|Angel of Death
Author: Maria Courtiarre PM
Jamie keeps having dreams about falling off the local bridge. At first she thought they were just bad dreams, but then she discovers that many things in her dreams are true. Are the dreams trying to warn her?Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Fantasy - Chapters: 3 - Words: 4,071 - Reviews: 5 - Published: 06-30-06 - id: 2203200
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
The wind pushed against Jamie as she ran towards her mom.
"Mom don't!" she screamed.
"Jamie? GO HOME!" Her mom scolded her.
"No mom, don't do it!"
Crying, Jamie headed home. Then she turned around and ran towards her mom.
"DON'T!" she screamed, slipping in between the railing. She reached her hand out to her mom. "Please mommy."
Her mother sighed and held her hand out, but a burst of wind made Jamie lose her balance, and she fell off the edge, into the cold, deadly waters.
Jamie woke up, once again gasping for breath. The mark on her hand burned and shined in the dark.
"What the-?" she muttered, blinking. She closed her eyes, and just lay on her bed.
What is going on? She thought, rubbing her hands together to stop the tingling in her right hand, the one with the skull.
The tingling was still there, but it didn't burn anymore, which was good.
Jamie looked at the clock and groaned. It was only 5:00 AM.
"I hope this isn't going to become a pattern," she growled, hopping out of bed. She was absolutely exhausted, but did not want to try to sleep again. Her dreams were plagued by variations of her death at the bridge.
"I can't take it much longer," she complained as she stripped off her night clothes and hopped into the shower. "My life is a nightmare, when I am awake and when I'm sleeping."
Jamie straightened her hair with a hair straightened and left it down, as usual. She decided to wear jeans and a blue long sleeved shirt. The shirt had the words American Eagle on and she really hated it. She hated all name brand clothing. It made her feel like she was faking, or trying to be someone she wasn't.
She grabbed her gray jacket and pulled it on. She put an Eggo into the toaster and it was done by the time she had gotten her backpack and shoes. She grabbed it and looked down at her hand.
"Oh crap! My gloves!" she whispered to herself and she quietly ran back up the stairs.
She slipped her gloves on and went to the bus stop, contemplating skipping school. On the plus side she would have a break from integers, on the minus side the principle would call her dad. Not her mom, who was at home. No, her dad. Who was at work. Who would be very angry. Who hit her mother.
Jamie shuddered at the thought. There was only so much she could deal with, so she pushed the problems with her father, her nightmares, and the strange mark, out of her head.
She would deal with all this later. After she came home from school. After she rotted for six plus hours.
"Are you still angry?"
"No, are you?"
"Spit it out Alexis."
"Listen, it's not that I don't like you, it's just I like Kayla better. So I'm going to hang out with her now. Is that ok?"
"Does it matter if it's ok? Go, Alexis."
"Really? I mean, you aren't mad?"
"Alexis if you don't leave me alone I will punch you. Get the hell away from me."
School was more of a hell without a friend. Jamie realized that it was not so much the fact that she missed Alexis, as much as she missed having a friend.
Alexis, she really didn't care about. Well, not anymore. And Alexis obviously didn't give a shit about Jamie. She had been wanting to be friends with Kayla and her crowd for years, possibly since 5th grade.
Jamie didn't care, but was lonely. So lonely. And extremely bored. Most classes she tried to pay attention in, but she slept in Social Studies everyday.
"Ms. McClellan? Ms. McClellan? JAMIE!" Her Social Studies teacher startled Jamie out of her reverie in which her father was the one falling off the bridge. It was not a real dream, unfortunately, only a daydream.
"Ms. McClellan, why aren't you paying attention?" Mr. Garth asked.
"I swear, this is the most pointless class. Hello? I already learned the basics of our history in elementary school. I do not care which leader led which battle. Did we win? Did we lose? That's all I need to know."
"Well since you are so enthusiastic about this class, how about you read this next paragraph."
"The Civil War affected over a…" Jamie read slowly and in monotone, which annoyed Mr. Garth very much.
When she finished the paragraph she asked in a very animated voice, "Do you want me to read anymore Mr. Garth?"
"No, no. Lets see, Mr. Johansson, you read next."
Jamie felt her eyelids get heavy as Thomas Johansson read the next paragraph. Slowly, the class faded and she fell asleep.
"Mom! No!" Jamie screamed as she ran across the bridge. But she tripped, and tumbled over the railing. She watched as her mother jumped in after her, but it was too late, and the frigid river claimed her.
Jamie woke up with a gasp and breathed heavily.
"Ms. McClellan are you ok?" Mr. Garth asked.
Wordlessly she nodded. A few people tittered nervously, but most gave her weird looks. She looked at the clock the exact minute the bell rang. She jumped out of her seat, hurrying to get out of her seat.
"Ms. McClellan, can I have a word with you?" Mr. Garth stopped her in her dash for the door.
She turned around, waiting for him to say whatever he was going to say.
"Are you sure you're ok?"
"Yeah! Just having nightmares about having Social Studies again tomorrow," she said sarcastically.
Sighing Mr. Garth waved his hand, shooing her. She didn't need to be told twice and she sprinted out the door.
"Hey you!" Someone called.
On instinct, Jamie looked back, but felt relief when she saw that she wasn't the one being addressed. She strolled slowly into her computer class, sitting in her the chair the minute the tardy bell rang.
"Cutting it close again, Jamie," Mrs. Phillips, the computer teacher, remarked.
"Don't I always?" Jamie joked good naturally.
"Yes, yes, you do."
Jamie zoned out and pretty much slept through class for the rest of the day. But wherever she went she had this weird feeling that she was being watched.