You might think it strange, me sitting here, waiting for the sun to set, to watch the stars pop out one by one after I’ve just done what I’ve done. From up here, I see the house burn, flames like long tongues licking the sky.
 
If you’ve ever started a fire, stood within fingerling flames as it came to life, heard its growing pains, the wailing and the screams from its burned throat and the cracking and snapping of wood and metal…it becomes a song, a consuming chant. Don’t judge me too harshly for the death of the man inside, for I’m privy to knowledge that you are not, for I carry the curse of a Futureseer. Some call my ability a blessing. I don’t.
 
Tell me, how can I stand by knowing that that man in the house, the man most likely in the throes of the reaper’s arms right now, would become one of the most notorious killers of our time? In two days, he would kill his first. Two days left for me to decide what I would do, or not do. Who gave me the right to decide life or death, or anything else for that matter? The one who gave me this curse. The one who gave me the freedom of choice.
 
I sit here now on a chair I ripped from the inside of the trailer, watching the house burn and the stars burst into a violet and pink sky, and I wonder what you would have done in my place?

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Postcard Stories Podcast – An Author Reading.

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