Raymond Reyes falls for the wife of the man he traveled back in time to replace. He's planned his mission to the minute, yet he finds himself unprepared to meet the woman all his files are wrong about. History wants to repeat itself -- Raymond is ju...
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Raymond
Leaving Claire in bed, Raymond switched to the Wesley autopilot the moment he got in the car. His new life spread out in front of him like a map of checkpoints. Next up, at 8:56 PM, Claire would get out of the bathroom naked and they'd reenact a rape simulation scene. Just another day of fake history.
Since their next encounter would be weeks later, Raymond knew they had to get it right. Not only for the timeline -- separate, standalone events were better saved in the History Logs -- but for himself. It would be a long wait.
But first, he had to go to work. As most 2019 humans did, on Mondays.
The entire Sunday, he'd explained to Claire some time traveling basics, starting with his clothes sorting system, as she didn't have a modern brain to extract information from. So he'd arranged her dresses in the order she would wear them, shoes underneath. It took him seconds to rearrange everything, her watching him amused from the bed.
"I'm not sure how much it matters," he'd explained, "But let's strive to be as close as possible."
It took away from her free will, but she didn't seem to mind, having lived with Wesley for so long. Dinner would be indicated by a Post-It on the fridge which he'd leave every morning. Because her days were so similar when alone in the house, all she had to do was live some of her days like that, a very simple outline that she already knew by heart. The rest, she could do something else. Read, watch TV, she didn't care.
The glitch had ended by Sunday night, so they'd slept like the Wesleys, back to back -- well-deserved, after a too acrobatic weekend.
"I'll be back at 6:17 PM."
Claire turned around without answering, happy to sleep more.
Tony Wesley's workdays were unimaginably dull, even with Raymond's restless mind actively compensating. Harsh words, unnecessarily combative, kept coming out of his mouth. Making his co-workers avoid him, none of them really certain why. Because Wesley would switch gears, be friendly again when he felt he'd lost their admiration.
At six PM sharp, Tony Wesley slammed the door on his way out, in a hurry to get home to his wife. In the underground parking, the autopilot already knew the way home, every light change, every pedestrian crossing its path. Seventeen minutes, enough time to read about the ocean, never seen in real life. Raymond could live like that. Maybe get to the ocean when the next glitch hit.
By then, even if caught, they'd most likely be left to their own devices if they could prove they'd not altered anything else in the timeline. Maybe even allowed to live their own way, provided that they'd keep a low profile all their lives, not making meaningful connections outside of the two of them. Raymond didn't mind, and Claire had already made peace with her introversion.
It took a while for him to notice the car hadn't moved at all. The autopilot was on pause. And not paused by Raymond, it was an admin revoking his rights. The Claire Wesley folder, inaccessible. Elevated rights needed.
Raymond recognized Ti in the passenger seat, as comfortable as a snail whose shell had been stepped on.
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Claire
Waking up at noon was a first for Claire -- although she usually got out of bed at that time.
She opened the closet door, white dresses lined up for her. Matching shoes underneath, the occasional contrasting accent like the red heel or a silver strap. Claire got dressed in under two minutes, one of the few things she used to appreciate about herself, realizing it was only because Tony always commented on how easy she made his life because of it.
Her shopping sprees had all been pre-planned: she needed to buy the same clothes, on the same dates. Luckily, she bought her clothes exclusively online, in bulk, so Raymond would leave her a list, the days she'd have to. She would still have to look them out and buy them. Mindless, but other people had actual jobs.
She started dinner at a little past five, making a smaller portion of steak since Raymond wouldn't eat it.
6:17 PM, everything was ready.
So when the familiar headlights failed to light up the windows, Claire feared the worst. Raymond was very specific about time. Very strict about deadlines. Never lying. He knew she'd worry.
Claire fell on the couch, anxiety climbing her insides like a worm in a rotten apple. Smelling like vinegar. Like alcohol.
Scenarios of what might've happened flashed through her head. Best case, an accident. Worst, he got caught. Which meant Claire got caught.
Or did she? Claire had no idea what was possible for "modern humans" to do to her. She was still there, so maybe they didn't know she was an accomplice. Which meant they'd try to fool her. The thought of meeting another version of the man she loved made Claire crave a shot of vodka.
By eight, Claire had a new place to think, facing the high cabinets. One wooden door standing between her and obliviousness.
She would never drink again, he'd assured her. Not once, not even accidentally.
Peripherally, the geometrical lines of the couch -- to be kept immaculate for its entire run in Claire's house -- echoed how wrong he'd been.
A new fear crept in, that somehow it had all been a delirium tremens-induced hallucination, and Tony would show up at eleven, smelling like lilies, in one of his moods. Maybe making her go upstairs, afraid to set him off, realizing too late she already had.
There was nothing that could force her to live like that again.
Claire stared at the couch, reminded of how her red dress had stained it for quite some time. It was probably her fault they'd got caught. Left alone one day, she'd ruined everything.
Grabbing at the hems of her Marilyn Monroe white dress, Claire took it off in one swift move.
The audacity of not being immediately told what was happening to her made her hands tremble, but it was easy for her to control her movements. So many years of practice.
She would get those "modern humans" to talk to her, even if it was to spit in their faces. They wanted to keep Claire away from Raymond, think she'd go down without a fight? They didn't know that she hadn't fought for herself once. They didn't know what she could do.
But first, she opened the cabinet. Her fingers hesitated in choosing the one alcoholic drink she couldn't drink, room-temperature red wine. It looked like blood to her. Unsealed, because of course it was Tony's favourite drink, so she took the cork out on her way to the couch. Methodically, she poured it on the plushy pillows. The entire bottle, throwing it emptied at the wall, hitting her wedding portrait.
She went to the kitchen to get the biggest knife she could find, washed by her only a few hours before. She let it drop in her purse as she went for the stairs. Passing the broken photo of identical bright smiles, taken by a professional photographer, perfectly centered, made brighter by Photoshop.
Her fists clenched at the reminder she didn't have a picture with Raymond. They'd thought they'd have enough time.
