~June 18th, 1982~

~Cycle 143~

Vehicles were packed bumper to bumper on the elevated highway. Again. Patrice took a glance at his clock. 7:01AM. He suspected it before, but now he was sure of it. The cycles were starting slightly later each time. It wasn't much to go off, but it was something.

At the beginning of eachc cyle, Patrice would wind up stuck in traffic on his way to work with a headache brewing. If people were impatient before, they were reckless now. People would actively avoid lanes and scrape their cars against each other just to get out of traffic. Others would step out of their cars to get off the highway, avoiding traffic entirely.

Patrice thrusted his car between others to get ahead. When someone tried to get in his lane, he cut them off. Their problems were their own to deal with. He just needed to get off the highway. The cacophony of horns surrounding him only worsened his headache.

He neared his exit, but there were a line of cars leading up to it. He groaned, and pulled his car to side, in between the rails and everyone else's vehicles. If he looked out his window, he could see the city streets below him. He pumped the gas and hoped to power his way to the exit and off the highway.

As he nearly got off, he heard a loud engine stir up and coming closer. He glanced over and saw a hefty truck pushing past other cars towards the exit. They were another person in a rush to get off that highway. Patrice was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The truck struck Patrice's car, shaking him to his core. The truck continued to push Patrice and his car towards the rails of the elevated highway, tearing right through them. Both vehicles fell. Patrice gripped his wheel hoping to brace himself.

It was about a 10 meter drop from the elevated highway to the city streets below. The truck plunged headfirst into the ground, caving in the front and killing the driver, before tipping over onto a building.

Patrice's car landed on its side on top of another vehicle, before flipping upside down. Glass had shattered everywhere; the doors caved in. Patrice could feel something in his arm break, and a searing pain in his side.

Patrice fumbled with the door handle and crawled out of his car. He cut his hand on glass scattered on the ground as he did. He stood and found a shard of glass embedded in his side. He knew better than to try and remove it, he'd want to get someone qualified to look at it.

Beneath the underpass of the highway were a few individuals in grubby clothes; clearly homeless. It was a common sight in La Ville Sans Fin.

"Are you okay?" One of the homeless individuals hollered.

Patrice groaned. What a stupid question, he thought. He asked, "Where's the nearest emergency clinic?"

They pointed down the street and said, "Take a turn at Dorian Street, it's about a kilometer from there."

Patrice winced as he heard how far it was. Perhaps he'd get lucky and find someone who could drive him. He hobbled in the direction of the clinic.

The pain rose and fell as he walked. He kept his unbroken hand near where the glass was embedded to slow the bleeding. He turned down Dorian Street it and saw a car coming his way. He waved to try and catch their attention, and they slowed down.

"Damn, are you okay?" The driver asked as they pulled up to Patrice.

"I fell off the freeway," Patrice explained, "Can you take me to the emergency clinic near here?"

The driver stammered, "Well I... I don't really think-"

"I can pay you." Patrice said. He shakily reached his into his pocket for his wallet, "How much do you want?"

The driver raised his eyebrow at him. "... What good is money anymore? You'll be fine on the next cycle anyways."

The driver pressed down on the gas and took off without him.

Patrice asked a few others that he saw drive past for a road to the clinic, but they all declined to help him. They were more concerned about themselves than him. Eventually Patrice was able to pressure one person into taking him. He was bleeding on their backseat during their short drive.

He stepped out of their car and headed into an empty emergency clinic. All the staff was gone. Like everyone else, no one bothered to keep working after as many cycles as they went through. When Patrice stepped out of the emergency clinic, the car that had given him a ride was gone.

Patrice slogged through the streets on his own. He saw others around. Some were equally distraught about this strange situation they were in; others were reveling in the freedom it provided. He didn't ask any of them for help. What was the point? He planned to walk home on his own.

He lost all track of time. As if time matters anymore, he thought. He left drops of blood along the sidewalk. His button up shirt had a dark stain on it, and his khakis had drips along them as well.

He passed by a familiar bakery shop. It was unstaffed of course, but there were a few people inside helping themselves to the products on display. Patrice recalled when he first moved from the country to La Ville Sans Fin. His girlfriend and him visited that bakery... it was a good date. It'd been a while since he saw her though.

But it didn't work out. Her interests didn't align with his in the longrun so he had to...

No.

He didn't have to. Patrice chose to advance his career and felt that she was holding him back. She didn't agree. She tried to make him understand that they could still work out, but Patrice was determined. He hadn't seen her since he broke up with her. For the first time since then, he started to regret it.

What good had advancing his career done for him now?

Patrice looked at his blood covered hand, it was looking bad. Was he going to die? What would happen to him then? When the cycle repeated, would he be back?

Patrice stumbled into his apartment complex. Other tenants gave him perplexed and concerned looks at the sight of him. He walked past them without a word. He entered his empty apartment. He habitually reached into his pocket for his car keys so he could place them in a tray near the front door, but he realized he lost the keys in the accident. Instead, he crossed the apartment and threw himself into his couch.

Henri wasn't there. Patrice knew his old friend had been using his apartment as a place to stay. If he wasn't there, he was probably at the bar again.

Patrice glanced across his apartment at his phone. He strained himself to stand, feeling himself bleed a little more as he did. He crossed the room, picked up the phone, and started falling over. He caught himself on the wall and slid slowly to the floor.

He could feel himself fading. He took a stiff breath and dialed a number on his phone before bringing it to his ear. A woman's voice finally answered.

"Patrice?"

"Hello, Ma." Patrice answered weakly.

"Hi!" She greeted. Since she lived out of the city, she didn't realize the day was repeating like it was, "I'm not used to you calling, what's going on honey?"

Patrice coughed some blood. He composed himself and calmly said, "Oh, nothing. Just uh... wanted to talk. How're you and dad doing?"

"Oh!" His mother said, sounding genuinely surprised. It occurred to him that it'd probably been at least a year since he talked to them on the phone. Even longer since he saw them. Work was always more important. "Umm. We're doing great honey! Your dad is right here. So is your sister."

There was a quiet in the background. Patrice could hear them whispering before his dad spoke.

"Hey bud!" He answered with some awkward enthusiasm in his voice.

Much more naturally, his sister teased, "What's up lame-o?"

"Oh, hi Camille. You're visiting mom and dad?"

"Mhmm. I try to come by at least once a month. If not more," Camille replied, "Unlike you... you never come around at all."

His mother's voice chided her, "Don't say that! You know he's busy with work!"

Patrice groaned through the pain and said, "Work isn't a good excuse."

His dad added, "Well, we understand you have responsibilities."

Patrice would've liked to be with them in that moment. Why couldn't that have been the day that kept repeating? Why did he have to be here? He knew he wouldn't truly be able to see them, but he asked, "Could I come home soon?"

"Oh," His mother replied without thinking. Patrice could hear whispering between the family. It sounded like they were confirming whether he was really coming or not. Finally, she asked, "Patrice, are you feeling, okay?"

Patrice tried to hold back his own weakness. But he said, "It's been a tough couple of months... work and all. I could use a break."

His mother sweetly replied, "You're welcome home anytime honey. It'll be great to see you. I could make that meal that you love!"

Patrice paused... he wasn't sure what meal she was talking about. But he replied, "That'd be great."

His dad spoke a little too loudly into the phone and said, "I just got a couple new fishing rods! Maybe we could take a trip to the lake like we used to when you were little? I don't know if that'd sound fun to you or not..."

"That'd be great Pa." Patrice replied weakly. Blood was spreading on the floor around him. His vision was getting blurry. With what strength he had left he said, "Hey. Sorry to cut the call short, but I've got to go. But we'll figure out when I can come over later. Is that okay?"

"Of course, honey! Call us whenever you like. We love hearing from you. Love you!" His mother replied eagerly. In the background both his sister and father echoed 'I love you'.

"I-I love you too." Patrice said, hanging up the phone as he did.

His vision was turning into a mess of shapes and colors, and the pain he felt was subsiding. All Patrice could think about in that moment is how he wished he had spent his life differently.

His vision turned into the absence of colors... to nothingness.