Too Late For Regret, Mr. Hayes

The screech of tires was my familiar lullaby, echoing another broken bone, another shattered illusion.

I was Sarah, the trophy wife, trapped in a gilded cage, enduring a curse of endless resurrections.

My husband, Ethan, always attentive to his perfect Ashley, had just shoved me into the path of a speeding sedan.

For her, of course.

He didn't care that I lay mangled on the asphalt, only annoyed by the inconvenience, the mess.

Ashley, his scheming mistress, later set a trap: a near-fatal allergic reaction, and then framed me to ensure my "dissection" at a remote research facility.

They believed they were finally ridding themselves of me, sending me to a permanent end.

But what they didn't know was my secret, my bitter hope: 99 deaths down, one to go.

Each resurrection had chipped away at my soul, leaving only a hollow anticipation for the final, permanent end.

This was it. The hundredth.

The profound relief of true oblivion, of peace, washed over me as they led me away.

I was finally free, not knowing that my truest liberation would come not from the permanent death I craved, but from a rebirth I never expected.

The screech of tires was the last thing I heard, a familiar sound.

Then came the impact, brutal and final, for now.

My body flew, a broken doll tossed across the busy Los Angeles street.

I saw Ethan' s face for a moment before everything went dark.

He wasn' t looking at me, he was looking at Ashley, his perfect Ashley, who stood frozen on the sidewalk.

He' d pushed me, a quick, hard shove into the path of the speeding sedan.

To save her, of course.

It was always about Ashley.

Darkness.

Then, the familiar pulling sensation, the unwelcome return.

But this time, there was a grim satisfaction mixed with the pain.

Ninety-nine.

This was my ninety-ninth death.

One more to go.

One more, and then freedom.

The thought was a small, hard comfort I held close.

I could hear voices, distant and distorted at first.

Ethan' s voice, sharp and annoyed.

"Clean this up. Now. And get Ms. Albright a water, she looks shaken."

Ms. Albright. Ashley.

No concern for me, his wife, lying mangled on the asphalt.

Just annoyance at the inconvenience, the mess.

His security guards, always efficient, would handle it.

They were used to cleaning up his messes, including me.

I felt a strange calm.

The countdown was almost over.

My liberation was so close.

This secret, this curse, this finite ability to resurrect, was my only escape.

He didn't know about the limit.

He thought I was his unbreakable toy.

Soon, he would learn otherwise.

The 100th death would be permanent, and with it, a complete severing, a total erasure of this nightmare.

I almost smiled, if my broken face could have managed it.

I woke up on our silk sheets, the expensive kind Ethan insisted on.

My body ached, a dull, throbbing reminder, but it was already mending.

The resurrection was complete.

Ethan stood by the window, looking out at the city lights.

He turned when he heard me stir.

His face was a mask of irritation.

"You're awake. Good."

He didn't ask if I was okay. He never did.

"Ashley was very upset. You need to apologize to her."

Apologize. For being thrown in front of a car he pushed me into.

The absurdity didn't even register as anger anymore, just a dull fact of my existence.

"She's waiting downstairs. Don't keep her waiting."

His tone was soft, but the command was clear.

I remembered a party, years ago, a high-society gala.

Ashley had "accidentally" spilled red wine down the front of her white designer gown.

Ethan, without missing a beat, had grabbed my champagne flute and poured it over my own far less expensive dress.

"Now you match," he'd said, a charming smile for the onlookers, a cold glint in his eyes for me.

Ashley had laughed, a tinkling, malicious sound.

The crowd had tittered, amused by his "boldness."

I had stood there, dripping and humiliated.

That was early on. It got worse.

Much worse.

Like the time he made me give Ashley my grandmother's locket, a family heirloom, because Ashley "admired" it.

He' d told me, "It looks better on her anyway, Sarah. Don't be selfish."

Each death, each resurrection, chipped away at whatever feelings I once had for him.

Loyalty, love, even fear, had eroded into a hollow numbness.

Now, all that was left was the anticipation of the end.

"I'll go down," I said, my voice flat.

I pushed myself out of bed, my limbs still stiff.

Ninety-nine down.

The thought echoed.