Page 57 of Only You
‘No,’ Jones said quickly, even as he felt the telltale signs of a migraine forming. ‘I’m fine.’
Ross’s brows furrowed and, for once, he wished his friend didn’t know so much about his health. ‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m good.’ He peaked at his phone, noticing the time. ‘And we gotta go. It’s been over an hour.’
The next day Jones sat on the floor of his apartment, fiddling with a Rubik’s Cube as he finished his daily Sudoku on his phone. He leaned his head against his bed as he tossed the device aside.
He was still battling the migraine from the day before; even walking around his apartment was difficult. In that way, he was lucky he had nowhere to be and there was food prepped in his fridge. It was the small things that made his days easier. Despite his pounding head and wobbly steps, he made sure to complete his daily routine. After the puzzles, he ran through the scales on his piano before switching to guitar. If he felt well enough, he would practise a song or try composing.
Today was not one of those days. Today, all he wanted to do was lay down and let all his memories be as troublesome as they wanted. He contemplated his situation as he ran his fingers over the strings of his acoustic guitar, the soft sound resonating through the room.
He would like to believe he was a laid-back person. ‘Live and let God’ was his favourite motto growing up. He didn’t hold grudges or stay down too long; he’d seen the consequences of that through enough lifetimes.
Now, however, he was getting worried. It felt like his grip on reality was loosening. More and more, he struggled to remember what needed to be done tomorrow or the next day, while his past lives were clearer than ever. Some days, he didn’t know who he was waking up as. Just a few days ago, he was throwing punches as soon as he woke up, readying for a match that didn’t exist. The day before, his head filled with details about a wedding dress and linens.
A shiver went through him, the chill of fear filling him. What would happen at the end of it all? Who would he be? What would he become? Would he lose himself to a different personality? At this point, what was he even fighting for?
Us.
He rubbed his forehead as his headache intensified. His first instinct was to make yet another doctor’s appointment but that wouldn’t help. He knew the symptoms and the timeline. If he were to keep up his habits, stay with his memory exercises and was just plain lucky, he would have at least another decade to live. The problem then became that, according to his past lives, hewasn’tlucky. Two months ago, he wouldn’t have been bothered by this but now there was a renewed sense of dread every time he thought about his early demise.
Suddenly, a long-forgotten melody crept into his mind. He frowned even as he pulled his guitar into his lap, unable to resist the urge. As soon as his fingers touched the strings, the music fell out of him, as if he had played the song yesterday instead of seven years ago after his diagnosis.
The piece was a swan song, an ode to a man lost long ago. Originally, he had written it for a summer music programme audition. In his essay, he had described it as a reminder to never give up, to go out fighting. The answer was cliché, but everyone loved it and the piece.
However, as he played the song now, he didn’t think of fighting. Instead, what came to mind was the moment when he looked someone in the eye, and they gave him permission to give up.
The relief that came with it.
As if trying to physically push that thought out of his mind, he played harder and louder.
Yet, the memory remained.
Chapter Twenty
London
May 1915
Sarah focused on breathing in and out. Despite the smoke in their air that made it feel like someone was trying to choke her, she breathed. She filled her lungs and relaxed, thankful there was another breath to take. She did so until another wave of pain shot through her side, knocking the air out of her. Gritting her teeth, she curled into herself.
Nineteen and her life was already over.
‘Keep pressing,’ the man, David Wright, barked.
Sarah huffed and pressed harder against her side. She gasped, shuddering as the pain radiated through her chest, but kept the wound covered half-heartedly. Slowly, she blinked as she watched him board up the window.
As if there weren’t Zeppelins outside and people panicking every which way. As if they weren’t in the middle of a war.
‘A pointless one at that,’ she mumbled. She felt herself drifting in and out of consciousness, David’s thundering footsteps bringing her back.
‘I keep telling you to press on your wound,’ he barked, putting his hand over hers and pressing roughly. She cried out. ‘Get over it,’ he said, looking around the room. ‘I’ll see if I can find a cloth.’
‘It won’t help,’ she mumbled.
Ignoring her, he looked and continued his search. The previous residents had been away from home, long gone by the time she and David had scrambled inside after the raids. The cupboards and closet doors were open with suitcases nowhere in sight. She could even make out spots on the wall where pictures were missing. She rolled her eyes.
Who was taking pictures at the end of the world?
