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I was there, again. Dreaming, yet not dreaming. It was some kind of in between place where nothing made sense. I would see people, some I recognized, but most I didn't. The scary thing was, though, bad things happened to all of them. Car crashes, murders, even suicide...they all would die eventually, and I knew it. I couldn't do anything about it. They would escape my hold every time. That's why I hate this place. It makes me watch them, but not save them. It makes me hope maybe one will live, but always that hope diminishes. It's making me crazy. Why me? I ask myself. God, why me? Never an answer, just silence. I haven't told you the worst part, yet. I see them on the news. I hear about them in the radio. I hear about what I’ve already seen. The only thing I could call them is premonitions. Don't tell anyone, they'll think you’re crazy. That's my motto. In this “dream” I see a little girl. She's walking with her mom, out on a sidewalk. It looks like they're in a city, but I'm not sure. The mom starts to cross a street, with her daughter following behind. I yell to her, I scream, but she can't her me. None of them can. Not one. A car comes speeding by. It makes a sharp turn and hits the mom. For a second, the little girl didn't know what was happening. Then, she saw her mom, lying on the ground, bruised and bloody. She's dead. The daughter yells "Mommy wake up! Please, mommy! Please wake up!" She doesn't realize she's gone. I think the most horrible thing about this place is I can't cry. I want to, no, I need to, but I can't. It just burns. My heart, my eyes, my soul, burns. This dreamlike place ends in a fade. I slowly come back to consciousness. My head aches and aches for hours. And I cry. I cry for the girl, and the mom. And I cry for all the others I couldn't save. I didn't use to have these "visions", as someone might call them. I remember when I was little, I was so happy. Happy family, happy me, happy life. That all changed December 19, 2003. Our Christmas decorations were up, and my mom and I were wrapping presents in the basement. My dad comes home and sees us. I saw the smile on his face. It wasn't right. That menacing, dead, smile. He held a baseball bat in his right hand; in his left he had a beer. He was an achoholic, if I remember right. My initial thought was he wanted us to wrap the baseball bat for someone. I soon realized that I was not right. He came up to my mom and pretended to swing at her head. She didn't think it was funny. She shooed him off, with a wave of her hand. My dad didn't like that too much so he decided to take an actual swing. He hit her hard. I yelled "Daddy stop! Why are you doing that!?" He didn't like that either, so he took the beer bottle and swung it at my head. I immediately went unconscious. I woke up in a hospital with bandages on my head, beeping machines, and an uncomfortable, scratchy hospital gown. After a few minutes, a nurse came in and told me how I got here. She said I got hit in the head, and then the ambulance came and took me to the hospital. I didn't want to ask, yet I did. "Where is my mommy?" She gave me a sympathetic look, and I knew. Dead. Dead. Dead. That word echoed in my brain for a long while. I cried. I cried for days and days. I cried myself to sleep, and when I woke up I cried. It wasn't fair. That was the first time I asked “Why me?” Later I learned my dad was in jail and got a life sentence without parole. To me, that wasn't enough. He needed to be dead. He deserved to be dead after what he did. A week after the murder, I got the dreams.
Chapter 2:
The next morning I saw the girl on tv. She looked the same…broken. I prayed for her. I pray a lot, now. I pray for hope, and I pray for help. When my mom died, I prayed. I thought that God might give her back. I ask God to give me a new family, sometimes. I bounce from foster home to foster home. Whenever you get to a new one, you think this might be the one. This might be the one that keeps you. I’ve stopped hoping for a new family, though. It’s not worth it.
I don’t think school is worth it, either. I want to drop out, but that would just make things worse. I do the same thing everyday. Get on the bus, got to class, come home. But the thing is, while I do those things, I act. I’d be a great actress. I act happy, smart, even outgoing. Nobody can see through the fake smiles that I’m depressed, angry, and slowly falling apart. I lie to my friends, too. I tell them I live in a nice home, with nice parents, and a nice life.