September 16, 2019, at 8:49 p.m, is when the nitrous oxide allows itself to flourish inside Chira’s respiratory system. Exactly that minute- the seconds depend on how stubborn her emotions are- she falls exactly where she stands. However, she won’t wake up where she had fallen unconscious: Chira will arise at the same time, the same place, as the day previous. The day had restarted. 

It’s day six; Chira has begun to write the days she’s been trapped on herself. She has realized only her setting and clothing resets to the morning of September sixteenth: Anything she imprints on her skin will remain until physically washed off. Chira has subjected herself to tallying the days in Sharpie along her arm. Even with the newfound Sharpie technique, she had already forgotten how long she had been held hostage in the time loop. Instead of six tallies to mark the accurate days, she had four confident, black streaks staining her forearm. But she won’t know the difference: she’s the only one who is in the time loop.

It’s day nine; Chira no longer attends her job, deeming it as no point. Instead, she takes this time to get what she considers “Luxury, top quality sleep.”

Chira believes isolating herself in her room will cause her situation to divert elsewhere. Most of her day consisted of mindless activities: She played Solitaire on her laptop for an hour and thirteen minutes; she baked brownies for forty-five minutes; she cried for fifty-seven minutes. 

It’s day twelve; The conversations she began to hold with herself were melancholic and vanquished. She began to make voices and names for the companion she was feigning speech with. There were three of them, however, the only name she spoke of audibly was Dimpi. It appears that was the name her mother called her as a child. 

Notable phrases she spoke in such mournful chats were as such.

“I only wish my wrong-doings were not as severe as others in purgatory; Maybe that will allow me to move forward with time.”

“I’m not fully convinced even death will release me: that sort of option is what they want.”

“Allow me to be released without the banishment of mortality: that is the only thing I plea.”

Topics as such are difficult to determine accuracy. However, one of them is to be fact. 

It’s day fifteen; the Sharpie painting Chira’s skin is horrifically inaccurate still. 

She had called her mom and met up for coffee; she didn’t speak of her situation. However, her mother did mention the look of dishevelment Chira held so confidently on her face. 

“I’ve been so busy!” She dismissed quickly.

Her mother gave Chira a side-eye, an expression she was well familiar with, but dismissed the topic. 

It’s day twenty-four; the previous nine days were uneventful and repetitive. It was around the month mark when Chira’s actions began to inflict interest. 

Around mid-day, Chira found the first camera in her home. Camera number 107,’ located as a faux screw in the side table in her living room. She noticed when she was lying beside the table, and saw it was a slightly different color than the rest of the other screws. 

The wire connected to the camera became visible; this is when Chira made a realization of her own purpose. 

It’s day twenty-seven, the day of the log. Chira had unraveled seventy-nine of the 125 cameras located in her apartment. She had them all ripped out from the hiding spot and thrown into a pile on the floor. However, this all had to be done in a lapse of a singular day. Therefore, she made use of the Sharpie on the skin and began to write the locations of the cameras and every inch of skin she could. 

Chira stared at the large bundle of publicity on her living room floor. 

“I know where I am,” She spoke quietly, though with an immeasurable amount of anguish. “Why have you trapped me here?”

Sighing, I write the last bit of data I can on my notebook beside me. 

Day twenty-seven, experiment #298 completed her trial.