I'm fine. Blood test results will come back tomorrow, but I'm sure it's the usual."
I smiled and nodded. Just a nightmare. Nothing more.
---
The valet opened our door as we reached the company. We walked in together, and suddenly , flashes of images crashed into my mind like lightning: Mr. Jake Smith being struck by an employee in this exact spot.
Without thinking, I pushed him sideways. He stared at me, bewildered.
"Sorry, I just…" I scratched my head, scrambling for justification, when an employee barreled past, shoving someone else in the exact spot where Mr. Smith had been standing moments before.
What was happening? Was I psychic now? Could I see the future?
I didn't have time to process as Mr. Smith headed for the elevator.
"Let's take the stairs," I suggested.
"Why?"
"For your health. Exercise helps."
"I'm perfectly fine. Maybe we need more tests cause I don't think you are okay."
"No need. I just think we should stretch our legs. People your age often get arthritis. Light exercise helps prevent it."
His expression screamed disbelief, but he gestured for me to lead.
I'd forgotten how brutal climbing stairs could be. I groaned seeing the endless flights above us.
"What were you thinking with this nonsense?" he panted as we stopped to catch our breath.
I loosened my tie, gasping. "I wasn't thinking."
"Obviously. If you want to spend more time together, just say so instead of making ridiculous excuses."
"Yes, sir."
We were completely breathless reaching the conference room.
"You're barely twenty-five and as winded as I am. That says something about your fitness. More cardio, or you'll risk heart disease."
"You are one to talk," I muttered.
Everyone sat in the exact same spots as my nightmare. The meeting unfolded precisely as I knew it would. The questions didn't catch me off-guard, the board members' faces told me they'd hoped they would.
But as I answered with impossible accuracy, a chill ran down my spine. If I could predict the meeting... if I could see accidents before they happened...
What else was coming?
And more terrifying still, how was it possible to dream about two years of life in perfect, agonizing detail?
The answer, I suspected, would change everything I thought I knew about reality itself.
“When did you get a tattoo?” Felix, my secretary said as we got out of the meeting.
“What?” I stared down at the cross tattoo on my wrist.
I tried to wipe it off but it wouldn't come off.
“I don't think that's how tattoos work.”
How, when and why did I get a tattoo? And why a cross of all things? Why can I recall everything except getting this tattoo?
I paused in my steps and turned to Felix.
“Do you believe in time travel?”
- Writer
