Called the Cops

During the annual awards ceremony, I stepped out for a restroom break. When I returned, my year-end bonus was revoked for allegedly assaulting a new colleague. In my first life, I desperately tried to prove my innocence using my smart bracelet’s motion tracker, but my director refused to believe me. In a struggle, I fell down the stairs and died. In my second life, I avoided the event entirely by calling in sick. Yet police soon surrounded my apartment, accusing me of homicide. The victim’s family stabbed me before I could defend myself. In my third life, I livestreamed from a public square to secure an alibi. Still, police arrested me with security footage showing me stabbing the colleague at the gala. I was executed days later. I’ve lost track of how many lives I’ve lived through this. This time, I walked straight into the gala, held a knife to the new colleague’s throat, and declared, “You’re being kidnapped.” … My sudden move sent a shockwave of terror through my colleagues. The director just chuckled, spreading his hands. “Is this some kind of avant-garde performance for the gala?” He took a tentative step toward me. “Clara, even a performance has its limits. This is going to give people the wrong impression about our company’s culture.” Flashes of a hundred different deaths flickered before my eyes. I could almost feel the phantom pains tearing through me again. A raw scream tore from my throat. “Stay back! One more step and I’ll do it!” To prove my point, I pressed the blade harder. A thin red line appeared on the new colleague’s neck. He let out a pained cry, and the room erupted in gasps of genuine horror. The reality of the situation finally sank in. This was a real kidnapping. Everyone scrambled backward. The director’s face went pale, sweat beading on his forehead. “Clara, calm down! We can talk about this, whatever it is!” But I’d tried talking. I’d tried in my very first life. I had the company’s latest, top-of-the-line sports watch, and I showed them the complete motion trajectory. During the five minutes I was gone from the gala, I had only gone to the bathroom. And yet, every single one of my colleagues swore they saw me beating the new guy to a pulp in those same five minutes. My desperate explanations were useless. Not far away, my director was pacing frantically. “Clara is usually so gentle. And this new guy isn’t even in her department.” “They have no reason to be enemies. What is she doing?” Exactly! I wanted to scream in agreement. I barely knew this guy. Our interactions were limited to polite nods in the breakroom. On top of that, he was a man, and I’ve been so shy my whole life I’ve hardly even spoken to men I wasn’t related to. There was no professional conflict, and certainly no romantic entanglement. So why? Why, in every single life, did another version of me appear out of thin air, hell-bent on killing him? It made no sense! Thinking of this, I looked expectantly at the colleague dialing 911. “Have you called them? Make sure you tell them it’s an emergency.” The colleague on the phone just stared at me, bewildered. “Isn’t Clara the kidnapper?” Once I was sure the police were on their way, I put my menacing mask back on. “Everyone, get back! Or he’s going to get hurt. And turn on the main lights!” Terrified I’d harm their colleague, they did as I said. The colorful stage lights went out, replaced by the stark white of the overhead fluorescents. Now I could finally see the new colleague’s face clearly. He had a quiet, handsome face, the kind that looked utterly harmless. He was currently cowering in front of me, his body rigid, his eyes swimming with tears. “Where are you from?” I asked him. “Where did you go to college?” He choked out the names of two cities I’d never heard of, confirming my suspicions. Our lives had absolutely no intersection. The frustration of countless failed loops washed over me, and my own sense of injustice was just as strong as his fear. “So,” I asked, “why do you think I’m kidnapping you?” He froze, then gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head. “I don’t know.” Right! Neither of the people involved could understand it, yet it kept happening, over and over again. In the endless lives that followed, no matter how I tried to hide or run, in that bizarre five-minute window, I would appear at his side and brutally take his life. And there was always unshakable, irrefutable proof that I was the killer. The wail of sirens grew closer. My resolve hardened. This time, I was going to find the truth. I was going to save both of us. The police were already downstairs. The sound of heavy footsteps was approaching. The director was still trying to reason with me. “This is the company gala! Whatever grudge you have, why air it out here?” His words hit me like a lightning bolt. Why at the gala? And in every life, the time the other me killed him was always during that same five-minute window at the company gala. It was always the same. 9:00 PM to 9:05 PM. I turned to the new colleague. “Does the time from 9:00 to 9:05 mean anything special to you?” This time, he didn’t answer right away. He stared into space for a few seconds, then shook his head, his expression strangely unnatural. I knew it instantly. Something was off. There’s more to this! But before I could press him further, the doors burst open. Because the call had reported a knife-point kidnapping, the police were armed with tasers and firearms. I saw the dark, gaping barrels of their guns pointed at me. My mind flashed with the memory of a bullet piercing my skull, a recurring finale in many of my past lives. A violent shudder ran through me. I bit my tongue, the sharp pain barely enough to steady my nerves. “Don’t move! Anyone comes closer, he gets another cut!” The lead officer frowned, his voice firm but controlled. “Ma’am, whatever your grievances are, we can talk about them. You don’t have to resort to extreme measures!” How could I talk? Tell them I’ve been reborn countless times, trapped on the night of the annual gala? They wouldn’t believe me. They’d just see a killer. I took a deep breath, using the new colleague as a human shield, and backed my way onto the awards stage. It was the most visible spot in the entire venue. If running away would never solve the problem, then I would face it head-on. Let’s just see. This time, I’m not leaving. I’m staying right here with him. Let’s see if that other me, the one who appears from nowhere, still comes to kill him. And these police officers would be my witnesses. My heart hammered in my chest. I kept glancing at the clock. In that moment of distraction, a young officer slipped behind the stage curtain. While my eyes were on the time, he lunged. Every officer is professionally trained. He slapped the knife from my hand with expert precision and had me pinned in seconds. “Take the suspect into custody! As for the victim, get him home safely and have a trauma counselor sent over!” My eyes were bloodshot as I screamed, “No! I can’t be separated from him!” The officers exchanged glances, clearly pegging me as some kind of obsessive stalker. I grabbed the lead officer’s arm, my explanation tumbling out in a frantic, desperate torrent. “He’s going to die after nine o’clock! You have to believe me! You need to protect him!” The officer sneered. “The only danger to him here is you.” “Cuff her. Take her away!” Cold metal snapped around my wrists, and I was completely powerless. The stares and whispers of my colleagues were a crushing weight. But then, with a thud, I dropped to my knees in front of the officer. “Someone who looks exactly like me is going to appear and kill him. I’m begging you, please, believe me…” I was sobbing, a deep, hopeless sound. The experience of death is a terrible, terrible thing. And I had experienced it more times than I could count. A female officer seemed moved by my despair. She tried to soothe me. “There’s no such thing as a perfect double. You’ll be at the station. You won’t be anywhere near him.” “Even if something did happen to him, we would be your alibi.” But would they? I slumped to the floor, my eyes vacant with despair. “No. You won’t.” In one life, to clear my name, I’d gotten myself arrested for shoplifting. But the moment the clock struck 9:00 PM, the officers on duty at the station all passed out, and the security cameras malfunctioned. Miles away, at the gala, the other me appeared. And now, these officers were dragging me out, pushing me toward the door. Knowing that I had failed to change his fate again, a wail of utter despair escaped me. But then, a voice cut through the noise from behind me. “Wait. You can’t take her.”