It Must Be
“You -- you saw what in your dream, now?” I cross my arms over my chest. It’s a desperate attempt to protect myself. And it’s not working. Amelia’s gray eyes stare at me, and there’s sorrow in them. I can see it, plain as anything.
“Miles, you know what I saw,” she says, voice as steady as ever. Amelia’s voice never wavers from that faraway tone. Not ever. It’s like she’s not even on this Earth, and she isn’t. Not really.
I keep my arms crossed over my chest. It may not protect me from her prophetic powers or my apparent fate, but I can’t help it. Need something -- anything at all -- to steady myself. We’re sitting on the faded old couch in her living room, and the place looks so ordinary. Bookshelves with books nobody ever reads. Generic landscapes on the wall. Some old vase her mom says is real valuable sitting on a wooden stand.
Nothing that would suggest I’m taking to a prophetess who says I have to die.
My stomach twists as I look at her. There’s gotta be some way she’s wrong about this, right? And it’s not just that I’m gonna die, either. That? That I could handle, maybe -- we all have to die sometime. I’m young, but I’m not stupid enough to think that makes me immortal.
“And you’re sure your powers are, um...working right?” I mutter. I shift on my seat. Maybe Amelia’s sick or something. This dream she’s had three times now could be some kinda fever thing.
She sighs. Doesn’t say anything for the longest time. Amelia fidgets with her hands, like she wants to reach out and comfort me. As if she would be able to do that -- she’s the one saying I have to...don’t even wanna think about how I have to die. I look down at the cushion on the couch and wait. She’ll speak up, soon enough. Maybe she’ll even have something good to say.
“If I see something three times, I have to make it happen,” she says. “You know this as well as I do. You know what happens if I refuse.”
I understand all that perfectly well -- if Amelia sees something in her dreams three times, it must come true. Or bad things happen. Her father died when she refused to listen to her powers, once. Only this time death -- mine -- is what needs to happen, rather than the consequence of refusal. Don’t wanna know what refusal will mean for this dream. Still don’t wanna die. I shudder thinking about what she saw.
“I know, Amelia,” I say as my stomach sinks. There’s a certainty in the air around us. A heavy thing I can’t quite describe. But I know it’s there. I know I have to do this, even if I can’t understand why. Even if it makes no sense why I would have to die this way.
She looks at me, and those sorrowful eyes are a knife in my heart. “It won’t be as bad as you think. After all, in my dream, you were happy,” she says.
“Happy?” I say. “That just makes this whole thing even creepier, Amelia. As I’m sure you’re aware.” My body shakes from laughter I can’t stop. She saw me happy in her dream? She told me that before, but -- how does that make this any better?
“You do not wish to be happy?” she asks, that faraway voice of hers now tinged with disbelief.
I laugh long enough my sides hurt, but, eventually, the laughter stops. I glare at Amelia, with my arms still crossed. “Not when I’m dying horribly because of some prophecy. Not when I’m setting myself up for...I don’t even wanna say. No, I don’t want to be happy when it happens,” I mutter.
She shakes her head. “You will be, though. I saw it, therefore it must be.”
For a moment, I want to throttle Amelia in the desperate hope I can kill this prophecy by killing her. My stomach churns once the thought passes -- I may hate her and hate this right now, but I’m no killer. And it wouldn’t even work. Even if she died, her vision would live.
I have no choice but to die a horrible death and, somehow, be happy about it.
“Miles, you know what I saw,” she says, voice as steady as ever. Amelia’s voice never wavers from that faraway tone. Not ever. It’s like she’s not even on this Earth, and she isn’t. Not really.
I keep my arms crossed over my chest. It may not protect me from her prophetic powers or my apparent fate, but I can’t help it. Need something -- anything at all -- to steady myself. We’re sitting on the faded old couch in her living room, and the place looks so ordinary. Bookshelves with books nobody ever reads. Generic landscapes on the wall. Some old vase her mom says is real valuable sitting on a wooden stand.
Nothing that would suggest I’m taking to a prophetess who says I have to die.
My stomach twists as I look at her. There’s gotta be some way she’s wrong about this, right? And it’s not just that I’m gonna die, either. That? That I could handle, maybe -- we all have to die sometime. I’m young, but I’m not stupid enough to think that makes me immortal.
“And you’re sure your powers are, um...working right?” I mutter. I shift on my seat. Maybe Amelia’s sick or something. This dream she’s had three times now could be some kinda fever thing.
She sighs. Doesn’t say anything for the longest time. Amelia fidgets with her hands, like she wants to reach out and comfort me. As if she would be able to do that -- she’s the one saying I have to...don’t even wanna think about how I have to die. I look down at the cushion on the couch and wait. She’ll speak up, soon enough. Maybe she’ll even have something good to say.
“If I see something three times, I have to make it happen,” she says. “You know this as well as I do. You know what happens if I refuse.”
I understand all that perfectly well -- if Amelia sees something in her dreams three times, it must come true. Or bad things happen. Her father died when she refused to listen to her powers, once. Only this time death -- mine -- is what needs to happen, rather than the consequence of refusal. Don’t wanna know what refusal will mean for this dream. Still don’t wanna die. I shudder thinking about what she saw.
“I know, Amelia,” I say as my stomach sinks. There’s a certainty in the air around us. A heavy thing I can’t quite describe. But I know it’s there. I know I have to do this, even if I can’t understand why. Even if it makes no sense why I would have to die this way.
She looks at me, and those sorrowful eyes are a knife in my heart. “It won’t be as bad as you think. After all, in my dream, you were happy,” she says.
“Happy?” I say. “That just makes this whole thing even creepier, Amelia. As I’m sure you’re aware.” My body shakes from laughter I can’t stop. She saw me happy in her dream? She told me that before, but -- how does that make this any better?
“You do not wish to be happy?” she asks, that faraway voice of hers now tinged with disbelief.
I laugh long enough my sides hurt, but, eventually, the laughter stops. I glare at Amelia, with my arms still crossed. “Not when I’m dying horribly because of some prophecy. Not when I’m setting myself up for...I don’t even wanna say. No, I don’t want to be happy when it happens,” I mutter.
She shakes her head. “You will be, though. I saw it, therefore it must be.”
For a moment, I want to throttle Amelia in the desperate hope I can kill this prophecy by killing her. My stomach churns once the thought passes -- I may hate her and hate this right now, but I’m no killer. And it wouldn’t even work. Even if she died, her vision would live.
I have no choice but to die a horrible death and, somehow, be happy about it.