October 5th
Summary: Dan Howell can't help think there's something wrong with life. He seems to repeat the same day over and over, with no change. No nothing. It's the same routine, and it's scaring him. He starts to question his sanity. And that's when he heard the voice.
Genre: Paranormal.
Word count: To be added.
"Hey, Dan, could you pass me the-"
"Custard." The word, despite its ridicule, felt choked up in my throat and my chest burned, my throat itching. I held the tin of custard in my hands. Staring at it as if the custard was to blame for this. For all of this. Phil frowned at me across the table, and I had to bite my lip so hard I felt splashes of blood blossom at the corner of my mouth. "Custard." I said, and oh god, I had said it so many times. I forced a smile and reached across the table, passing him the tin. The damn tin. That stupid fucking tin of custard which seemed to now be part of my life. I cleared my throat and did what I always did. Fixed my short brown hair. My short brown hair which never fucking grew, and forced yet another damn smile. Although the conversation, weak as it was, had paused. Like it always did. I looked up and glanced around, seeing what I always did. The six of us. Sat around the wooden table me and Phil had built when we first moved in. Home. That's what I thought when I walked through the doors to this house. Now I think prison. I stared at it almost sadly. Wanting to touch it. God damn it, anything DIFFERENT! I felt my teeth clench. Once again I have to chew my lip violently, my incisors scraping against my dry lips. Always dry. Never wet or damp.
"Dan?" PJ speaks up, glancing up from the spaghetti bolognaise we always ate. It was always spaghetti. Nothing else. Always fucking spaghetti. I lift my head when he repeats my name, and as he speaks in that soothing voice, my lips discreetly move in sync with his words. I say them perfectly, with no struggle, before he does. "Dan," he says. Or rather I say too. My lips twist into a slight smirk. At the irony. "Dan, what's wrong?" we say, and then he notices I'm mimicking him. Alfie will smirk. I look up and see Alfie staring at me, his lips becoming an inevitable smile. Chris will laugh and tell me to stop pissing PJ off. My gaze goes from PJ, to Chris. He's sitting across from me grinning. He laughs, and my heart sinks.
"Stop pissing him off Dan." Chris is laughing, and so's everyone else. I don't need to look up or listen to know. Carrie will be giggling behind her book, Emma's laughing for the fun of it, and Luke's helping himself to the last of the- I have to squeeze my eyes shut to hold back a hysterical laugh or maybe a cry out. Spaghetti. I have to hold my breath and hide behind my fringe. My chest is bursting, my throat on fire. I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this!
"Dan, mate? Are you okay?" PJ is speaking, yet so am I. I can't help it. Or maybe I can. Maybe it's because I've heard his words so many times. My lips once again move in sync, and I don't look up. Tears sting my eyes, threatening to trickle down my cheeks, but I hold them in. I know I do. Because the tears never come. They never come. No matter how much I will my tear ducts, they never come. And being unable to cry is fucking killing me inside.
"Yeah, I'm fine?" I clear my throat once again, and look up to see PJ's bright green eyes studying me. "Fine." I repeat. And so does my mind. No, I'm not fucking fine. Oh man, I'm so far away from fine. PJ frowns at me for a while, and despite knowing he will eventually look away and start talking to Chris about some film he watched last night. Dude where's my car. I know it before it even crosses his mind. I give PJ a small smile and go back to mindlessly twirling pasta around my fork. For a second I stare, captivated by the tomato sauce splattering all over my plate. I don't think about what happens next in my life. I don't think about Zoë's feelings when Alfie accidently reveals he's moving to Italy in an hour. I don't think about how bloody Phil's arm is going to be when he slices it on a broken plate. Again.
All I think about is how red the tomato sauce is. It's the only damn colour I can see. The rest is a hazy black and white. If I really concentrate, I can see colour. Like I'm doing now. I'm staring so intently my eyes hurt. The sauce is a beautiful crimson colour and I feel myself smile. Just a small smile. It's the only think which feels only the slightest bit more different.
"Dan?" The colour shatters when my concentration is broken, and my heart sinks when the sauce loses its extravagant velvety red, and retains its dull grey look. I close my eyes for a few seconds and breathe deeply. Don't freak out. I tell myself silently. Just fucking go with it.
"Mm?" I press my lips into a smile, and can't help thinking; this is different. This conversation hasn't happened before. It didn't happen yesterday, or the day before that, or even the day before that. Phil is frowning at me again. A look I've got to know so well. "Dan, are you okay?" he leans forward across the table and his elbows will brush the bowl of salad, and Carrie will say something cute, and tell us to get a room. I lean forward too. Not because it's inevitable. That it's written in the fucking stars. No, it's because I haven't physically touched Phil since yesterday. Ha. Yesterday. Not actual yesterday, more like a million yesterday's ago. "Dan." Phil says again. And my heart skips a beat, because this is not in the script. This did NOT happen before. Phil coughs quietly and leans forwards, and my eyes dart to the bowl of salad sitting infron't of him. "Dan, you've been acting really strange lately, are you okay?" Phil sighs and shakes his head. "Don't tell me you're okay, because I know you're not." His eyes are so, so fucking sad. And I wonder if maybe- just maybe- he knows. I wait for the nudge of the salad bowl, and Carrie's snarky remark. But they never come. Instead Phil smiles faintly, and there's a spark in his eyes. I have to look away, I can't look at him. He doesn't fucking know. "I'm fine, Phil." I say, or rather choke. Because knowing that he hasn't woken up, that none of them have. It's killing me.
Why can't I be like them?! Why did I have to wake up?!
"Italy?!" Zoe squeaks, her fork clanging on her plate. Suddenly the attention is turned to Alfie nd his dream trip to Italy. Because all that it is- or rather becomes. Just a dream.
I take this as an advantage and excuse myself away from my housemates. My best friends and my boyfriend. The people I will spend the rest of my existence with. Eating spaghetti and arguing over the advantages and disadvantages of fucking Italy.
I climb the stairs to the bedroom I share with Phil and close the door quietly behind me, collapsing onto our bed. I lay there on my back for a while, staring at the ceiling. Like I did yesterday and the day before that- and so on. I hear shouting from downstairs and cover my ears, willing the noise to die down. I know what's going on. Because once, a millennia ago, I was there. Shouting and trying to restore peace. It was all so different back then. Back when phone's worked and outside existed. I've tried to get out of this damned house, but as soon as I cross the threshold, I'm standing on air. I know I'm outside. I can see the neighbouring university houses and feel the cold air. But it's not outside. It's misty, and when I try walking, or running through it, I find myself back at the threshold of this fucking damned house.
I figured out what I am a while ago. I woke up one morning, and just knew. Ever since I've been living the same fucking day over and over. I let a sigh escape my lips and lean on my elbow, my eyes on the alarm clock on our bedside table. The same bedside table which never changed. My law books, Phil's wallet and a few picture frames. My eyes flicker from the time on the alarm clock. 11:56pm. I close my eyes and feel that same feeling wash over me. Nothing. I'm numb. When the clock hits midnight, the date won't change. It will never change. It will forever be October 5th 2011. I let my eyes open slowly, and my gaze rests on the time. 12:00 Am. The shouting downstairs stops and my eyes suddenly become heavy.
I try and fight the drowsiness that hits me when the time hits midnight, but I can never stay awake. I can never stay awake to see what happened. I will never know what killed me.
As I drift off, I hear the door creak open. Muffled laughter and giggles. I sense movement but the floorboards don't creak. I lay silent and hold my breath. "Shh!" someone whispers, his voice slurred and heavy. Something slivers down my back and I feel my heart quicken. I know that voice. I know that laugh! The muffled murmurs and giggles become moaning and the shuffle of groping hands, grasping clothes. I lay frozen, unable to breathe. The moans continue and I sit up abruptly, my hand automatically fiddling with my bedhead. I study the dark room, searching for anyone. The moans and mumbles continue, but there's no one.
I know that voice. I think.
That's me. Or more specifically, me and Phil.