I been watching waaay too much T.V., so here is the product.
Enjoy…If that's your thing.
Call me crazy, call me cruel, call me whatever makes your heart content.
I simply spoke my mind, and others believed in me. And of course, they also expressed their faith in the form of dollars. Nothing says devout quite like cold, hard cash. Don't tell me you wouldn't do it either. You would.
Get off your high horse. I got off mine, so I could swim in my money.
See? A nice image like that could make any desperate loser like me reconsider their morals.
But first, you're probably wondering how my state lines of wrong were not only crossed, but leaped over.
It all started where it ends: in my messed up head.
Since my accident three years earlier, I could see things. Horrible, horrible things.
I'd be riding on the bus, sitting next to a pleasant old lady (70-something I believe) smelling of cats and the next second, I'd be staring at her broken skull, all bloody with bits of flesh still clinging to it for dear life (sorry, dumb pun). A tuft of grey hair would still be on one side of her head, contrasting the soft pink of her dripping brain. I screamed, but bit down on my fist before it could escape, and everyone on board subjected me to a "What the hell is your problem?" glare before moving on with their bland lives. We'd always ended up sitting together, as Mrs. Dutton (that's her name) thought of me as a friend who needed her company 'cause I used to sit quietly by myself. I was content that way, but I did not protest her "kindness".
I couldn't say anything without looking like an ass or a crazy.
So after many days of staring at Mrs. Dutton's exposed cranium, one day she wasn't on the bus and I later found out some other delusional bastard had bashed her skull in. What a coincidence, huh?
No, both you and I only wish it was.
It kept getting worse. A smiling, angelic little blonde girl is playing in the park one second, the next it's like a bit of Hell touched her and she's humming tunelessly to her legless doll as her skin melts under tongues of flame. It's all over the news a week after: Young Father Burns His Seven-Year-Old Daughter to Death.
As I said, horrible things. I couldn't stop it, but I tried to see a pattern.
The pattern? Not only was I seeing violent deaths caused by one human to another, but the killings were always within a week of me seeing them.
I'd never dared to tell anybody, despite the still-functional angel on my shoulder telling me to do it. Would you believe it if some random androgynous stranger walked up to you and said you'd be very open-minded the next week, due to an axe buried in your forehead?
If you say yes, you're crazier than everyone keeps telling me I am. It means you're as insane as my friend Amice (Am for short).
Amice Lang was a spitfire wearing hot pink glasses and drowning in an oversized black coat that brushed her thighs as she ran. She never walked; her very being recoiled from the words slow or wait.
That was probably why she was going to get hit by a car.
The tire marks would engrave themselves deep in her flesh.
Now see, I kind of…liked Amice. Loved her. Still do, actually.
My life before meeting her could be summed up into one sentence: "Blah, blah, blah."
Naturally, I didn't want her to die. I screamed and burst into tears when I pulled back from a tight hug to see her round face smashed into an ugly pulp. Luckily, we were at my house, in my room with no one else to witness my breakdown. "What's wrong?" She cried, and I told her.
I said, "You're going to die."
I described how her insides would become her outside after she was pulverized by that car. I traced the diamond-shaped pattern of the tires along her face and stomach. Then I crumpled, and tears were pouring from me like water squeezed from a soaked sponge. I was sure she'd call me names. Have me thrown into the loony bin and lobotomized (which didn't sound so bad) and never see my pinched face again.
Amice did no such thing.
For a minute Am just sat, dazed, and watched me claw at myself and weep.
Then she got up slowly for the first time in her life, and when she sat back down in her hands was my laptop. She put it by my side and grabbed my hands so I would stop clawing and said, "You're not crazy."
I was dumbfounded. "Don't be so sure about that, Am." I blurted out, making a hysterical screaming sound that was supposed to be a giggle. But she glared back at me through the bloody pink frames of her glasses. "You're…not having me committed?"
"Don't be ridiculous." And her hands were like dancing spiders on the keyboard. "I know crazy. My mom was crazy, and she hung herself before I was ten. You're not crazy. And I was…going to 'go', anyway." I opened my mouth, but she held a finger up and calmly said, "I want you to do something for me."
And I swore I'd do whatever she asked. How could I refuse my dying friend?
If only you'd seen her face. It was being tugged by so many emotions: sadness, determination…and just under the surface, in her differently colored* eyes was calculation. Ever see a snake tonguing the air for fresh food? That's her look underneath it all.
Whatever she was planning, it would be big. Anything cooked up by her feverish brain was.
"What is it you want?" I asked, and she flashed me her biggest, brightest, most demented grin.
Then she told me she was setting up a website that I was to use for marketing my "gift" should she really die next week.
*-this condition is called heterochromia, where you can have one brown right eye and left, a hazel one.
I remember reading the name "Amice" somewhere else, but I think the story was deleted, so I use it in that fiction's memory. ;)
And many false prophets shall rise, and shall deceive many.