November 3rd, 2043

Morning. Will you be my friend, Reader? I hope so. I'm going to talk to you during this little story. It's much better that way.

Sunlight poured into my room and filled it with a feeling. You know about it. It's that warm fuzzy feeling that people usually feel on sunny winter days. Excuse me, let me correct myself. MOST people usually feel. For me, I lost that feeling around Iteration 17. (I'll tell you what that is later.) My eyes creaked open. Slowly. Painfully. And, so began the process of waking my body up in sections. Wasn't the best feeling in the world.

Once I had accomplished the feat of getting out of my very comfy bed, I grabbed my coat and walked out the house. I know what you're thinking. "What a slob. Didn't clean up at all." And, I'd do something about that... if I cared. But, I stopped caring about my hygenic needs around Iteration 34.

I walked out into the Gardinia Plaza. Instantly, bad memories from Iteration 42 came flooding back. The blood filled the cobblestone streets and dyed them a light crimson. But, this was another hallucination. Focus, Daniel, focus.

I needed to be careful.

I needed to make sure that I could still pass as normal. Even though I was anything but. I lost my sanity during Iteration 2. If you saw a duplicate of yourself, you'd go mad too. Especially when you can't tell anyone about it. (This society - my society - throws any abnormal people into psych bins.)

But, I can tell you, Reader. Yes, my one true friend... I can tell you. You must understand... today is November 3rd. And, it always has been November 3rd. Every night at 11:59:59 pm, I've stepped backwards in time. To the beginning of the day. Specifically, 12:00:00 am, November 3rd.

I can't stop. I've tried. Multiple times. I've chained myself down, put myself into a coma, even killed myself... Nothing. I wake up in my room again. Like nothing ever happened. Except something did happen. Because I remember. I remember every iteration of November 3rd. To me, that is how I count my days. Iterations.

This time, I had a plan. The last Iteration, I talked to an old gypsy who knew of this. It was some sort of curse (Curse of the Timewalker, she said?) and that it was a very powerful one at that. She also said that old magic like this wouldn't be broken easily and that I would have to seek out panacrea, a miracle herb that could cure all ailments and when administered properly, can break all enchantments. So, this Iteration, I set out to find this magic herb.

I had talked to another source that Iteration and word of mouth was that the herb was on the top of the Spindle, a steep and treacherous mountain north of Gardinia that punished anyone that made the mistake of climbing it. At least that what the lore was. But, the mountain didn't scare me.

No.

My biggest fear were the afterimages. Those damn afterimages. The afterimages of myself left behind when I stepped through time. Each one of these images want to kill me (the gypsy said something about my insanity manifesting as them or that my insanity was them... I didn't remember). And, they were as tangible as the stone I stepped on, each armed with the last thing I was holding. One from Iteration 13 has a knife (fittingly), Iteration 57 has a book, Iteration 62 has a cardboard tube... but, there's one that I fear. Iteration 42. He has my father's gun from when I went on a killing spree that day. If I ran into him...

I couldn't imagine it. I ran faster.

I came to a point on the mountain where the walkway ended and it became a straight vertical climb on porcupine-quilled rock formations. Mustering all of my strength, I began to climb the spire.

Each step could have been my last. Each handhold could be an unstable one. If I lost control now, I'd have another dead afterimage after me. That's the last thing I need. Another afterimage keeping me from this cure. My hand scrambles to a ledge above me and I pull myself up.

This was it. I could see the panacrea from here. But, I saw something else too.

Just as my head peeks over the ledge, I see 42.

Fuckin' Iteration 42... holding my father's gun. And, as I look into the barrel of the gun, my hopes vanish into oblivion. There wasn't a point anymore. 42 would end me. Fast. And then, it would be...

Morning. Will you be my friend, Reader? I hope so. I'm going to talk to you during this little story. It's much better that way.