“Is Maith An Scéalaí An Aimsir.” “Time is a good storyteller.”

-Irish Proverb

I watched in fascination as Mirai Enog engaged in a tug of war with her last breath, a horrible wheezing sound accompanying the two of us. The stubborn woman she was, she refused to concede to it being yanked from her. “It was only a matter of time,” I could almost hear her saying. But she did not, could not, utter those words.

Mirai died by asphyxiation. At least, that’s what the autopsy concluded. Reports showed that hematomas colored her body in a mosaic of blues and purples, a depressed fracture sat in her skull, and a single, pointed shard of glass jammed into her jugular. Her killer was merciless.

I was the last to see Mirai. I’m not apprehensive in sharing that. Innocent parties are never nervous about these things. I’ll admit that I was the only one present and ever so watchful as her

pupils dilated and blood spilled from her slender neck. I did nothing to help her, either. Why should I? Death is a gift to a pitiful woman like Mirai. What remains is that I am wholly innocent. This, however, does not seem to be a sentiment held by the masses.

Allegedly, and that word is quite imperative, I am a serial killer— a mass-murderer, if you will. It’s widely accepted at this point, though I’ve become resigned to the label. I hold no interest in the weight of labels, they live only in the imaginations of the unimaginative.

Nevermind that, I will not cradle my grievances for I need my hands free for more vital pursuits. I’m content to tell her story, and the stories of every other so-called “victim” of mine, those that came before her and those who will inevitably come after, until my tongue rots. I’ll tell you everything, not to clear my name, but for hope that you will invest in me but one hour to listen.

* * * *  *

Ten blood-red X’s cross off each day on the color-coded calendar pinned to the wall, leaving Wednesday, January 11th untouched by color.

When does a day start?

For Mirai, it’s at the same time her alarm blares out, as it always does, at 7:00 am. Mine starts with Mirai’s sleeping form. It’s the only occasion when she’s quiet, on pause. Her chest makes a languid crawl towards an inhale and exhale.

She once taught me that sleep is a free trial for death, a way to experience the peace death brings without bearing the cost.

Decades ago, Mirai and I had a budding relationship. We didn’t understand each other in the ways that those who spent a lifetime together had, but we would linger in each moment like we had forever together. In those days, it was just me, Mirai, and Love.

One day the camera shuttered and there we stood, miles apart. After her father passed, Mirai became obsessed with this idea of controlling me. She wore her fear like a heavy coat in the depths of winter. Haunted by the idea that I too would pass and leave her behind, the young and carefree version of Mirai died alongside her father. We just hadn’t known it yet.

On the morning Mirai’s body joined her in the grave, her feet hit the floor with a quick thud and then scattered across the carpet to her bathroom to get ready. 7:30 am blinked on her microwave as she pulled out the red-lidded container of meal-prepped protein pancakes and popped them in the microwave. With 23 grams of protein, she had already fulfilled 45 percent of her daily intake goal. While it warmed, she shoved a small glass dish of last night’s pasta into her leather tote for lunch. Mirai is… was nothing if not efficient.

A quick spray of Dawn’s powerwash soap rinsed the syrup off, leather loafers slid right on, and it was 7:51 am by the time Mirai slipped her key into place.

Two lefts and a right turn later, Mirai parked her Prius at 7:59 am, only to walk into work a minute later.

* * * *

Ten minutes past eight, Jasha Amari, Mirai’s boss, walked in and glanced over at her desk, “Morning, Mirai! Working on the Smith discovery responses? I need them by end of day.”

”Yes sir, already on it,” she replied, smiling at him while her eyes stayed glued on the screen in front of her. Drafting the client responses would take longer than anticipated, she would still need a few hours to cross-reference the contracts and invoices before she could get to writing it up and sending it out. Work dragged on because it was never something Mirai wanted to do.

Mirai was eighteen and uneasy with the way her future seemed to breathe down her neck and at the same time, she was terrified that college would pull us apart. So, she enrolled in a 5-month paralegal certification program online. “Practical” is what she called it. Ironically, I’d never felt further from her after that. She was more loyal to her fear than she ever was to me. It was our undoing.

Anxiety stewing in her, Mirai’s eyes kept flirting with the changing minutes on her desktop. She couldn’t be late to leave for lunch because she only had thirty minutes in which to drop off her return at the post office— a new tech watch programmed for productivity and multitasking.

Mirai experienced too many glitches and didn’t deem it a worthy investment. Not much… and not many… were worthy of that woman’s investment.

* * *

“Heading out for lunch, be back in thirty!” Mirai shouted to Dave, the administrative assistant whose desk was across from hers.

“Sure thing sweetheart, see you soon. Take it easy.”

Dave is a good friend of mine. Life opened up to him in ways he was only ever deserving of. Mirai had a liking for him too, her fondness of him slowing her down every once in a while, granting her moments to be lost in conversation with him. Dave would be good to her… but Mirai being Mirai, she would surely drive him away too. She is but a stack of anxieties in a trench coat, dressed as a woman in control. Of which, she has none.

12:36 pm flashed on Mirai’s dashboard by the time she got into her car and shut the door closed, muttering curses as she was running behind schedule. I was muttering curses too as I watched her speed out of the lot, knowing that all of her thoughts were consumed by me, her obsession unrelenting. Per her calculations, driving to the post office would take 5 or 6 minutes, shipping

out the return would take 2 minutes tops, and the return trip would put her back at the office by 12:50 pm, those last 10 minutes of which she’d use to eat lunch at her desk. I wondered in these last moments if what was to come would be my fault, I wondered what my hand in her demise would be. I wondered, helplessly, if there was any way to save this person who I had once loved so dearly.

Tires skidding, Mirai slammed her gear shift into park at 12:44 pm… red lights were apparently a trigger for her. Another trigger? The dropbox for pre-labeled packages being jammed by a much-too large package shoved inside. After hitting the jammed box as if it were me she saw stuck between the hinges, Mirai surrendered and walked to the back of the line. Glancing at the black analog on the wall behind the only postal clerk, Mirai’s legs took a life of their own as they bounced up and down along with her patience.

“Out on your lunch break?” The gentle words of Paz Hernandez found their way to Mirai.

“Yes,” Mirai smiled tersely in return. Paz had lost her husband John just three months prior. She carried the weight of his absence but was trying to connect again, longing for an escape from her loneliness. Mirai had not noticed. The gears in her mind were turning, fear clicking into place. If she didn’t get the Smith responses done in time, Mr. Amari would not be able to sign them, unraveling her reputation, job security, and fragile sense of stability. It was in those moments where I remembered how much I resented this selfish, self-obsessed being. I remembered all of our nights, they were just currency to Mirai. And I let her spend me so willingly, so lovingly. I

was wound tight, used, and yet, I would have handed myself over again and again if I thought it would satisfy her.

The gold vintage wristwatch on Mirai blinked 12:56 pm as she left the post office and ran to her Prius, parked in the third row.

Narrowly missing 78-year-old Mr. Fredericksen crossing the street, she swerved a left turn, cutting off Adam Gibbons on his new Harley, and was reacquainted with… the red signal light. Her leg was bouncing with anticipation, willing the light to change its color.

“STOP! Please…Mirai! For one moment, please…just stop. Be here, be with me. Mirai? Mirai!” In her last moments, I had left behind any resentment I held for her. Love persevered. I remember shouting at Mirai, my voice raw and dripping with desperation. I would’ve done anything to be able to hold her face between my palms at that moment. To heal everything she’d been running from. But, as usual, I was rendered helpless. I was her problem, just as much as she was mine. Mirai, unable to hear me, typed out a text to Dave to “Let Mr. Amari kno im runing l8 pls, be there in 5 thx!” as she heard a honk and hit the gas.

At that moment, I was elastic, stretching to fit the mold that Mirai has always demanded of me. For her, I had finally yielded, slowing to a full stop. I was frozen in my tracks.

* *

Mirai lay there bleeding until 1:07 pm when paramedics Elijah Kim and Alina Lopez finally reached her, but at that point, her final breath had already passed her by. The left side of her car was hit at 68 mph by a car driving on green. The car pushed her past the railing’s edge and into a shallow ravine where no passerby could reach her. In her last moments, Mirai had gotten her last wish; I sat by her side as she left me. She had finally won, in all her worries that I would leave her first, she left me. A soft smile sat on her face, I imagined her gloating even in her death.

*

So, you see, I am innocent. Wouldn’t you agree? A human’s cruel finger always finds a clock, blaming its hands while sparing their own— of this, I am sure.

Perhaps I am guilty. I am gratified by Mirai’s death. Or, perhaps I am a heartbroken fool? Who is to say? What I know for certain is that I did not kill her, she did it just fine herself. I suppose, a part of my relief is the certainty that she is finally at peace now. That after chasing me for fear of losing me, she can finally just be. She has escaped, a mercy I will never be granted. Night gets to clock in and out, sharing the burden of its woes with Day. Death was given Life. Despair was given Joy. My gift? What was the old, wasted Time gifted? Nothing but solitude- to see everything and everyone that lives in me slowly decay and leave. Time… and Time again. All on my own, stuck in a loop. I grow attached to what can only ever be temporary. Then, as each part

of my heart eventually slips through my grasp, I wonder how I made the same mistakes again. Wonder how I can break this vicious cycle.

I swear I held onto her life for as long as I could, I begged her to see me. I begged her to hold me, to do something. I’m rendered powerless, with no hand in fate, only the one that keeps the clock moving forward. And when she died, when all of you die, I’m the one left to mourn. I am the one left with your stories, your unfinished plans, your alarms still blaring in your absence. I, in all my life and wisdom, cannot fathom how it is that I love you humans while loathing you in equal measure. In all my infinite knowing, you are my undoing. You are brief, cruel, gentle things, and I grieve every part of you. You take and take and when I have nothing left to give, you hand me the blame. This is my crime, this is my life sentence.