Drowning in the Same Night

Sheldon woke up in the gutter, soaked to the bone.

The rain lashed his skin, cold and unrelenting, sinking into his clothes like punishment. His fingers curled against the pavement, pressing into cracks filled with dirt and broken glass. The city around him pulsed—streetlights flickered, neon glowed in the distance, and somewhere, far away, people laughed.

For a moment, he just lay there, breath slow, heartbeat sluggish.

Where was I last night?

Dooly’s? The old dive bar by the docks? Or was it that place downtown with the pool tables and the greasy floors?

Had he won? Had he lost?

Had he been anywhere at all?

He tried to grab at the loose, shattered fragments in his mind, but they drifted just beyond reach. The past was slippery. It always was.

And then, he saw it.

The liquor store.

Just across the street. The neon buzzed, a dull electrical hum that set his nerves on edge. The door was closed, but the glow from inside spilled onto the wet pavement, a warm and golden invitation.

His gut twisted, and his body knew before his mind did—he was already walking toward it.

Not this time.

The thought came sharp and sudden, breaking through the haze.

But then, from the corner of his eye, he caught movement.

Someone was watching him.

He turned, expecting a stranger.

But it wasn’t a stranger.

It was him.

Sheldon froze.

Under the flickering glow of the streetlamp stood himself, but different.

His clothes weren’t damp and filthy. His shoulders weren’t hunched with exhaustion. His face—his own face—was clearer, sharper, eyes steady and free of the haze that had always been there.

But the worst part?

The sober version of himself looked tired.

Not the kind of tired that came from a long day, but the kind that came from watching the same thing happen over and over and over again.

"Why are you making me do this?"

The voice was his own, but lower. A whisper weighted with something ancient.

Sheldon’s pulse spiked.

"What—what is this?" His voice came out hoarse, raw, like it had scraped against his ribs before spilling from his throat.

"You already know," the other him said, shaking his head. "You just never listen."

This isn’t real. This isn’t happening.

The neon glow reflected in the puddles at his feet. The liquor store door seemed to pulse, as if calling to him, waiting.

And then—he noticed something.

A bruise.

Just barely visible at the base of the sober version’s throat. Faint, like a shadow of something that had been worse once. Like a rope burn.

Sheldon’s stomach flipped, ice-cold dread clawing at his insides.

"We’ve done this before."

The other him took a step forward.

"Will this time be different?"

The streetlight flickered.

Everything in him screamed to run.

But his body wouldn’t move. His feet were rooted in place. His head pounded. The air around him felt thick, weighted, like he was walking through a nightmare he couldn't wake from.

"This isn't real," he rasped, hands clenching into fists.

The other him just tilted his head. And smiled.

Not a comforting smile. Not a cruel one either.

A knowing smile.

Like he already knew what Sheldon would do.

Like he had already lived it.

Sheldon stumbled back, blinking hard, breath ragged. His pulse hammered against his ribs, a drumbeat of panic. His mind clawed at something—a memory, a truth buried beneath years of self-destruction.

And then it hit him.

A flash—

A motel room. The stale scent of cigarettes and regret. A plastic cup filled with cheap whiskey on a nightstand. His own reflection in the bathroom mirror, pupils blown wide.

Last time will be the last time.

Another flash—

Himself in a hospital bed, tubes in his arm. A nurse looking at him like she had seen this a hundred times before.

"We had to restart your heart."

Another—

Standing in front of a different liquor store, on a different street, swearing to himself he wouldn’t go inside.

Last time was supposed to be the last time.

The neon flickered again, yanking him back into the present.

He had never walked away before.

Not once.

The liquor store door. The neon glow. The endless, repeating night.

He had been here before.

Dozens of times. Maybe hundreds.

Every time, he had made the same choice.

Every single time, he stepped through that door.

And every single time, he woke up here.

Again. And again.

And again.

Sheldon’s knees buckled.

He sucked in a sharp breath, heart slamming against his ribcage. The rain pounded harder, the neon sign buzzed louder, his own thoughts screamed run, run, run—

"Why are you showing me this?" His voice cracked.

The other him didn't answer. He only lifted a hand—slow, deliberate.

And pointed.

At the liquor store door.

Sheldon whirled to face it, and for the first time, he saw it for what

it really was.

It wasn’t just a door.

It was a trap.

A cycle. A loop. His personal prison.

The liquor store door creaked open slightly on its own.

Welcoming him.

His breath hitched.

And then, for the first time, he did something different.

He turned away.

The world shuddered violently.

The air rippled, distorting like heat waves over pavement.

The neon sign exploded into a shower of sparks.

The liquor store door snapped shut, vanishing like it had never existed.

For a fraction of a second, everything dissolved—

And then—

Sheldon gasped, jerking awake.

The rain was gone.

The street was empty.

The liquor store—closed, dark, abandoned.

The neon sign? Burnt out.

Had it ever been on?

Sheldon staggered to his feet. The city pulsed around him, alive and unfamiliar. His head pounded. His hands shook. His body ached in ways that made no sense.

He turned, heart hammering.

No one was there.

No other him.

Just empty pavement and the ghost of a choice that had already been made long ago.

His breath shuddered out of him.

And yet.

Deep inside, something whispered.

"We’ll do this again."

A pause.

Silence.

Because maybe he had never truly left.

Maybe he had never really woken up.

Maybe—

this had all happened before.

And maybe—

it would all happen again.