Page 105 of Not Her Day to Die

And it continues to flicker. Different versions of myself, different outfits, different expressions. On and on it goes.

“What is this?” Tears are clouding my vision, heating my eyes, but I blink them away.

“It’s you, Sunday. It’s me. We are alive and dead. We both exist and we don’t.” The words are an icy net as they tickle across my nerves.

Schrodinger’s Sunday.

The images continue to cycle through over and over again. Some of the outfits I don’t recognize, the expressions, the faces. It is incredibly eerie to watch myself, but have no recollection of who the person is.

A familiar stranger.

“What is this?” I ask again.

Now the images shift. They’re places.

The memorial, the upstairs bedroom, the river bend, the space center.

“Stop!” Dropping to the ground, I wrap my arms around myself.

“Get up! It’s time, Sunday. It’s time to decide.”

A force tugs me to my feet, demanding me to stare down the mirror. There are now a hundred different images. One hundred different bodies. But all of them are me.

“Decide what?” I scream, circling around, trying to locate the source of the voice.

To block out the sight of my deaths.

When I spin, I just find a reflection of myself again. Of me in my pajamas.

But then their lips move. Speaking to me. “Sunday, you’re braver than you give yourself credit for.”

I cannot explain the eeriness of watching myself speak, of hearing the words, but knowing they didn’t come from me.

Except they did.

“No I’m not.” I keep my focus on my reflection. Not letting my eyes wander to the other images. To the ones of me. Dead. “How did I survive this?”

“How?” My reflection cocks her head. “Why?” She puts a hand on her hip.

“Who are you?”

She curls her lips, baring her teeth. “I’m the version of you who remembers it all. Who took in all the memories of our past lives.” She lifts a hand and purple strands form from each of her fingers. She watches as they swirl and dissolve into the air.

“What if I don’t want to remember it all? Does that make me a coward?”

My reflection shifts her eyes to mine; she drops her hand, giving me her full attention.

“No. It makes youyou. But even if you choose to forget. There will be times when the memories will hit you. A flash of déjà vu, a smell you can’t stand to be around, a barrel, a sound that soothes your soul. Each of these timelines are a part of you. Just as I am.”

The mirrors change all around us until we are cast in complete darkness. My vision goes black, but I am not scared.

And then two doors form out of the shimmering strands. One to my left, sparked in red and white, swirling and flashing, nearly blinding me.

To my right, the other is a bright purple, pulsating with my heartbeat, calm and serene.

“One is to remember.” The red and white one pulsates. “One is to forget.” The purple brightens. “Just know that once you make your choice, you can’t change it. You will have to live with the consequences, all of them.”

Unease wraps in my gut.