“This side of you, Joshua,” I choked out, “is truly disgusting.”
The journal slipped from my grasp and fell at his feet.
He picked it up, his eyes filled with loathing. “You think this piece of junk can make me stay?” he snarled. “Every time I see the wor- ds in here, I remember that I once loved you, and it makes me sick. It’s humiliating.”
“Give it back to me!” ! cried.
He dodged my hand, clutching the journal tight. “You want it?” he sneered.
The next thing I knew, he was tearing the journal to shreds, right in front of my eyes. “Here!” he yelled, flinging the pieces into the
air. “You can have it!”
I sank to the floor, watching the shredded paper flutter down around me like toxic snow,
And then, I started to laugh. A wild, unhinged sound that grew louder and louder.
It was over.
This time, for real. It was all over.
My laughter seemed to enrage him further. The veins on his forehead bulged. “Mila almost had a miscarriage because of you, and
you’re laughing? You slut!”
A murderous glint entered his eyes. He grabbed a steak knife from a nearby plate and lunged at me.
But the pain I was expecting never came.
One drop, then two…
Warm liquid splattered onto my face, carrying with it the metallic tang of blood.
Vinnered my eyes The knife inches from my chest was caught in a bloody hand
Chapter 2
16 02
My gaze traveled up the arm to the face of the person who had appeared in front of me. It was the seventeen–year–old Joshua.
His abdomen was wrapped in a bloody bandage. His eyes were red, his expression shifting from rage to confusion, to disbelief, and finally, to utter despair as he stared at his thirty–year–old self.
His right hand was clenched around the sharp blade. Blood dripped from his palm onto my face, blooming like a beautiful, deadly
poppy.
“You… you’re…” The thirty–year–old Joshua stared at the boy who was his mirror image, only younger, more innocent. He looked as if he’d been struck by lightning. The knife clattered to the floor. He stumbled backward into a chair, his face ashen, unable to process
what he was seeing.
The seventeen–year–old Joshua turned to me, a faint, pained smile on his lips. “Viv,” he whispered, “I told you, I’d protect you…”
Before he could finish, his form flickered and dissolved into smoke.
I sat there, stunned, unable to believe what had just happened.
Only Mila’s terrified scream broke the silence. “Joshua! Your hand! Why is there a scar on your hand?”
The thirty–year–old Joshua snapped out of his stupor. He looked down at his own palm. His eyes widened, his pupils contracting to
pinpricks. He started to tremble.
“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “That’s impossible. I don’t have a scar on my hand…”
He trailed off, clutching his head again, sucking in a sharp breath of pain. The memory of his younger self grabbing the knife, the searing pain of the blade slicing through flesh, was now his own. And with it, came the scar.
“How can this be? Why do I have this memory?” he yelled, his eyes wild, the veins in his neck standing out. He looked like he was on the verge of a complete breakdown.
“Joshua, what’s wrong with you?” Mila cried, grabbing his arm, her eyes wide with fear. She shot me a hateful glare, as if this were
somehow my doing.
The shock slowly began to recede. I carefully put my pen away, picked up my purse, and walked out of the coffee shop. The divorce
papers were signed. There was no reason to stay.
