Déja vu, a short story by rafey. Date added: 2012-07-02. Times viewed: 615.
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- Intro: Knowing the future isn't always a good thing
He suddenly found himself sitting up, eyes wide open. Slowly his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom & he recognised the familier objects in his own room. The fear & terror that had gripped his mind slowly receded & he tried to think clearly. The digital clock next to his bed showed 05:15. He groaned, he knew he'd never get back to sleep now.
Instead he tried to remember what he had dreamt, what had caused the fear that he had felt. A fire, or explosion? He wasn't sure. Normaly he never dreamt or had nightmares.
Finally he got up tp make some coffee & see if the morning newspaper had arrived.
It was only a short walk from the office to his flat. Work had allowed him to forget his night & the bad dream. He was tired & wanted an early night.
He suddenly found himself sitting up, eyes wide open. Fear gripped his mind & refused to release it. He searched in the gloom for some kind of reassurance that everything was normal. The difital clock showed 04:21.
He closed his eyes again & tried to capture some glimses of the dream. He remembered a fire or explosion, screams & cries for help, but no details.
Getting up, he made some coffee for himself & picked up the morning paper off the hall floor. He turned on the lamp beside his bed & scourered the pages for a fire & accident somewhere in the world. There were nothing apart the the daily reports from Syria, Egypt & Afganistan, none of it good, but nothing that seemed like the recolections of his nightmare. He began to wonder if it was a premonition, something that will happen. Always sceptical of other peoples predictions, he wasn't sure what to believe. The dreams were real enough but he didn''t know or understand why he had suddenly had become afflicted. Sometimes he had toyed with the idea of how good it would be to able to look into the future, foretell & warn of coming disasters. This didn't feel good at all though.
It was only a short walk from the office to his flat. Work hadn't allowed him any respite from his thoughts & nagging concerns. He was tired but wasn't sure if he really wanted to sleep.
He suddenly found himself sitting up, eyes wide open. The fire, the sceams for help were very real. He was out of bed before he knew it, but didn't know what to do. The digital clock showed 05:02. He knew something terrible was going to happen. He sat on the edge of his bed & tried to remember as much as possible of his dream. He was sure now it was a fire or explosion, there were cries of help but he couldn't remember if they were English voices or foreign ones.
What if I could stop another 9/11 or London bombings he thought to himself, what is through some quirk of fate or meta-physics, he had been allowed the gift or curse to see into the future. It could change his life forever.
He went into the hall to collect the newspaper, & then into the kitchen to make some coffee. The normal start to his days now.
It was only a short walk from the office to his flat. He felt exhausted & unable to concentrate on anything at work, his mind mulling over the implications of what is happening to him. He wasn't looking forward to sleeping. He remembered reading or hearing the dreams always fade quickly after you have woken up. He placed a clean pad of paper beside his bed so that we could quickly write down as many details as possible.
He suddenly found himself sitting up, eyes wide open. He was terrified. Putting on the lamp he picked up the pen & paper & started writing. The fire, explosion, & screams were all to real for him, suddenly he remembered seeing a hand lying on the ground. A woman dismembered hand, manicured & painted nails & large rings on the fingers. A feeling of nausea swept over him, he rushed into the bathroom to vomit.
He felt exhausted. The digital clocked showed 05.57. He considered phoning in sick to the office but realised he needed to get out & try to think about something else.
It was only a short walk from the office to his flat. Trying to work proved meaningless, his concentration was zero, over the last few days his workload had decreased dramatically, causing concern & irritation from his colleagues & bosses. The sight of the severed hand haunted him all day.
He sat gloomly in his flat feeling cursed. Sleep was something now he feared. He tried to make sense of it all: was he part of this nightmare, or was he just an observer? Was it something that was destined to happen or could it be avoided? Can you change the future?
Other questions can up in his mind: what could he do with newfound knowledge? Who would believe him? If he waited until it happened & then reveal that he'd known beforehand who would believe him? Perhaps he could take notes & somehow record them to prove the dates of his predictions?
He felt exhausted, scared, helpless & lonely.
Putting down his sixth cup of coffee, he looked at the time. It was passed midnight & her knew he never be able to get to work. He didn't even want to sleep & relive the horror of the previous nights. Next to the coffee cup was a half empty bottle of wiskey that he had used to dull his mind.
He suddenly found himself sitting up, eyes wide open. He knew it was going to happen. He knew that only he had the power to stop it. He remembered the first explosion, flames erupting in the darkness, silhouetted against the fire. It was as if he was a spectator, feeling nothing, just recording the terrible events unfolding before him. The voices were English now. He was sure of it. Figures engulfed in flames staggered close to him screaming in agony. It was as if he was t the gateway to hell.
He saw the hand on the road, seemingly undamaged, just from some womans arm. A well kept & beautiful hand from a woman who was obviously intent on always looking her best. Perhaps a woman in her early 30's, attractive, making her way up the career ladder.
The clock showed 04:37. It didnt matter any more. He knew he wasn't going into work that day, or maybe any other day really. He relived his dream. Somehow this was his reality now. His mind was fogged with lack of sleep, & too much coffee & alcohol.
He lay down & stared at the ceiling, unable to decide what to do next. He felt the beginings of a hangover gripping his head, a dry throat, headache & nausea. Some kind of disease or affliction had taken his body & mind, he seemed unable to focus on anything except the terrible things in his dream.
He fell into a fitfull asleep.
The digital clock showed 13.27.
The sleep hadn't refreshed him. On the contary he felt even more exhausted, the calamity continued vivdly inside his head, endlessly repeating itself. New horrific details appeared of the casulties, screams & cries. Somehow there was something familiar about the scene, the surroundings, but he was incapable of concentrating now. He felt more exhausted now that he had in the night. Unsteadily he got up make make himself some coffee to releive his parched throat. While waiting for the water to boil he looked out of the kitchen window, it was overcaste, rain ricochetted off the window pane. He poured the coffee & returned to the bdroom, ignoring the newspaper lying on the floor.
The room was still in semi darkness, the curtains were still drawn. He felt that something was going to happen soon & only he had the key to unlock the puzzle, the knowledge to prevent it. His inability to come to a decision about waht to do gnawed away at him. He could phone a national newspaper, they would he was sure think we was a lunatic. Phoning New Scotland Yard, or special branch, or MI5 or 6, even if that a telephone number would certainly also think he was mental but at least they must record his message so he could prove he had predicted it.
He tossed & turned for hours in a torrmented slumber.
Finally he got out of bed, he''s decided he'd risk the ridicule & go to the police. He knew that he looked like a lunatic though. He hadn't shaved & he had black black rings around his eyes. First he'd have some more coffee, eat something, shower & shave in an attempt to look more normal.
After he showered he returned to his bedroom, it smelt stale & stuffy. Opening the curtains he realised hoe late it was. He glanced at the clock which showed 17.12.
He chose his clothes with care, wanting something sombre, respectful, something that would make the police take him seriously.
Finally, picking up the note pad with all his writing & jottings he left his flat.
The air was quite cold, puddles were everywhere.
Deciding to take the quickest route to the police station, he took at short cut through some alleyways. On the main street he started to cross when a realisation hit him. The building & road reminded him of his nightmares. He stopped to look around him.
Suddenly he heard the blast of a horn. The brakes of a tanker squealed & swerved to avoid him. It drove up over the central island & lumbered into the oncoming vehicles. It turned too sharply & rolled over. A car crashed into the tank, causing it to rupture.
Suddenly a ball of fire erupted & both the car & tanker were engulfed in a ball of fire. The leaking petrol ignited & swept along the road. New cars piled up into the wreckage. People were shouting & crying, human torches staggered screaming.
New exposions erupted.
He heard something land on the road near to him & he witnessed his nightmare once again, unable to move.
He looked down & saw it was a human hand. A womans hand.
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