Stuck

Phil woke up to the familiar sound of music as the borrowed alarm clock went off, the morning radio show having just started. He pushed the sheets of his bed aside and got up in a practiced, fluid motion that he had practiced more times than he cared to recall. The words to the song had been so repeated that they had all but lost their meaning god only knew how long ago. Always the same song. Always the same verse. Always the same DJs.

He already knew that the water in the pipes would be freezing cold, both in the sink and in the shower. It had been that way for a very long time. No matter how many times he had tried, he had just never been able to get used to the cold water first thing in the morning. He'd given it up... months ago, if not longer. It wasn't like it made a difference anyway. He always smelled the same. His hair was always the same level of messiness. And his clothes were never any more wrinkled than they were the day before. Which was especially good, because he never had any more than just the couple pairs of shirts and pants.

He still checked out the window every now and then. Just to make sure. To see if the fresh snow had yet fallen, or if the crowds heading out to the central park had finally yielded. They hadn't, of course. It always looked exactly the same as he looked out the window. And he knew that that meant he had to get to work. Or, at least, he was supposed to. He'd spent a while skipping out on it. It didn't make a difference whether or not he was going to be there, but in recent times he had found that singular consistency to be a blessing. It kept him grounded in a way, in a long passed dream that had once seemed like reality.

He passed through he sea of faces like he was in a trance. He knew them all. Each and every face, the name that went with them, the life story that had brought them to where they were today. How long had it been since he'd memorized them? How many times had he spoken with each of them individually in order to learn it all? How many times had he saved some of their lives? How many times had he ended them?

And that was to say nothing of his own life, which he had taken in every way imaginable.

How many lifetimes ago had it been when he stopped the passage of time? When one day had ceased to pass into the next. One day continuously repeating over and over for the rest of eternity. And why had it started? When would it end?

He knew every answer. Except for those.