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liz-allyn · 2 years

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heat of the moment, pt 2: happy death day [tasm!peter x reader x groundhog day au]

a/n this is my 1000th post. how many tuesdays is that?

summary: yesterday was tuesday. but today is tuesday too. angst; fluff; humor; final destination vibes; and yes this is in tribute to my favorite episode of television ever written - "mystery spot"

words: 5.6k

warnings: death. a lot of it. repeatedly. in this chapter: tw gore, body horror. mentions of bodily fluids/emesis and if you have an aversion or phobia of that i guarantee you will be unwell

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6.

TUESDAY, 7:00am

Your eyes were wide, unblinking, and filled with fear as you stared at Peter. Your boyfriend leaned nonchalantly against the doorframe of the en suite bathroom, freckled cheeks rosy with a warm greeting.

“How’d you sleep, bug?” he beamed, wiping any residual toothpaste away with a hand towel.

You felt your body trembling beneath the comforter, reeling from the horror of witnessing your own life force spilling from a bullet wound in your chest. It wasn’t just the sight of blood that haunted you—you could smell it, too. The smokey odor of singed flesh and gunpowder still filled your nostrils, paired with the perfume of a filthy old mop and cleaning disinfectant. You tasted copper on your tongue, the overflow of blood crawling up your windpipe. You could feel the coolness of the tiled floor on your back. The hot sticky thickness of your blood covering your hands. And more than anything, you felt the pain.

It hit you like a flaming sword through your chest, and the heat left a scar on your brain as much as it would your body. A phantom pain you could still feel, the memory of which was just as sharp as the real thing.

The only thing more vicious than the pain was the weight of heavy, hot teardrops spilling onto your face from the man you loved. Peter’s stunned gaze, his lashes soaked with anguish, was also burned into your memory.

Yet here he was standing in front of you in your shared bedroom, all signs of distress vanished. How could he just smile at you like that—without any shadow of the terror that occupied his expression just seconds before? Just moments ago, when you were on the floor, looking up at him as you died—

No.

No. That’s not possible.

You were very much alive, your heart pounding away beneath your ribcage. Your hands instinctively went to grip your sternum, your widened eyes gazing up at him helplessly.

“Babe?” he quirked, appraising you with a fading smile. “What’s the matter? Did you sleep okay?”

Your heart was stuttering. Your own shaky voice sounded foreign to you. “Wha-what... wha—?”

“Sorry about the music,” he said sheepishly. “I forgot about my alarm––”

You stared over at his retro alarm clock, still crooning the synthesized, progressive pop-metal riffs of Asia.

“It’s probably not the most pleasant way to wake up,” Peter remarked, as he tossed the handtowel and began to saunter toward the bed. Your eyes scanned over his dripping wet figure, from his sopping dark locks, across the planes of his chest, and down to the scandalously-hanging towel around his hips. Every nit of the vision before you was exactly as you’d remembered it before.

“How ‘bout I make it up to ya?” he flirted with a smirk, as he began to crawl towards your bedside. Before he could touch you, you flinched back, your expression twisted with confusion and horror.

Peter noted this immediately, freezing in place.

“Bug?” he questioned, sounding more than a little hurt.

Your brain was still struggling to process what was happening. Your eyes darted wildly from Peter’s face to the digital numbers of your clock, to the bright cityscape outside of your bedroom window.

“What’s the matter?” Peter said, his brow furrowed with concern. “Hey...”

He cupped your face gently in his hands, his movements slow and deliberate. Once you felt the warmth of his fingers, you closed your eyes, slowly exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

Your lower lip quivered. “Peter...”

It was a pitiful, broken sound. He gazed at you with utter confusion and deep concern, rubbing his thumbs down your wet cheeks, realizing the magnitude of your discomfort. “Hey, it’s— shh, it’s okay, what... what’s goin’ on?”

You shook your head, tears spilling from your eyes, as you gripped his biceps. He held you firmly, the only thing keeping you upright. His dark eyes filled with concern, gazing at you as you shook like a leaf. “Talk to me, Sunflower. What happened––?”

You struggled to dig your voice out of the cave of your throat. “I-I... I... don’t...” Seeing his rising panic wasn’t helping. In fact, it made you feel worse. You kept glancing around, focusing on the way his flesh felt beneath your fingertips. The way his breath ghosted across your face. The way the sunlight melted the chocolate of his soft eyes, setting them alight to a golden amber hue. These were the things that were real now. These were the things you wanted to hold onto.

“I... I had the most awful dream,” you breathed heavily. You slowly exhaled, focusing on the way his thumbs rubbed circles into your cheek. His hands engulfed the sides of your face, like putting blinders on to the world. You narrowed your focus until all you could see was the fire in his loving eyes. “I... God, Peter... It-it was so real, I—”

“It’s over, okay?” Peter cooed, then pulled you into his firm embrace. “It was just a bad dream,” he added. You closed your eyes, feeling the breadth of his hand smooth across your back. The sensation sparked a shudder up your spine. You pressed your body tighter to his until he could feel the heat of your skin against his, the dampness of his skin soaking through your pajamas.

“You’re okay,” he softly whispered, running his fingers through your hair as you rested your chin on his shoulder.

You squeezed your eyes tightly, trying to flush the violent images from your memory. The feeling left behind made your skin crawl. It was like trying to rid yourself of a fat, engorged tick attached to your flesh: the pinchers of the bite still buried deep beneath your skin.

“It’s okay,” your boyfriend softly breathed into your ear. The warmth of his lungs and tone soothed you. You could tell that he was concerned, but not sure how to help. “We could... talk it out? If you want?”

“No,” you firmly and quickly replied. “No...” You took a breath. There was no need to burden him further with bad thoughts. You knew the man was already somewhat obsessed with your safety, having been scarred by losing one girlfriend. “I... I don’t want to talk about it.”

Peter held you tightly, then pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “In that case...” you felt his lips curl into a sinister smile, “We could... find other ways... to take your mind off of it.” You felt his tongue and teeth graze the soft spot behind your ear. You shuddered again, but not with fear this time. The tickling sensation triggered a chuckle that you failed to suppress.

“Pete—” you snorted with a grin, despite your earlier distress, “Stop it...”

“C’mon,” he seductively purred, his fingers tracing down your back until he gripped your waist. “I promise, you’ll have nothing but good dreams when I’m done with you.” His hold on you tightened, and conversely, his tone softened. You pulled your head away to look at him, catching sight of the beauty and warmth of his smile. It was something you could bask in, like a sunrise, like starlight or fireglow. Something that settled into your bones and soothed the ache there. You thought about how long it had been since he’d looked at you like that, and it made your stomach flutter.

“Besides, I was thinking about taking a day, y’know?” he murmured, pressing more kisses on the side of your neck beneath your ear and down to your shoulder. “Patrol kinda kicked my ass yesterday, so maybe we could just... spend it here, instead?”

Your brow furrowed as you pulled away. “No...” you replied, a bit too quickly. It caught him off guard.

“Okay...” he anxiously responded, unnerved by your coldness.

Your face turned red, flinching at how curt you sounded. “I mean––I can’t. I have work.”

He rolled his eyes innocently, with a youthful pout. “C’mon, can’t you take one day? We live together and I feel like I haven’t seen you since last week.” His lips were back on you, leading you towards temptation.

You stared at him, frazzled by the growing feeling of deja vu.

“I... I can’t, Peter,” you said, pushing away from his hold. Unnerved, you threw the blankets off of you and came to a quick stand, shaking the anxiety off as you paced in front of the bed. Peter sat back on his ankles, watching you with a disappointed frown.

“Okay...” he sulked, running his hand through his hair and down the back of his neck. “Um...” He took a deep breath, then added. “Well, hey - what about breakfast? We can grab breakfast on the way? I’ll walk you?”

Your stomach twisted, and the last thing you wanted was food in your stomach. But the way he gazed at you, eyes full of hope despite the dark circles beneath them, made your heart ache. He was needy for you in a way that usually only happened after a bad day. He was feeling particularly touch-starved and lonely, and it was evident in the longing on his face.

You watched him as he reached out tentatively to take your fingertips in his hand, holding them gently like rose petals. “Please?” he added, with a boyish smirk that you could never resist. You leveled a stern gaze at him, unable to suppress the blushing smile on your face. He knew you couldn’t resist him, not with that look and those eyes.

You groaned, rolling your eyes. “Okay,” you sighed, and he responded by snatching your waist and dragging you onto his lap. “No, wait!” you laughed. “If we’re gonna have breakfast first, I need to shower now. Or else I’ll be late.”

Dramatically, he let his head fall back and growled in defeat. “Ugh, fine,” he sighed. He removed his hands from your hips to reach for his own, pulling his towel open and exposing himself to you.

It didn’t matter how many times you’d viewed his naked form, your eyes bulged out of your head regardless. You looked back up at him, scandalized, flustered, and grinning like a fool. “What are you doing?”

He wrapped your legs around his waist, until you could feel his hard length through your underwear. You squealed as he picked you up off the bed, your ankles knocking into the roundness of his perky ass.

“C’mon, Boss Lady,” he quipped as he carried you towards the bathroom. “Time to get wet again.”

You walked side-by-side with Peter down the street, eyes darting from building to building. You couldn’t help but feel the tension in your shoulders as you noted the odd sense of deja vu that kept following you like a dark cloud over your head. You moved a little slower because of it, stepping a little more tentatively.

“Bug, you okay?” Peter asked, glancing over at you with a wide smile. He hadn’t stopped smiling all morning. “You’re actin’ like a weirdo.”

You looked up at him, blinking at the accusation. “Weirdo?” You blushed and cracked a smile. “You’re the one who's gone all ‘Chuckles the Clown’ over there. Why are you smiling like that?”

“Like what?” he scoffed, teasingly. The grin didn’t falter.

“Like you’re on something! What are you, high?”

“Maybe I’m drunk,” Peter shrugged. He wiggled his brows lewdly, his eyes traveling down below the waist of your jeans. “Drunk on that pu––”

“Oh my god, don’t finish that sentence, you perv,” you exclaimed, swatting him on the shoulder. He barked out a laugh, then took your hand in his with a nod, sobering. He pressed a tender kiss to your fingers, butterflies flitting in your chest.

“I dunno, I just—I mean, look around,” he gestured to the street scene around you. “The sun is shining. Birds are chirping. It’s not too cold, not too humid and gross. It’s like—”

“A perfect day,” you replied, your smile faded, steps slowing down to a halt.

“Exactly!”

You felt a buzz in your pocket as you came to a complete stop. You retrieved your phone to glance at the caller ID: Mom. You gazed at the device, eyes widening with alarm.

This. This was exactly as it had been before. It was more than deja vu. Everything was unfolding as it had before.

No. No, this wasn’t happening. This couldn’t happen. Not to you.

You were frozen, mind reeling, as you continued to stare down at your phone through each buzzing ring. It felt like time was moving slower, each second being stretched out into years. Somehow they dragged on, but you also felt dread that time was running out.

The buzzing ceased, as the call went unanswered.

“Who was that?” Peter asked, trying not to sound suspicious.

You glanced up at him, a deep crease between your eyebrows. “It was... um...” You swallowed hard, feeling the hair stand up on the back of your neck. “Nobody...” You glanced around anxiously, your heart beating faster.

A thick haze of smog invaded the air. Horns blared over the roar of the engines of traffic speeding past. Mechanical whirs and rattles of new construction echoed off the buildings around you. You heard a bright yap from an overenthusiastic corgi dragging her human on a leash.

Your eyes darkened as you watched them pass.

“Bug?” Peter’s voice snapped you out of your daze. You met his concerned eyes, no doubt he could hear the increase in your heart rate. “You okay?”

You blinked up at him, half-questioning your sanity. “I just...” you weakly began, unsure of how to describe the building panic you were starting to feel. “I feel like... I’ve... done this before.”

He shook his head. “Done... what?”

“This!” you repeated, making tight circles with your pointer finger, drawing invisible loops between yourself and Peter. You gestured to point at the environment around you. Peter gazed at you suspiciously, one brow raised. “Like all of this, it’s like... It’s like I’ve done this before. Like deja vu. Like some kind of—”

The words drifted away as you flailed. Peter blinked, waiting for you to finish, until he supplied, “Glitch in The Matrix?”

“Yes! Exactly.”

The way his eyes narrowed on you would’ve been comical if you weren’t so frustratingly alarmed. “Exactly? Okay, babe, I think you’ve been staring at screens too long.”

“No, I’m... I’m serious, I feel like—”

The sound of wings flapping made you jolt, snapping your gaze upwards to see a flock of pigeons take off into the air. Peter followed your gaze, puzzled.

“This is exactly how it happened,” you muttered uneasily under your breath.

“How... what... happened?”

You gazed down the street in the direction of the pigeons, spotting the convenience store from your dream.

The cacophony of sounds around you overloaded your senses. The noise of horns, traffic, conversations of pedestrians as they walked by—all of it felt like listening to the opening notes of the Jaws theme. A deep, bellowing danger rumbled in the depth of your stomach.

Apprehension shaking you to the core, you took a step backwards and you collided with a figure as they rushed by.

“Whoa!” Peter exclaimed, reaching for you and reflexively pulling you towards him. He was a pillar, holding you protectively against his solid form. You both looked up to see the outline of a tall, thin young woman with stringy, dull hair flapping in the wind as she breezed away.

“Watch whereya goin,’ yeah?” Peter scowled and called after her.

With her head lowered, she didn’t bother glancing back, just wrapped her arms tightly around herself and kept walking.

“Rude,” he huffed under his breath. You gazed at her retreating form, your eyes widening and jaw dropping.

“Peter,” you gasped, voice filling with fear, “that’s her!”

He looked back and forth between you and the woman. “That’s who?”

“It’s her,” you repeated, your heart pounding. “That’s the girl that kills me.”

That got his attention. He craned his head towards you, senses awakened and hackles raised. “What?”

The change in his voice caught your attention. You looked up at him to see his face turn pale, appalled by your insinuation. His eyes glazed over, panic settling in. You knew that look. It was the haunted expression he’d get when he’d think about the nightmare of standing at his girlfriend’s grave, day after day, for the rest of eternity.

“Wha-what are you sayin’?” he stuttered. “What does that even mean?”

The wounded look in his eyes was too much. It brought you back to the floor of the convenience store, the vivid memory of him sobbing over you, desperately begging you to stay, please stay, stay with me, as the life slipped from your body. You shook your head, apprehension and anguish spinning you in circles.

He could pick up on your alarm and latched onto it. “Bug?”

You glanced ahead to the woman as she approached the convenience store, instinctively taking a step backwards, further separating yourself from the horror that was unfolding. Peter glanced back at the strange woman, his eyes growing dark with something equally unsettling.

“Peter,” you breathed, “I think something weird is going on.”

He looked back at you, his breath catching in his throat.

You heard him scream.

Right before your skull, your torso, and every organ inside explodes. You’re flying. The force of a city tour bus slamming into you catapults you into the air. The world goes black—your eyes ejected from their sockets. But you could still hear. Tires screech. Blood spills across the front and side of the bus, smearing the Broadway Mean Girls ad. You feel the slippery puree of your organs splattering.

You can feel.

God, you can feel it. Open your mouth to scream as your shattered jaw detaches from your face—

TUESDAY, 7:00am

Your eyes popped open as you were viciously ripped away from the darkness. Music invaded your ears, your senses assaulted by a toe-tapping tune.

“It was the HEAT of the MOMENT

Tellin’ me. what. my. HEART meant

The HEEEAT of the MOMENT…

Showed in your EYEEEES…”

You gasped suddenly, shooting straight up in bed, bringing your hands to your mouth. You shrieked with terror. Eyes wild, shooting around your clean, peaceful bedroom. Your whole body was heaving with distress, tears streaming down your face. The feeling of being hit in the face with a baseball bat rattled and ached your bones.

You remembered where you’d been and realized you weren’t where you were—the jarring discrepancy confusing and overwhelming you.

“Mornin’, Sunflower!” the devil in question rang out from your en suite bathroom. A moment later, his head poked around the corner. His expression serenely naive of your gory last moments.

You could hear the echo of his shout in your ears. Something deep and wretched. A shrill, soul-shattering shriek.

You gasped in horror, chest heaving for air that had been knocked from your lungs. One look at your current state and he froze with alarm.

“Babe?” he questioned, appraising you with a fading smile. “What’s the matter? You okay?” You jumped out of bed like a feral cat, startling him. You were rabid—manic with terror.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Peter brought his hands up, attempting to placate you. “Shh, shh, it’s okay! S’okay! You’re okay!” You had stopped retreating (not that you had any idea where you were going), but your eyes were still wide with frenzy.

“Bug?” he whispered, lowering his voice. His shoulders were level with his ears as he held his hands out towards you, as if he could steady you telekinetically. You looked at him and wondered if he looked more scared than you were.

You stared over at his retro alarm clock, still crooning the synthesized, progressive pop-metal riffs of Asia.

“Heat of the Moment,” you whispered, horrified as you realized this was exactly the same sequence of events that had transpired twice. Each one resulting in a horrible death.

“Sorry about the music,” he replied sheepishly. “I forgot about my alarm. It’s probably not the most pleasant way to wake up.”

You turned towards him. Your eyes scanned over his dripping wet figure, from his sopping dark locks, across the planes of his chest, and down to the scandalously-hanging towel around his hips. Every nit of the vision before you was exactly as you’d remembered it before.

“This... this is... This happened before. It’s happening again!”

Peter’s eyes shifted to the alarm clock, then back to you. “Well, this station kinda sucks. I think they sorta have their playlist on repeat sometimes—”

“No...” you gasped, trembling with terror. “No, this can’t be happening—”

His brow furrowed with concern. He stepped carefully towards you, like approaching a deer in the woods. “Just... try to relax, bub. You just had a bad dream, right?” He cupped your face gently in his hands, his movements slow and deliberate. Once you felt the warmth of his fingers, you closed your eyes, slowly exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

Again.

All over again.

You flinched and ripped yourself away from his hold.

Peter noted this immediately, freezing in place. “Bug?” he questioned, sounding more than a little hurt. He gazed at you with utter confusion and deep concern, watching tears flow down your cheeks, realizing the magnitude of your discomfort. “Hey, it’s— shh, it’s okay, what... what’s goin’ on?”

“I... I don’t—” You stuttered, your eyes flitting over his face.

The look on his face as your blood spattered his skin.

You threw yourself into his arms, shoulders heaving, as vicious sobs racked through your body. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders as if you were clutching a buoy during a hurricane. He held you firmly, the only thing keeping you upright.

His voice was thick with concern. “Talk to me, Sunflower... What happened—?”

You struggled to dig your voice out of the cave of your throat. “Something’s happening. I-I was with you, and we were walking down the street and... I died ! Oh, god, it was horrible. I could feel it, I-I could feel my own blood, I could taste it! I felt the pain, it was so much. I felt myself slipping. I was dying, Peter, I died!”

The words flowed out of your mouth like lava, burning everything in its path. You felt him grip you tighter, shaking his head firmly. He began to tense under your hold, your panic clearly upsetting him.

“No,” he stated. He declared it, as if passing down an edict. “No, you... You just had a nightmare, okay? You’re not dead, you’re here with me, yeah?” You heard his voice tighten, as if threatening to crack under the pressure. He gripped you tighter. The pads of his fingers left bruises on you. “It was just a bad dream.”

There was a sense of familiarity in the way he’d said it. Not just because he’d say it to himself more times than you could’ve ever imagined. But because it was identical, in tone and inflection, to what you’d heard yesterday.

Or today?

What day is it? What is happening?

Hand-in-hand, you stepped down the broken concrete of the sidewalk, deftly avoiding oncoming pedestrians. The heels of your boots scuffed the ground, but your feet were heavy. Each step sluggish, like weights were tied to your feet.

Peter looked over at you and the way your eyes darted in every angle. You’d been quiet since you woke up, barely wanting to be touched. He was no stranger to nightmares, but something had clearly rattled you. You hurried down the sidewalk, pressed up against his side like a spooked cat. The trepidation on your face twisted his stomach.

“Bug, why’ya walkin’ so fast?” he asked, trying to ease your nerves. “You’re actin’ like a weirdo.”

“Something... strange is going on,” you mumbled, gazing up at the clouds as if they were plotting against you. He wasn’t even sure if you were addressing him. “Don’t you remember any of this?”

Peter glanced around the street, observing the construction site a block away, hearing the beep of an inpatient taxi cab, and smelling the hot dog stand around the corner mixed with the sour stench of putrid sewage from about 20 feet ahead, as a city worker crouched on the sidewalk and worked a manhole cover open. The smell of a clogged septic system made his nose twitch, and he suddenly wished he didn’t have enhanced senses. He crinkled his nose and shrugged, “Yeah, hot dogs and human waste. A typical New York morning.”

“No—don’t you remember this from yesterday? And the day before that?”

He shook his head, confused. “Yesterday was Monday. I have a 7 A.M. class on Mondays, you know this—”

“No, Peter!” you snapped. “Yesterday wasn’t Monday! Yesterday was Tuesday! And it’s Tuesday again!” He stopped in his tracks, and you halted after doing a 360-view of your surroundings. Your eyes darted from the gutter to the skyline and back, scanning the area for some invisible threat. Your alarm was concerning, but considering his senses weren’t giving him any indication that you were in danger, he remained cautiously calm.

You leaned in close to him and stood on your tip-toes as if you were sharing a profound secret. “Something weird is going on... like weirder-than-Spider-Man weird.” You pulled him to the side, closer to a brownstone stoop and further away from the traffic. You glared at the city worker defensively, then looked back at your boyfriend. “All of this happened before,” you whispered. “It happened yesterday. Exactly like this.”

He tilted his head like a puppy. “Like deja vu? Like a glitch in The Matrix?”

Your eyes went wide. “That’s what you said yesterday!”

“When?”

You huffed with frustration. “This is going to sound crazy, but I swear, I’m not crazy. Okay?” He stared at you tensely, bracing himself for whatever you were about to say. “All of this,” you gestured to your surroundings, “happened twice already. I woke up, it was Tuesday, that Asia song was playing, we left the house, we walked to this street. And then I woke up in bed, and it was Tuesday... all over again.”

He stared at you forever, mind blown. “Again?” He shook his head.

“Yeah,” you replied, “like... I’m in—I don’t know—a time loop?”

“Like in Groundhog Day?”

“Exactly!” you declared, then paused, realizing. “Wait, I’ve never actually seen Groundhog Day.”

“What?” His jaw dropped, staring incredulously. “Really? How have you not seen—?”

“That’s not the point, Peter!” you hissed. You twitched as you felt a buzz from the phone in your pocket. You knew immediately who it was.

“Kim...” you breathed, then pulled the phone out and glanced at the Caller ID. You met his eyes, turning the phone towards his direction so that he could see the contact card that said 'Mom.' You stared knowingly at him, as if this was proof of your psychic abilities.

“Aww, you have a special notification for your mom?” Peter grinned warmly. His eyes flashed with mischief, his tone dropping an octave lower. “Do you have one for me, too? Is it a special... vibration?”

Your shoulders dropped at his teasing remark. Clearly, the gravity of the situation was going over his head. You rolled your eyes at him, before freezing in horror.

Straight ahead of you, stepping out of a nearby bodega, was the wilting flower that caused your death the first time. The tall, thin woman with stringy, dull hair, stalking off across the street with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. You gazed at her retreating form, your eyes widening and jaw dropping.

“It’s her...” you gasped.

Peter’s eyes followed yours towards her direction. He spotted two police officers strolling out of the bodega, lost in their own world, in the middle of a lively conversation. You brought a hand to your mouth as you recognized the two officers immediately. Your eyes narrowed on the younger rookie cop with the itchy trigger finger.

“What’s goin’ on?” Peter interrupted your train of thought, now focused on the officers.

You were lost in contemplation. “Bus...” Peter gazed over at you, confused, until you pointed at the street. A tour bus with a billboard touting Mean Girls: The Musical sped by. The gust of wind from the bus’ retreat blew through your boyfriend’s unruly hair.

He turned to you again, unnerved but uncomprehending. “Bug—”

“That bus killed me,” you declared. He was stunned into silence. “And those cops—they killed me.”

He ripped his gaze away from you, shooting daggers at the two police officers as they entered their parked cruiser.

You added, pointing at the wilting flower, “They were trying to stop that girl from killing me...”

Your boyfriend shook his head, a sharp line forming between his brows. “What—?”

You turned to him, realizing, “Peter, this ends with me dying.”

He snapped his attention towards you, the warmth faded from his features. “That’s not funny,” he declared with a chilly tone.

“It’s not a joke,” you pleaded, trying to reach him through his growing panic. He looked upset. More than that—he looked furious. Your attention was pulled away by the growl and snap of a dog.

You glanced up the sidewalk to see the overenthusiastic corgi yank its leash away from its owner.

“Gouda!” she hollered after the canine, her voice echoing, as he bounded right for your feet. Tongue drooping out of his snout and his little legs charging, the dog yapped and snarled and rammed himself into your ankles.

“Whoa!” Peter shouted, as the dog shot under you and jumped to attack Peter. It was truly astonishing how that small dog climbed your boyfriend like a staircase. He caught the canine in his hands, holding the dog outstretched at a distance.

But for you, it was too late.

You’d tripped backwards over the uneven pavement, tumbling faster than your feet could keep up. You were staring at the sky, falling back. Falling for too long. You should’ve hit the pavement by now. But instead the sky launched away from you, and you were cast into the darkness. Right through the opening of the manhole.

You felt cold iron smack against your knee, your leg jutting through a rung in the ladder. You shrieked as you felt the bone snap. Now you were inverted, your arm reaching out to catch yourself. Instead, your arm caught on another rung, and you felt another snap. Your head swung forward beneath you, your neck tilting at just the right angle as you approached the bottom of the manhole. Your head breached the surface of the putrid waste, before reaching the concrete bottom.

Another snap.

You open your mouth to scream, black water filling your mouth.

You can’t move.

You can only sink, your lungs on fire. Filling with noxious fumes and thick liquid. You feel like your chest is turning inside out. Your lungs are like stones sinking in sewage and runoff of the streets of New York.

TUESDAY, 7:00am

Your eyes popped open as you were viciously ripped away from the darkness. Music invaded your ears, your senses assaulted by a toe-tapping tune.

“It was the HEAT of the MOMENT

Tellin’ me. what. my. HEART meant

The HEEEAT of the MOMENT…

Showed in your EYEEEES…”

You gasped suddenly, shooting straight up out of bed. You gagged and wretched. You could taste the sewer on your tongue. You choked on the taste of methane, ammonia and anti-freeze. You coughed and heaved, wanting to rip your own tongue out of your mouth.

“Mornin’, Sunflower!” a pleasant voice rang out from your en suite bathroom. A moment later, Peter’s head poked around the corner. His expression serenely naive of your gory last moments.

His face fell flat as he witnessed your green complexion, the sweat beading down your face, and the writhing of your body. You slapped a hand across your mouth, knowing that you were about to be sick.

“Bug?” he questioned, confused.

You scrambled out of bed and shoved past his half-naked, soaked body. Not even his heavenly appearance could keep you from throwing up. It was a combination of things that did you in. The smell and the taste was one thing, but also the feeling of your stomach dropping out from the fall. The whiplash of dying and waking up in bed, thrown violently into another Tuesday.

Peter called after you as you charged towards the bathroom, but you didn’t dare open your mouth. Not even to explain.

You didn’t get the chance.

Your foot stepped down into a small puddle left behind from Peter’s shower. You skidded, sliding across the bathroom floor. Once again you were inverted. And ironically, your head was about to end up colliding with the porcelain of your toilet.

Another snap. You heard Peter’s voice ring out with alarm.

“Bug?!”

TUESDAY, 7:00am

Your eyes popped open as you were viciously ripped away from the darkness. Music invaded your ears, your senses assaulted by a toe-tapping tune.

“It was the HEAT of the MOMENT

Tellin’ me. what. my. HEART meant

The HEEEAT of the MOMENT…

Showed in your EYEEEES…”

You gazed up at the ceiling, chest heaving, laying flat on your back. At this point, you were afraid to move. Timidly, you reached for your neck. You ran your fingers across your throat and back to your spine, feeling the sharp bones there.

You didn’t even make it out of the house this time.

Slowly, you sat yourself up, panic building in your chest.

Tuesday. Again. You had once again witnessed your death. Just feet away from your boyfriend.

“Mornin’, Sunflower!” the devil in question rang out from your en suite bathroom. A moment later, his head poked around the corner. His expression serenely naive of your gory last moments.

You glanced over at him, your eyes dark with dread.

Tuesday, again.

How many Tuesdays could you endure?

Continue to Part 3

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