Déjà vu

Screams ring in my ears, a beautifully painful cacophony of cries. “PLEASE—”

My eyes flutter open. I’m not shocked or scared. It’s the same dream, just a different person begging this time. I’m used to it. I sit up, my breathing shallow, my body ringing with adrenaline as the hairs on my skin stand. It feels weirdly as if I actually lived that nightmare. Or dream.

I pad toward the bathroom, groggy and dry-mouthed. But the second I step in, I freeze.

The tiles... they’re no longer white.

A deep, wet crimson stains the floor, trailing up the walls in jagged, violent streaks. It pools around the drain like the floor is bleeding. The spotless sink is splattered too, almost like someone tried to wash it off. The worst part? The broken shower nozzle, still faintly dripping in the corner of the tub. Its edges are bent, flecked with rust and something darker... clotted, thicker. As if it had been used for anything but water.

My hands tremble on instinct. My breath catches. But I blink, and it’s gone. Just the clean, white bathroom again. Silent. Innocent.

I grip the sink’s edge, knuckles pale. Why the hell did that feel like home?

Shaking my head, I wash my hands, brush my teeth quickly, and move to the kitchen. My son and wife are chatting, laughing together. A subconscious smile creeps up my cheeks. Looking at them always makes my heart go tender and soft.

“Dad, what’s with that creepy grin?” my son jokes. “You look like those murderers—”

“James! Don’t say that to your father!” my wife reprimands. “For the hundredth time, stop watching those crime documentaries.”

I just laugh it off, unbothered. I sit at the kitchen table and open the newspaper. The main headline says: “A brutal murder. Young male found decapitated and slain in a dumpster. Victim appears to have been hit painfully with a sharp, blunt object… Detective suspects a shower nozzle—bits found lodged in the skull…”

A flash of the blood-drenched bathroom crosses my mind. This time, I see it. A shadowed figure, brutally hitting the man with a shower nozzle.

“Poor guy. His family must be so traumatized,” my wife murmurs, visibly shaken.

But I can only think of how precisely I saw the murder happen. The human brain can truly do wonders. I start eating my breakfast, a fresh plate of eggs, sausages, and toast. My mind drifts again, unable to help itself. What would human meat taste like? Chicken? Beef? Pork, like these sausages?

I mentally slap myself.

Finishing the food, I wave goodbye to my wife and grab my keys. My son follows, backpack in hand. We get into the car. I place my suitcase and his bag in the trunk, and a wave of déjà vu slams into me. Except this time, it’s not bags I’m loading. It’s a man. Bound. Trembling. Eyes wide, glossy with tears, begging through the duct tape.

I see my hand slam the trunk shut, slow and deliberate. No rush. No fear. Just… power. An intoxicating control I didn’t know I missed.

“Dad? Come on! I’ll be late to school!” James urges.

I blink. Hand still on the trunk. Right. Just… bags.

I finally shut the trunk and get into the car. The engine whirs to life with a loud, sickening grinding noise. It sounds disturbingly like the screams I heard in the morning’s dream.

“I think there’s something wrong with the car, it doesn’t normally make these noises,” my son frowns.

I nod silently. The ride isn’t quiet, my son has a habit of talking nonstop. Sometimes, it’s refreshing to see him so lively. Sometimes, I wonder how he’d react if I duct-taped his mouth and threw him in the trunk like the déjà vu I had.

“See you later, buddy,” I smile as he exits the car.

“Dad, you’re giving that same creepy smile,” he mumbles, retrieving his bag and walking away.

I smile wider.

I put the car in reverse, heading to the office. Reaching into the glovebox for my access card, I pause. There are two. Mine… and another, worn, bent, stained in dried, rust-colored red. A pulse of memory sears through me. That shadowed figure again, my hands, jamming the sharp plastic edge of the card along a trembling neck. Not deep enough to kill. Just enough to hurt. The man cried. I think I laughed.

HONK. HONK.

The shrill blast from the car behind jolts me. I’m holding up traffic. I drive again, finally parking at the office. Before getting out, I snap the unfamiliar card in half and toss the pieces before walking in.

The day passes in a daze. I mostly zone out, lost in the twisted thoughts that keep surfacing. I wonder how it would feel to smash my coffee cup into the janitor’s face. Or strangle the uptight employee with the same tie he wears so snug.

“Mr. Killian, I need that revised Miller report on my desk by 8 AM sharp, no delays. And please don’t forget it this time.” My boss snaps me back to reality.

I nod, pulling out my phone to type a reminder, because my memory has never been that reliable. As I type: Miller report by 8 AM, I spot another note from two days ago.

Huh? I don’t remember writing this...

“Don’t forget the rope.”

My thumb hovers. The word “rope” stares back at me, casual. Out of place. And then, the hiss of rough fibers sliding through my palm. A body thrashing. Knuckles burning as I pull tighter. Tighter. A hoarse voice choking out one last plea, “Please… I can’t… I can’t breathe...”

Silence.

I blink. The phone is still in my hand. The office hums around me, untouched.

I silently leave, heading to pick up my son. He jumps into the car, rolling the window down as the sun dips lower.

“How was your day, James?” I ask absentmindedly.

“You know, Dad, I took your laptop for my project today, right?” I nod. “So, I was showing my presentation to Mike, and this weird notification popped up. It had this name, ‘Subject-6.’ I thought it was some tech glitch or, like, your FBI alter ego.” He laughs. “So weird, right?”

I force a laugh back. But inside, everything freezes. Subject-6. I don’t remember any notifications. But I remember my basement. A man, bound. A label taped to his chest: SUBJECT 6.

“Dad? We’re home. Why are you still driving?” James asks suddenly.

I hit the brakes, pulling up. We enter the house. My wife greets me joyfully, but I can only stare at the necklace around her neck, wondering if it would snap if I pulled hard enough. My wife chuckles, “Earth to Killian, come back to us.” We all just laugh.

But all I hear are screams. Funny how shrill noises either hint at joy or pain.

We all head to the kitchen. I silently sit, watching my wife cut into meat with a meat cleaver, noticing how it’s sharp enough to cut skin. My son slams the fridge door too hard and it echoes like the basement door. I shake my head, leaving the kitchen. Maybe I just need to freshen up.

I leave for the bathroom. As I exit, I try to avoid the kitchen, relaxing on the couch and turning on the TV. Suddenly, my phone alarm rings. Weird, I didn’t set an alarm for this hour. The screen flashes:

“Don’t forget to finish what you started.”

I freeze. A sharp chill races down my spine. And then, I remember.

Not a dream. Not a fantasy. Not some figment.

Blood on my hands. Real. Sticky. Warm. A scream dying beneath my grip. Bones cracking under metal. The shower nozzle. The rope. The trunk. Subject-6.

They weren’t nightmares. They were memories. And the worst part? I liked it. The control. The power. The fear. The almost spiritual silence that their screams fed. My hand trembles slightly.

“Dad! Dinner’s ready!” James' voice calls out, sweet and clueless. That same trusting sparkle in his eyes. The same look I remember right before the duct tape.

I nod slowly, leaving the couch. We all sit down. My wife and son are laughing, chatting together. And I smile. Too much. I don’t speak tonight. I just listen. I observe. I plot.

“You’re being weird again. That smile is back,” my son comments for the third time.

But this time, I don’t brush it off.

“You’re right,” I say softly. “I think I’ve finally understood what I’m supposed to do.”

My words are vague. Cryptic. Almost innocent.

“You look like you’re going to murder us,” my son jokes.

Before my wife can cut in to scold him, I stand. I grab the meat cleaver. Smiling. Manically.

“You know what? Good thing you mentioned it… because I planned to.”

I lunge.

(A/N : hello everyone! Thank you for stopping by and reading my little story :D. This is my first time uploading a draft of mine so i sincerely hope you all like it 𖹭𖹭𖹭)