Day After Day



It took time. One day there was a future and the next there was none. All we had was the one day. It had stolen our time and left us with one day.

It was a day that left in the night and came back in the morning. There were no more tomorrows for us, no more seasons, no more birthdays and Christmases. There was only this one 17th of May going around and around for as long as we could foresee.

We’d both seen the films: Groundhog Day and others neither of us could remember. I’d read a few SF books exploring the phenomenon, but Ellie hated SF, so she glared at me until I shut up about them.

‘What are we going to do?’ Ellie sat up in the bed looking down at me. We’d exhausted my idea for what to do… twice.

Now I was exhausted and thinking about breakfast. It was a small hotel and the breakfasts were limited, which suited me fine. A full English was just what I needed after an intensive couple of hours with Ellie. Ellie craved variety, difference, change. This was why we were originally here for this weekend in a country Inn.

Now that weekend was turning from a week into almost a couple of months by our internal calendars, not the world outside.

Ellie was going a little stir crazy.

We had no real idea of how long we’d been here. No matter how we tried to record the passage of the days, or rather this one day, all our records disappeared by the morning. The day just reset itself, like a computer starting up, flushing all records of the day we’d just spent from its memory and starting again.

It did not matter if we made voice recordings, diary entries, blog posts, Tweets or anything else. By the next morning, they had gone. I’d even tried scratching some discrete – and some not so discrete – marks on the wall, like in the prison films. By morning, those too had gone.

There had been a brief time or two when the possibilities of having a day with no memory excited us. Then we discovered that actions without consequences are not much fun. We could make love on the village green in front of everybody, rob the small post office, drive our car into the river, but nothing we did changed anything. The morning began with the same bird singing the same song on a tree branch by our window… every bloody morning.

‘But at least we have each other,’ we’d agreed on what may have been the twelfth day.

Now, on what could be the fifty-third day, we were both beginning to wish we didn’t have each other at all.


Published by David Hadley

A Bloke. Occasionally points at ducks.

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