Attempt 196

By Sara M. Garringer

What would you do if some random guy came up to you saying the day is repeating and go with him if you want to live? Well, if you’re anything like Laura Anne, you’d drop-kick the schmuck and go about your day. Because who in their right mind would ever believe such a cockamamie story? Okay, sure, it is a little weird this guy seems to pop up out of nowhere anytime Laura is in danger. And he does seem to know an awful lot of very specific secrets she doesn’t remember telling anybody about. But all that is just coincidence.

Because to believe his story is to believe that he has been trapped in this endless Tuesday for hundreds of days.

Because to believe his story is to believe that Laura has already died hundreds of times.

Attempt 196

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sara M. Garringer
• Release date: Mar 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9780985368630

Sara M. Garringer

Indie AuthorOccasional doodlerProud bearer of the Nerd BadgeTrekkie by MarriageLiving embodiment of irony—love Spider-Man, terrified of spidersI've been writing since the 3rd grade and it's the only thing I've ever wanted to do with my life. I'm happily married with one son.Twitter: @saragarringerInstagram: @saragarringer

Book preview

Attempt 196

by Sara M. Garringer

Copyright 2023 Garringer Publishing

Second Edition. January 24, 2023

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share the book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Attempt 181

Attempt 14

Attempt 1

Attempt 77

Attempt 22

Attempt 91

Attempt 5

Attempt 83

Attempt 139

Attempt 60

Attempt 196

Tuesday

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Additional Works

Contact the Author

Disclaimer

This story contains references to assault, substance abuse, and self-harm as well as depictions of graphic violence, PTSD, suicide, and other subjects some may find disturbing. Discretion is advised.

Attempt 181

There are three things that—if you see them first thing in the morning—can seriously screw up your entire day right from the get-go. In no particular order: a spider in the shower after you’ve already gone in and started washing up. A huge pimple right in the center of your face where no amount of hair-carpentry and mousse can cover without making you look like Cousin It.

And, finally, a gun.

Okay, maybe I lied and there should be a particular order.

He’s standing in front of a small black two-seater—I don’t know cars, sorry—wearing a grey hoodie covering the top half of his face and black skinny jeans and sneakers. He’s on the short side compared to other guys; maybe a couple inches taller than me. And thin, really thin. Like when puberty hit, it only hit length-wise.

Get in the car, he has to repeat since I didn’t react once I saw the gun aimed at my chest. Now.

No.

His jaw drops in surprise. Wait, what?

No, I am not getting in your car.

For a few seconds, his lips move without forming words. But I…I have a gun. He waves the piece at me as though I hadn’t already seen it.

Rule Number One: you never get in the car with a psycho. That’s how you wind up in somebody’s sex dungeon or-or with pieces of you sewn onto pieces of somebody else. If I just scream right now the worst thing you can do is shoot me. I’ll take that over being a Human Centipede any day.

My would-be abductor lets out an exasperated sigh, momentarily lowering the gun. Are those the only things you watch? Disgusting BDSM horror slasher movies and anime? Jesus.

I frown at him. Who said anything about anime?

Seeming to suddenly remember what he was doing, the guy levels his gun at me again and says, in a hard tone, Fine, if you want me to shoot you, I’ll shoot you. And after that, I’ll go inside your house and kill Alison. Is that what you want?

My blood runs cold. In all likelihood, this jerk-off is just bluffing in order to get me in his car. But the fact that he said my sister’s name and not something generalized like your family makes me fear the worst.

No doubt seeing my resolve wavering, he cocks his head toward the open passenger door and once again says, Get in the car.

Biting my lower lip to mask its trembling, I gather up my shoulder bag and slide into the seat. He immediately shuts the door and jogs around to the driver’s side. I’m tempted to hit the locks and start screaming for the neighbors, but his threat still looms overhead. I can’t risk him hurting Ali.

Besides, all I have to do is bide my time and wait. Once we’re relatively far enough away from the house, I can always tuck and roll then Ferris Bueller my way back.

He starts the car even before he’s completely seated, pulling the door closed. Throw your phone out the window.

I gawk at him. Oh, come on!

Do it.

Can’t I just shut it off?

He aims the gun at me again. Window. Now.

Slipping the phone out from my bag, I roll down the window and gently toss it onto the grass. Hopefully the gardeners notice before running it over with the lawnmower. I forgot to back it up last night.

Once my phone clears the car, he hits the gas and suddenly we are flying down the block. Bracing one hand against the dash, I hastily slip on my seatbelt with the other. Watching as he swerves out of the way of a station wagon pulling out of its driveway.

Uh, okay, I get that you probably don’t care about little things like laws, but maybe you wanna slow down a little?

He ignores me. Actually, it feels like he’s speeding up. Never even slowing down when he turns off Madison and onto Crawford.

Red light, red light! I’m practically shouting, pressing the imaginary brake on my side of the car. Oh, dear god, I’m turning into my mother!

He glances at the dash clock then speeds up again. Against my better judgement, I look at the gage. This crazy bastard is pushing ninety.

Seconds before we reach the intersection, the light changes to green and he blows right through without even slowing.

Look, I know you’re in a hurry to get to whatever sick and twisted shit you wanna do to me, but unless you’re into necrophilia, you might wanna slow down. I gasp as a thought pops in my head. "Oh god—are you one of those Crash freaks that get off to car crashes? Like you wanna see me get all cut up so you can bang my—"

Jesus Christ, Laura! he interrupts, whipping his head to look at me. "Watch some fucking comedies once in a while. I’m not gonna rape you, I’m not gonna make you into a skin suit, I’m not going to do anything to you, okay? Just please be quiet so I can concentrate on the timing."

When he moved his head to look at me, his hoodie slid up a little, revealing more of his face. Enough to conjure up a memory of an unassuming, soft-spoken boy sitting in the back corner of AP Lit Fourth Period.

I reach out and yank the hood down.

Be careful! he complains, glancing at me briefly before turning his eyes back onto the road. You’re gonna make me—

Clay Buchanan. I say his name like an accusation. You’re Clay Buchanan. From school. I know you.

Another quick glance in my direction before he blazes through another intersection that just turned green a second before he gets there.

I let out an angry growl. Did Rory put you up to this? Is this another one of his stupid pranks? Because it’s not fucking funny, Clay.

It’s not a prank, he says, moving around a van going the actual speed limit. I’m really doing this.

I eye him, crossing my arms in anger. Stop the car, Clay.

I can’t.

The jig is up—I know who you are. Just stop the car and let me out so I can kick the shit out of you for pulling this stunt.

I can’t stop the car, he insists, his knuckles tightening on the steering wheel. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but I can’t.

I’m serious, Clay. Stop the fucking car—

If I stop now, you’re going to die, Laura!

His words aren’t what stop me cold. Not exactly. It’s his tone, his expression. His eyes. They stare back at me in pure desperation, willing me to listen. To believe as he does.

Funny part? I almost do.

Sorry, sorry, I’m… He looks away, licking his lips nervously. Look, just… give me, he looks at the dash clock again seventy-three more minutes. Alright? I can stop driving and I can explain…things. Just not now, okay? I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

What choice do I have? With how crazy-fast he’s going, there’s no way I can just dive out. Not without losing half my skin.

Seventy-three minutes? That’s oddly specific.

Yeah. I kinda have to be oddly specific, he murmurs, his expression clouding over a little.

That’s how far the sex dungeon is?

He rolls his eyes. That’s our first pit stop. I’m taking you to Canada.

You think they don’t have sex dungeons in Canada? Because they totally do. They just apologize after each whipping.

For fuck sakes… Look, for the last time, there is no sex dungeon. Or cabin in the woods, or house on haunted hill, or wax museum, or hostile, or whatever, okay?

Basement laboratory.

What?

I can’t help but notice you didn’t mention there being no basement laboratory. I stare at the side of his face. Hey, did you know you’ve got this vein bulging out of your forehead? It’s freaking huge.

His response is to switch on the radio. Weirdly enough, my favorite classic rock station immediately starts playing.

We ride in the car in silence for a long while as he expertly navigates the car onto the highway. I’d been hoping he’d get on the freeway instead. Around this time of morning, it’s typically bumper to bumper. If I’d had any hope of escaping this car, it would have been then. But Clay seems to know exactly the best route to take to get to wherever the hell he wants to take me. Like he’d been planning this for a long time.

I try to think back on what I know about Clay, which isn’t much. We’ve been going to the same high school for the last three years. That’s when he and his dad first moved to town. He’d always been the loner-type. Not a loser or anything like that. More like he could be social if he had to, but preferred his own company.

April, my best friend, has a crush on him though I don’t get why. Not that he isn’t cute or anything like that. ‘Cause he is. Not like in a big name-brand Hollywood star way. Cute enough to hate being called cute, but not cute enough to be aware of how cute he is. Get me? Two notches shy of being vain.

He’s smart, too. All AP classes and even some college prep courses if April’s intel is accurate. Which makes this whole thing all the more bizarre. Why would the future valedictorian turn to felony kidnapping?

Then again, don’t most serial killers have super high IQs? Nobody knew the story of what happened to his mom, either. Most of us just assumed divorce. Maybe he Norman Bates’ed her.

Right about now, First Period is starting. April’s probably blowing up my phone, wondering where I am. Maybe Mom or Ali’ll hear it outside when they leave for the hospital and find it and figure out something’s up. Did I remember to take it off of silent this morning? Shit, I don’t know.

Discreetly, I eye the bulge in Clay’s hoodie where he’d stashed the gun. He’s really concentrating super-hard on his driving and timing—whatever the hell that means. If I’m quick, I could maybe…distract him and make him lose control of this speeding car and test whether my Crash theory is correct.

Exactly—like exactly—seventy-three minutes later, Clay pulls into this Mom and Pop diner off the highway. I know it’s a cliché to say, in the middle of nowhere, but that’s really the only way to describe this place. Miles and miles of nothing but open road and desert and this one tiny little building smack dab in the center.

Don’t try anything funny, okay? he says as he opens the door for me. Remember, I still have this. He flashes the butt of the gun briefly before securing it in his hoodie pocket again.

’Don’t try anything funny’? Really? You’re a lame-ass gangster, now?

Can you just not do this, okay? I can’t stand days when you’re like this.

What are you talking about?

He just shakes his head and takes me by the arm to lead me up to the diner. Inside, there are a few guys sitting at the counter, chatting away with the waitress. All your typical big, beefy trucker types. Even the waitress. A couple of the booths are occupied: one by a very tired-looking mom and dad and their four super-wired kids, and one by a guy sitting by himself reading a newspaper as far from the first booth as he can get.

Clay lets me use the bathroom—no windows, damnit—but stays right outside like a major perv. Then we sit down at the booth right by the kitchen door, away from everyone else and the only exit.

The waitress maneuvers herself around the counter to come take our order. No joke, her name tag says Big Mama. Don’t you kids have school? she inquires.

Senior ditch day, Clay supplies before I get a chance to say anything.

On a Tuesday?

He shrugs and laughs uncomfortably. We don’t pick the day, really.

Alright. She pulls two menus from under her arms. Specials today are—

A-actually, we already know what we want, he interrupts gently.

Alright, she says again, putting the menus back in place and taking out a small pad and pen.

Whole wheat short stack with one blueberry pancake in the middle, syrup and butter on the side, and a side of fruit.

My jaw about hits the table.

And for you, little lady? The waitress turns to me, oblivious to my befuddlement.

Once again, Clay speaks for me. "That is for her. I’ll just have a side of bacon. Nothing else."

A side of… No way.

And to drink?

He points at me. Orange juice and hot chocolate. And a large coffee, he adds, aiming a thumb at himself.

You kids shouldn’t be drinkin’ coffee. Gives you the jitters. And you’re already jittery enough, young man.

Clay just smiles and nods awkwardly. Thank you, ma’am.

Big Mama walks back to the counter, muttering away to herself.

The nanosecond she’s out of earshot, I lean in close to Clay. What the fuck was that?

The asshole actually frowns at me, like I’m the one acting weird. Breakfast? I mean, you’re hungry, right?

Are you— I bite back the insult and focus on the more pressing issue. How did you know what I like to order for breakfast?

At first, he seems confused then he gets this deer-in-the-headlights look and drops his forehead into his palm. Shit. I forgot.

Forgot what, Clay? I demand.

Forgot…forgot-forgot who told me. About what you like to eat. A friend. A girl friend. Not my girlfriend—a female friend. And not mine. Yours. One of yours told me.

I just stare at him. Wanna try that again?

What? It’s the truth, he says, super defensively.

Then why did you order the side of bacon, Clay?

His hands start playing with the rolled up silverware in front of him, nervously. He won’t look up at me. I-I-I’m not that hungry, so I just…

The knife slips out of the folded napkin, clanging onto the table. The sudden sound makes Clay jump and he has to slap his hand on the rest of the cutlery to keep them from falling off the table.

Clay.

His eyes look up at mine. For the first time, I notice they’re hazel with small flecks of gold in them. And he’s got long lashes, like girl-long.

Why did you order the bacon, Clay? I press.

His long body seems to deflate a little. Because for some inane reason you’re convinced everyone else’s bacon always tastes better than yours, so you never order any for yourself and just pick off theirs. He says it all quick and in one breath, like he’s confessing something wrong.

This weird feeling washes over me, almost like a sudden chill. I sit back in my seat just to put some distance between Clay and me.

How do you know about that? I whisper, wrapping my arms around myself for warmth.

I already said—

I interrupt his lie. I don’t tell my friends all my little quirks, especially the inane ones. So, don’t give me that bullshit. I want the truth. I want to know what is going on or I’m gonna start screaming my head off. And you can just go ahead and shoot me.

His lips are moving a lot, but no words are coming out. That vein in his forehead is back and looks bigger than before.

Screw this. I start to slide out of the booth.

Wait, Laura, please!

Clay’s hand wraps around mine, tight enough to hurt. I lift my other hand in a fist, ready to slug the little fucker, but stop. His face is pale, and his eyes are so big and round. He looks so afraid, it takes my breath away.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Laura, god, I’m… He sucks in a shaky breath. I’ll tell you everything, I promise, everything you want to know. But not right now. There’s not enough time.

What do you mean? Not enough time?

On average this conversation takes about two hours and we need to be back on the road in… he glances at his watch—it’s a yellow kiddie Spongebob watch stretched uncomfortably tight around his large wrist—thirty-one minutes.

Wait a goddamn minute, I snap, yanking my hand away. "What’re you, Rain Man? How do you know how long this conversation is going to take?"

"Explaining it will start the conversation and, like I keep trying to tell you, we don’t have time. I need you to trust me."

My eyes and my mouth all form matching O’s. Are you fucking serious?

He winces, dropping his face in his hands again. I know, I know. Just let me get you to Canada. I’ll tell you. I’ll answer all your questions. Just… just please.

Yeah, no way I’m going to let this freak take me across the flipping border without any answers. I don’t care what stupid little OCD timetable he cooked up. Laura Anne isn’t going another centimeter until this guy starts talking.

Just as I’m about to tell this joker where he can stick his Canadian flag, there’s this loud clatter from across the diner. Everyone turns to look.

The newspaper guy is standing by the register with Big Mama. Looks like he may have accidentally knocked over the metal tin holding the extra straws. Nothing really out of the ordinary.

Except he’s also holding a small silver gun in a shaky grasp.

Awesomesauce. Two guns in one morning. Should’ve just stayed in bed today.

Big Mama squares her shoulders and stares down at the man aiming the gun at her, not giving any fucks. You lost your damn mind if you think you can rob Big Mama, you dumbass mother f—

I said shut the fuck up! the man yells, cocking back the safety. Just gimme the fuckin’ money, you bitch!

No, no, no, no…

I look at Clay. His eyes are bulging out of their sockets and he’s grabbing fistfuls of his own hair. He looks like he’s in the middle of a panic attack.

I checked! Nothing ever happens here! This isn’t fair! They can’t keep changing the fucking rules like this!

Clay, what—

Suddenly, he jumps to his feet and grabs my arms, trying to drag me out of the booth. Get under the table, Laura! Cover your—

Hey, you, over there!

The robber’s staring at us, pointing with his gun. Don’t fuckin’ move! Don’t anybody fuckin’ move! You hear me?

Clay turns around to face the gunman, wrapping his arm around to pull me tight up against his back, shielding me.

I can feel Clay’s heartbeat through his back, that’s how close I am. His body is shaking. There’s a smell about him. Familiar somehow but I can’t quite place it. It’s nice.

It’s cool, man. We aren’t gonna do anything. Just point the gun away from her.

I say what’s cool and what ain’t! the guy yells at Clay, waving the gun around while he talks. Don’t fuckin’ test me, asshole.

Clay lifts both his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender, keeping his back pressed up against me. "Whatever you want, okay? You’re in charge here. Just, please, please point the gun away from her."

From her. Not from us. It’s like he doesn’t care about himself at all.

I can’t see what happens next. All I see is Clay. His shoulders and back. Why did I think he was so skinny before?

There’s this scuffling sound, like you hear at football games. My guess is some of the other patrons took advantage of the guy’s fixation on Clay to try and take him out. I peek around him to try and make out what’s going on.

The gunshot is loud. And echoey. It just keeps going on and on long after it should have.

The guy’s on the floor with three trucker dudes on top of him. I can’t see the gun.

There’s something wrong with my chest. It feels really hot and tight. Like something’s pressing against it.

Clay turns around to look at me. His face is completely flushed of all color. No…no, no, no…

At first, I’m mad. Is this asshole seriously staring at my tits right in front of me? And then I feel this weird, wet sensation. I look down. Something spilled on my shirt. Ketchup, I guess. It’s all red.

For some reason, I can’t really feel my legs anymore. Clay catches me before I fall. We both slide to the floor, me cradled in his lap. Normally I’d be super-creeped and pissy, but I feel really cold right now. And Clay feels kinda nice and warm.

Call an ambulance! Clay screams at the others. When he looks back down at me, there are tears in his eyes. Laura, please, don’t. Please, please. Not again. Don’t do this to me again. Laura, please.

Do what again? I don’t get what I’m doing. It’s hard to think about this. My brain’s feeling funny. I ask him. At least, I’m pretty sure I’m asking. I feel my lips move, forming familiar words.

Clay wraps his arms around me tighter, holding me close. I feel hot liquid drip down my neck. His body is shaking with his sobs. I promise, Laura. I promise…

Why is he crying for me? He doesn’t even know me. I don’t even know him. What’s even happening right now? It’s getting dark. Can’t somebody turn on the lights? I want to see Clay’s face again. Ask him why he’s so sad. Why he’s…

Why he’s…

Why

Attempt 14

"Oh my god, Clay Buchannan will not stop staring at you!"

What are you talking about?

April rolls her eyes using her whole face. Exactly what I just said. Clay Buchannan has been staring at you the entire time we sat down.

Clay Buchannan? The name sounds kinda familiar. I turn to look, but April grabs my hands and shakes her head.

Wait, don’t look! she chastises.

Why? He’s looking at me.

Exactly! You don’t just stare back at a starer. Then he’ll stop staring.

I eye my best friend. Are you high?

Laura—

Ignoring my idiot, I turn around in my chair. Sure enough, a few tables away, there’s a boy immediately turning his face downward to look at a notebook opened before him. The tips of his ears are bright red.

Okay, yeah, I recognize him now. We have AP Lit together. And I think April’s mentioned his name a couple of times a while ago.

Failing at nonchalance, Clay peeks up to see if I’m still looking and drops his eyes when he sees I still am. Those ears get redder. It’s almost cute.

Letting him off the hook, I turn back around in my chair. Wonder what his deal is.

You should go talk to him.

I frown at her. So, what, he leers at me for the better part of lunch and that grants him an audience?

April scoffs. Who said anything about leering? Leering implies he’s a creepy loser. Which he’s not.

I know what she’s doing. She knows I’m seriously stressing and she’s trying to find something to distract me. And goddamn it if it isn’t working.

Didn’t you have a crush on him?

She sighs, putting her hand on my shoulder. I did, but if I can’t have him to myself then I think it’s best that I bequeath him onto my best friend instead.

I’m not entirely sure you know what ‘bequeath’ means.

Again, she rolls her whole head with her eyes and slaps at me with her hand. Just go. Shoo, shoo!

Questioning so many life choices right now, I slip the strap of my bag across my torso and walk over to where Clay is. He’s completely focused on whatever he’s scribbling inside his notebook.

Laura, I say.

He jumps at my presence, his pen leaving a long dark line in the middle of the page. Uh, what?

Thought you’d wanna know the name of the girl you decided to stalk. It’s Laura.

I-I’m not—I just—

So, you’re not writing little secret notes about me? I glance down at his notebook.

Clay slaps his palms against the pages, nearly ripping them from the binding. No! God, no, I’m not! This is just…it’s a… He starts trying to close the notebook, bending the pages the wrong way before finally managing to close the thing.

I just stare down at him with my arms crossed and my eyebrow lifted, suspiciously.

This isn’t, I mean, it’s not about you. It’s…personal. He quickly shoves the notebook into his backpack, avoiding eye contact.

What, like a diary?

He pauses. Isn’t it a journal for guys?

I choose not to conform to gender designations.

The corner of his mouth lifts into a crooked smile. Well, in the spirit of gender equality, then, yes, it’s my diary. My big, manly diary.

That makes me chuckle a little against my will. That little half-smile of his is pretty cute.

Any chance you can take pity on me and let me start over? he asks, giving me a puppy-dog look.

Ordinarily I’d say, ‘hell to the no’, but I seem to be in a charitable mood. I guess I’ll give you a freebie. I make the bloop-bloop TiVo noises then gesture for him to go ahead.

Hi, I’m Clay, he says, giving me a little wave.

Nice to meet you, Clay. I’m Laura.

Uh, do you, um, would you like to, ah, have a seat?

I think about it for a while. Long enough for Clay to start squirming a little in his chair. Sure, why not.

I slip into the chair across from him, dropping my bag onto the table. Doing that makes me notice how empty the table is.

Don’t you have a lunch? I ask.

Uh, no. Not hungry today.

I thought guys are hungry all the time.

I don’t like to eat when I’m stressed.

I frown at him. You’re stressed?

Something passes