What She Saw
I learned the horrors of prescience at the very moment I discovered I was gifted with it.
She was a childhood friend, a year younger. There happened to be a pause in our rambunctious play, a pause just long enough, and our play just close enough, that we accidentally found ourselves looking into one another’s eyes. Being children, the staring itself became the game; exploring each other’s souls inside them, daring ourselves to venture deeper while at the same time being revealed. We passed that point where one laughs to hide their discomfort, or looks away, and we continued even longer, her winded breath so close that I could feel it on my chin, and on my moistened lips. It was then that I saw who she really and truly was, and she me. And it was then that I knew.
“You are going to die.” I whispered.
“What will you do?”
She answered the only way a child could answer when the question is so fearsome as death. “Hide.”
When I left her that day I never saw my childhood friend again.
“Robert?” My mother called from the foyer. “Alicia’s parents can’t find her. Do you know where she is?”
“No Momma,” I lied.
But it did find her, even where we had so carefully hidden her; inside that big old trunk down in her basement, covered between the musty old clothes and things, the heavy cedar top closed and latched.
There’d been death in my friend’s eyes that day. There is no hiding from that.