Replay: A Lifetime Nightmare by Rosie Li (California, 14)

A routine — the most basic and fundamental word that drives all of our lives. The word that is in
a constant replay in our minds, the thought clinging in our souls. A routine. The basic actions
that fill our day, the mornings that go along all so quietly. The same actions that we complete, the
same sight we see — our life is on replay.

            Day after day, I wake up again, longing to see the afterlife once again, only to touch the
            sunlight with my hands, my pale lips that kiss the golden hour. I touch the freezing mirror
            that stares into my soul, showing nothing but a reflection of failure, and no more.
​​
I was once one of those children, those who pined for attention, who vied for every ounce of
validation I could even scavenge from such bare-faced compliments and approving grins I so
desperately needed. And of all those people, my parents’ validation was a necessity that drove
my life forward, a necessity born of the desperation coursing through my veins — no, my
lifeblood. And there, in the shadows, my hidden self that was never unveiled — like a black
crow caged in golden wires — I attempt, with no great success, to hide my pent up anger and
frustration... but I am not them anymore. I am not my past, naive self as I have learned that the
only reward from that is desperation, feeling like your body is being drowned in the water as you
want to reach for the hidden light in the dark depths of the pool.

            I was once one of those children, those who did what my parents told, those who lived up
            to their expectations. It did not last long when my facade had disappeared, my anger that
            rose and fell, my emotions swirling out of control. The hidden monster in me leapt out, a
            raging cry that stepped out of my throat — The silent tears that slip down my face at
            night as I bury my face into my pillow, grasping the reality of this situation.
​
​​I stare deep into the mirror, thoughts that spiral from one to the other. I touch the skin on my face
— Am I real? I wish not, yet this hope of mine will never be fulfilled, my longing for death. A
simple, quick, painless death, which I question myself why I had dove into the scarlet-colored,
endless ocean to suffocate — one which is a more complicated, slow, and painful death.

Days ago, or possibly weeks, months, years, or decades ago, I had leaped. Or, so I thought. A
blurry, hazy dream from the distant past — yet I remember the kiss of the cold breezes against
my cheeks, the tears that none were shed, my mouth clenching in the water, to not breathe,
breathe, breathe. I held my breath as if my life depended on this one moment — to die, die, die.

I opened my eyes only slightly, and I knew I touched the afterlife for a brief moment as the
blinding shadows surrounded me, an oh-so familiar moment — the golden light in the sea that
dimmed, the shadows clouding my eyes — I shut them, letting myself wander into my deathbed.

​            After that hour, I discovered that I would go on to complete that whole day’s routine,
            where I dive into the sea, my body never found again. After that slow and painful death
            would I somehow awake the very next day, finding myself in bed, no pain in my lungs. I
            admit to myself that this is a horror, being stuck in a time loop. A walking corpse, I
            named myself, as everyday after my death would I find myself at ease, at peace — But
            there was no peace in this time loop, as the only to witness in first person perspective
            jumping off the bridge — A nightmare, a nightmare, a lifetime nightmare!

            “Day after day, I jumped from the same bridge, my body plunging into the roaring sea,
            the bloody sea, the sea full of red, with all of my previous bodies that sank down to the
            abyss. Those bodies, those bodies were from all the times I dove into the red sea, and
            counting.”

​​​A routine — the most elaborate and complex word that drives all of our lives. The word that
replays in our minds, the thought soon detaching from our souls. A routine. The complicated
actions that fill our night, the late evenings that go along all so noisily. The same jumps that we
take, the blood that we do not see — our life is on replay.



Rosie is an amateur 14-year old writer and poet from California who enjoys contemplating the near future.