By: Ferretti

Red and blue lights flashed off and on coming from the cop cars and fire trucks, throwing up against the white walls of the house. Sirens wail through the bitter-cold drizzle of midnight as the metal beasts’ race for the hospital. I know they won’t make it.

I’ve had the same nightmare every night for the past three weeks: the same red and blue lights, the same wailing sirens, foreboding death approaching. If I had only paid more attention, ignored dad telling me that "It’s nothing to worry about, you’re just being paranoid."

Every night I’ve seen the house, still as midnight and just as dark, felt the evil that was coming. As the nights passed the dream built upon the others, adding more and more as it progressed. The man came in through the backdoor, no matter how many times it was locked.

I knew what he was going to do; that what he was planning was revenge on our father, revenge for our father’s good fortune. Good fortune, ha. I’ve seen him creep up the stairs, his deadly intent evident in his body language, his eyes glinting madly in the moonlight from the window at the top of the stairs.

He always bypasses my room, as if he knows exactly which room he wants, and he does. He doesn’t hesitate, he doesn’t pause. This last week has been hell. Waking from a sound sleep in a sweat, heavy breathing and tears streaming down my face.

Now my nightmare has become reality. I called the police as soon as I heard the almost inaudible swish of the knife as it slid into my brother’s chest, just on the other side of the wall. I whispered what was happening, just as I had done in my dreams.

The man disappeared. I know who it was but I have no proof. I will spend the rest of my life pretending like my brother’s killer was just some random burglar who was startled by a little boy.

"He’ll be alright." I turn to face the police officer who has spoken. My ice blue eyes are hard and cold and he shrinks back in the light of the full moon. I know the truth, seen how this plays out. He won’t be all right, barely making it to the emergency room, and his killer, our father’s half-brother, will never be brought to justice.

Destiny is inescapable, even when it is dreamed by a teenager. Dreaming destiny is tiring.