(AAA…) BOREDOM

Taylor Hebert died.

Again.

Sight, sound, even thought drained away, leaving only the inevitability of nothingness pressing down on her from all sides. And then, as though no time had passed—as if someone had blinked the universe back into place—she was breathing again and cursed to open her eyes to the same scene: hospital sheets beneath her, sterile air in her lungs, and Sophia looming above.

Sometimes it was the knife in her throat. Sometimes it was hands crushing her windpipe. Once, it had been the shattering agony of glass as she plummeted from the window. Each time was fresh, and each time varied, the deaths etching its own lingering signature that clung to her even after she woke.

The first few times, Taylor had screamed, fought, and clawed at Sophia’s wrists with all the desperate strength her sluggish body could muster. She had begged and tried to reason, her voice breaking as she promised anything, everything, if only she could be spared. Who wouldn’t? Death wasn’t something the rational mind could brace against. It wasn’t just the terror of finality but the raw animal panic that came with it, the body’s instinctive refusal to go quietly.

And despite dying many times now, it wasn’t a sensation she could dull herself to, or build tolerance to, no matter how often she lied to herself she could endure it. Pain was pain, and the mind always believed in it, even when she knew she’d wake again. Worse, perhaps, was the knowledge that it never mattered what she did. Screaming, pleading, and bargaining only postponed the inevitable, never averted it.

So by the tenth death, the fear had dulled into something colder.

It wasn't really acceptance, but something else, an exhaustion that reached into her marrow. She stopped flinching when she opened her eyes to see Sophia’s face over her. She stopped pleading when the knife flashed in front of her eyes or when gloved hands forced her head back against the pillow. Desperate struggle had become a reflex that accomplished nothing, so even as the endings came—messy, brutal, and increasingly absurd—Taylor found herself staring past Sophia, trying to think.

Because that was the problem, wasn’t it?

This wasn’t really random cruelty. Sophia Hess was a bully, yes, a violent, mean-spirited girl who pushed and shoved and laughed at the bruises she left behind. But murder? This relentless, fevered butchery? That wasn’t Sophia. Or, if it was, it was a version Taylor had never seen before. No, what stood above her each loop wasn’t just a bully in a mask. It was a girl stripped of the smug cruelty she knew, cornered, frantic, and now left utterly unrecognizable. 

Taylor saw the signs in the small, terrifying details: the tremor in Sophia’s hand when she drew the blade, the way her voice cracked even as she spat the threats, and the frantic swivel of her head as if she half-expected someone else to burst through the door and stop her. There was calculation there, and even anger—self-righteous and undoubtedly stupid anger—but beneath all that, she was also afraid.

And fear, in a cruel inversion, made her more dangerous.

Sophia’s problem wasn’t just Taylor. It was the world closing in on her, and the inevitability of exposure. The PRT had looked the other way before, maybe, but they couldn’t cover this forever. A Ward tied to something as ugly and public as the locker incident? That was a career-killer. Worse, it might even mean consequences, the kind Sophia couldn’t dodge or intimidate into silence.

That was what she feared. That was why she killed Taylor, again and again and again.

It didn’t matter that Taylor understood this. It didn’t matter that she told herself, loop after loop, this isn’t really her, she doesn’t want this, she’s just spooked. After all, knowing why someone killed you didn’t make dying any less horrible. It didn't lessen the agony of the stab, or the panic of air forced from your lungs, or the cold shock when your world goes black. It didn't make the situation any less fucked up, any less traumatic.  

But the knowledge changed the shape of Taylor’s own fear, and put a face to the motive. This wasn't mindless hatred, but terrified self-preservation. It made the killings comprehensible, if not a little forgivable.

The thought carried her through another cycle, and she forced herself to be calm as Sophia moved, as the loops carried her to the inevitable. She no longer fought or even moved. She only watched, eyes heavy with something that wasn’t quite pity but not anger either.

It unnerved Sophia. Taylor could see it, even as black dots swam at the edges of her vision. And as the girl’s denial grew more visible, her hands balled into fists, her head shook wildly, and increasingly desperate disjointed pleas to herself left her lips.  

“No. No—this isn’t—” Sophia’s voice broke into a series of short, strangled sounds as she pressed on with what had become ritual violence. The more Taylor did nothing, the more Sophia’s panic showed through the anger. The more her words became garbled, almost incoherent. 

“This isn’t—no, no—shut up! SHUT UP!” 

Taylor exhaled, a soft sigh that cooled the sticky warmth of the blood beneath her cheeks, though it was drowned out by the slurred hysteria of Sophia’s noise. The loop was about to end, Taylor knew. And still, her last thoughts were of how strangely uncomfortable she felt in this ending, as if even dying had become tedious.

Because what was honestly the point?

She would wake again, in the same bed, with the same sheets beneath her, and the same visage leaning over her.

Always.