Farm

Rinse, rewind, repeat. Rinse, rewind, repeat. Every day, the same thing. Rather, every day, the same.

His farmhouse has never felt lonelier. Is it the possible alien sightings? Could it be that people really do not respect what he does anymore? Some do call him The Butcher of the Fields. Where do they think their meat comes from?

But it's been months now, or has it been years? He simply cannot tell. Each time his pocket watch hits 5:15, that mysterious light emanates from it, he hears a sharp electrical buzzing, and he reverts twelve hours. It was a simple pocket watch until this began, until...

He can't remember, a sharp pain beams from his cranium. His confusion filled mind aches, it is torturous. The crops can wait. He needs a break. The trusty tractor turns around with his help. A clearing, more crops, a longer clearing, more crops.

The centennial home stands tall amongst the fields, like a beacon to phone home to. He draws nearer, more crops and more clearings.

Finally home. It's time for a drink and something to eat. The same thing as every day since that moment. Oddly enough, it does not seem to taste the same every day. Is it his mental state? "Nevermind, it's not worth thinking about," he thinks. Gotta avoid the migraines.

"As you see sir, the device is working," a slimy creature tells another. "Humans can be broken."

"Excellent, soldier, continue your experiment. Exploit them as they do animals."