Page 102 of Irreversible

Notallowingit to be torture is how I rebel.

“You’re a sad, sorry motherfucker, you know that?” The Viking’s deep voice is garbled as he chews what smells like a greasy fast-food burger. My empty stomach twists painfully, but I refuse to acknowledge him.

She doesn’t have much time.

It’s just me and Sara now. Holding a vigil, as she waits for the end.

She knows what comes next. I can see it as the minutes drain in a slow stream of sand. As her uneven breathing and restless fingers turn into drooping shoulders and a slow drizzle of tears.

Then, finally, as the level in the hourglass drops to less than half, she raises her chin, straightens her spine, and takes a deep breath. Her eyes drift closed.

Another breath, then two, and she begins to sing.

Though all but a few higher notes are too soft for the camera to pick up, I can see it in the way she throws her head back, rocking back and forth to the rhythm.

Through the wet blur in front of my eyes, I can almost picture her on an empty stage, illuminated by a single spotlight as she plays her acoustic guitar with that blue pick that matches her dress. The one I gave her all those years ago, for her birthday.

The one that made her decide there was something in me worth saving.

Her tears flow freely through closed lashes, soaking flushed cheeks and dripping from her chin. But there’s a fierce resolution in her expression. The knowledge that she fought as hard as she could, and when she saw the inevitable end, she chose to meet it on her own terms. Peacefully, with the thing she loved most.

Music.

The air burns my lungs, every breath pushing my chest against the unforgiving straps that hold me to this chair. They say life flashes before your eyes when you know you’re about to die, and I don’t know if that’s what she saw as she sang, but it’s what I see now.

The life of Sara Carlisle plays like a movie on fast-forward in my head, slowing at the part that changed the trajectory of my own.

“I won’t let you kill yourself this way, Isaac.” She storms over to the couch where I lie and yanks the whisky bottle from my loose grip. In a daze, I follow her to the kitchen, where she’s pouring the contents of several bottles into the sink. “I’ve been here a month, and you’ve done this every single night.”

“Why does it matter?” I don’t bother stopping her. Getting more is easy.

“It matters—” She spins to face me, her eyes ferocious. “Because you bought into a lie that you’re inherently bad, and now you’re on a mission to destroy yourself. And I’m sick of it.”

Sliding onto the barstool, I rest my head on the countertop. She’s wrong.

“I called Tanner.” The bottlesclinkas she tosses them into the trash. “He said it’s been like this for the last year, but that you won’t listen to him, either.”

“I’m fine at work. I only drink at night.”

“That’s not the point. You can’t keep going like this.”

I roll my head and look at her through a haze. “Why am I letting you stay here again?”

“Well, I thought it was because I needed a place temporarily, but now I suspect it’s because you need to hear the truth.”

“Whatever you say.”

Her eyes narrow. “You have a purpose in this world, Isaac Porter, and this isn’t it.” Grabbing my keys off the counter, she pulls on my arm. “There’s a meeting a few blocks away that starts in an hour. I’m driving.”

I’ll humor her, but I don’t plan to stop. I enjoy being numb too much.

Still, I let her take me to that meeting, and the one after that, because maybe…

Maybe I hope she’s right.

Sara’s door opens.

The Timekeeper walks into the room.

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