Authors: Kathryn R. Biel
Killing Me Softly
Copyright © 2015 by Kathryn R. Biel
ISBN-10: 0-9913917-7-2
ISBN-13:
978-0-9913917-7-6
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excepts in a review. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Cover design by Becky Monson.
Cover image via depositphotos.com by sheftsoff.
To Cahren:
I'm not sure how I managed to survive all those years without the other half of my brain. But I'm sure you already knew that.
The first person I ever killed was a has-been comedian. I didn't mean to kill him, of course. The tabloid websites said it was drugs and alcohol, but I knew the truth. It was all my fault. My friends and I had been out drinking, and I quoted a line from this guy's most popular movie. The movie was still relatively obscure, and I had to explain it. Someone asked, "Whatever happened to that guy?" and my answer was, "Oh, he's probably drinking himself to death right now."
Guess what? He was.
This sort of thing happens to me more often than I'd like to admit. I don't even know what to call it—psychic ability, premonitions, a sixth sense? It's not creepy, not really. Just enough to send a small chill up my spine. It never bothered me—until death got involved. Most of the time, it's pretty innocuous. Like someone from my past will pop into my head, and the next day I run into them. Or I think about a song that I haven't heard in years and then suddenly it comes on the radio. Nothing big, just coincidences. A lot of coincidences.
Until the day it started turning fatal.
Rob, my boyfriend of almost two years, doesn't believe me. When something happens and I tell him, "Oh, I had a dream about that," or "I was just thinking about this," he says I'm trying to be dramatic and seek attention (which wouldn't really be such a big stretch, considering my family. We're the poster children for dysfunction). But I'm not like the rest of my family. I actually don't even tell many people about it because I don't want attention, certainly not for this. I want to be taken seriously. I teach high school American history. With kids these days being tougher and tougher, I need as much street cred as I can get. The last thing I need is for them to think I'm some kind of quack or whack job.
My best friend, Therese, knows all about it. She's one of the few people I can talk to about this topic. She doesn't judge me or think I'm weird. I think she thinks I can predict the future or something. Which would be cool, but it is not what I do. I think I'm just intuitive at times. Who knows?
Over the years, since the comedian episode, I think I've been "responsible" for at least four deaths. A couple celebrities, a distant relative, and a well-known local businessman. When I have the dreams or make the comments, I don't recognize them as premonitions. They're just random thoughts that pop into my brain and often fly out of my mouth without me even realizing what I'm saying. People are used to me doing that. It's only later, after the event, that I realize what happened. In each case, I made an unkind remark. It's not just a premonition—I say something mean and then someone's dead.
Some days I worry I'm obsessed with death. It would only make sense. I was born in the back of a hearse, next to a dead person.
True story
. Sometimes I wonder if there was some sort of cosmic energy transfer as a result of my odd entrance that has left me with a connection to the other world. Other than that, I feel like a relatively normal person until—WHAM—I have a clairvoyant episode. Then I start freaking out again. To deal with it, I've found that I have to compartmentalize the whole death-premonition thing. Otherwise, I'd probably go crazy.
So, when I'm sitting in the faculty lounge one day in mid-February, the week before winter recess, eating my lunch and not bothering anyone, the last thing I expect is to cause the death of a student. Looking back, I know I was responsible. I had to be. I didn't think so at the time, but there is no other logical explanation for the events that I unknowingly predicted. Not that my being responsible is logical either, but I don't know how else to rationalize it. I didn't have the student in class, but I knew the name. I'd taught his sister a few years before. So I'm sitting there, eating my ham sandwich and potato chips, flipping through the real estate listings, and Janet, the P.E. teacher, mentions something about the family. I'm not really paying attention at first. Then I realize who she's talking about. "Oh, the Austins? Yeah, I had Trinity a while back. She seemed lost. Those parents are a piece of work. I hear Tristan is no good. I'm due to have him next year."
"No, that family's no good at all. It's too bad, because he is actually pretty smart."
I circle a property that has potential. I won't even have time to drive by it until next week, so hopefully it will still be on the market. Rob's not ready to move in together, but I've been bitten by the real estate bug. Too many home improvement shows on HGTV. "He's probably too smart for his own good. But instead of making a better life for himself, he's probably gonna wind up getting himself killed one of these days doing something very stupid." The lunch period passes too quickly, as does the rest of the day.
The following day, Janet and I are back in the faculty room. Today, I'm looking at
People Magazine
. I don't know what it says about me that I find the classifieds more entertaining than the Kardashians. Too bad I read all the classifieds yesterday. Janet's reading a book. We're using our time to decompress today, rather than to talk about students whose lives are spiraling out of control.
The peaceful break ends quickly when Mrs. Peale, the secretary, comes racing into the faculty room. She's obviously upset. Mrs. Peale is about ninety years old and has been with the school since it opened. She knows everyone and everything. Personally, she terrifies me. It's like she can see right through you and can read your deepest, darkest thoughts.
"Mrs. Peale, what's wrong?" I stand up, and go over to her. I'm worried she might be having a stroke or something.
Mrs. Peale tries to spit out an answer or two but appears unable to form words. Janet, who has been at the school longer than I have and is on the verge of retirement, has no fear of Mrs. Peale. "Jesus Gwen. Spit it out. What's wrong?"
"Sadie, Janet, it's terrible. There ... there was an incident. An accident. Tristan Austin was just shot and killed by the police while he was trying to rob a convenience store. Why would he rob a store? What a stupid thing to do!"
I look at Janet, and she looks back at me. Her eyes are wide, as I'm sure mine are as well. "Didn't you say that yesterday?"
I'm unable to speak, so I just nod. Oh crap.
Janet goes back to Mrs. Peale, who has calmed herself down and pulled herself together. She's smoothing her white hair down, not that any of it could escape the hairspray helmet she wears. "Gwen, do you know what happened?"
"He was out today. I called the house, and of course, the dad answered. Like it would kill him to ever actually work for a living. But you know those Austins. No good. The whole lot of them. But I thought Tristan was different. I thought he was going to get out and make something of himself, if for no other reason than to prove his folks wrong. I guess he decided to boost the mini-mart over on Turnpike Road. The owner, Mr. Busmati, hit the silent alarm. The police were right down the street. I think Tristan had a gun and well ..." she breaks off, obviously too upset to continue.
My sandwich has turned to sawdust in my mouth. I do my best to swallow. The room is spinning, and my hands are shaking. I try to cover my downright visceral reaction. "Poor kid. What are we going to do here?" I feel like I'm going to vomit.
"You know the policy. Carry on as best you can. Guidance is on alert. You can send anyone who is having a hard time to them. No early dismissals."
I would be sort of lucky, since I had juniors and seniors, who probably don't know Tristan. Rob taught senior and AP economics (snooze), so he probably isn't even really familiar with the family either. Mrs. Peale goes on to spread the word to other teachers, and it's just Janet and me again.
Janet appears as shaken up as I feel. "I just get upset at the waste. I don't even know that he had much promise—Lord knows the family didn't, but he never even got the chance. He could have cured cancer. He could have made world peace. But now he's dead. And for what? What was worth stealing that it cost him his life?"
"I don't know, Janet. I wish I did. You know, some days, I feel like we make a difference with these kids. Other days, I feel like I'm banging my head against the wall. Maybe, just maybe, someone will learn a lesson from this and make a better decision. Maybe Tristan's death will save someone else."
"Maybe." Janet pauses and then gives me a strange look. "That was weird, you know that yesterday you said this would happen. Are you clairvoyant or something?"
"No." I'm defensive. Too defensive. I don't like anyone to notice. It makes it hard for me to squash down the unpleasant feeling of being responsible and to ignore it.
Janet just can't leave it alone though. "It was like you knew what was going to happen."
"But I didn't. I couldn't have, could I?" I say defensively.
Janet's taken aback by the bite in my tone. "No, but it's too bad. Just think, Sadie, if you knew what was going to happen, you could have saved that poor boy."