I joined WritersWeekly’s Fall 2007 Short StoryContest last September. The web site updated with the list of winners earlier. I’m included in the list of honorable mention (see pic above). Too bad. Maybe in another couple of tries, I’ll be in the top three I promised a friend I’d show her my story, so here it is. I’ll pull it down as soon my portfolio’s up and running and place it there instead.

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KARMA
By: Mariella
Do NOT copy.

“So, what do you think?”

I sighed. From behind his desk, my superior stared at me intently, his sharp green eyes boring deep into my skull.

“Screw you,” is what I wanted to say. But I knew that if I am to have a purpose in my rotten life, I had no choice. I begrudgingly reached into my bag and pulled out a large rectangular mirror.

“You owe me, chief.”

He grunted in response.

I took a deep breath to calm my anxious nerves, closed my eyes briefly and stared into the looking glass. I watched my own brows furrow in concentration, my dark eyes glinting against the seemingly grayish background.

My reflection began to dissolve and slowly, like mixing paint in an artist’s palette, a varicolored vision of fall swirled before my very eyes. The vivid hues of the foliage seemed to bring the vision to life; a painting worthy of an artist extraordinaire.

I felt it again. That familiar feeling, that desperate wish to be there; in that place so far away, and so long ago — a place I’ve never even seen before. I blinked back startled tears, shed for reasons unknown, when I suddenly inhaled the scent of wood smoke, felt a cold wind stirring my hair and saw a movement in the distance.

I looked around. I was standing in the middle of the woods in autumn, alone and feeling miserable in the middle of a golden paradise. Another distant movement entered my peripheral vision. Panting slightly amidst the cold, I padded quietly towards the unknown entity — human or savage beast, I couldn’t see. Much later, I would find out that in that case, between the two, there’s not much of a difference.

Mist rose from my mouth and I can hear myself breathing heavily, my hand clutching the stitch on my side.

‘Human‘, I thought, when I glanced at the color of skin on bare back, though what anyone was doing shirtless on a frigid autumn day, I didn’t know.

I stood behind a large tree, trying to catch my breath. There was a man with his back on me not far from where I stood, a shovel in hand, furiously digging on the hardened forest earth. Not far away from where we were, a small fire was burning. I stared at the man muttering under his breath, wondering what he was doing. My curiosity however, saw its end when my eyes moved downward — at his feet, a boy not older than five was bound from arms to ankles.

I stood frozen.

The boy, who was erstwhile unconscious, began to stir. He blinked against the setting autumn sun, his eyes a deep cerulean blue radiating pure innocence.

“Daddy?” The child addressed the man who remained oblivious and kept on digging. “Daddy, what’s goin’ on?”

“Shut it,” the man grunted.

I felt my heart in my throat, my brain going haywire in fear and disbelief. The child lying supine on the forest floor writhed in agony as he tried to free himself from his bounds. He started shrieking in a voice so agonizingly loud; it seemed to rip into the core of my being.

“I SAID SHUT IT!”

The man turned quickly and in a whiplash, brought the shovel down to his own son’s head. I heard the crack of a delicate skull. And blood, the color of vermilion, stained the forest floor, vitiating the golden beauty of the fallen autumn leaves.

The man kept on digging, muttering under his breath. But this time, I could hear what he was saying.

“Your slut of a mother running off with another man…what was I supposed to do?! She deserves this…”

No, I didn’t want to see any more. I wanted the vision to end.

“You can’t blame me…it’s her fault…it’s all her fault.”

‘Stop it,’ I pleaded. My legs would not move.

“SHE killed you, not me…”

‘Stop the vision, please!‘

As if he heard my silent plea, the man turned and looked me straight in the eye — eyes which scared me immensely like no other. I clutched my chest and squeezed my eyes shut, hot tears streaming down my cheeks.

“Make it stop, please!” I wailed.

The next thing I knew, when I opened my eyes, I was back in the chief’s office, the man himself wiping my sweaty brow with a towel, his face ashen.

He whispered, “What did you see?”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and took a gander at the couple sitting outside the cubicle. And then I saw him. It didn’t matter what the rest of his face looked like — I could never forget those eyes.

“It’s the father,” I whispered back.

I trudged the corridors of the FBI on my way home, feeling dazed from what I had witnessed that afternoon. I thought I’ve seen everything during my two years serving as their psychic when I am, in fact, an agent myself. I was wrong.

I ran to the toilet which was, thank god, empty — locked the door and allowed myself to be violently sick. Emptied of all my meals for the day, I leaned against a sink and washed my face. Tears began pouring uncontrollably.

I couldn’t take it. I thought I was through with asking “why me” but I guess I was wrong again. I reached a shaking hand into my pocket for my pack of Sobranie Black Russians but merely found an empty box.

“Great,” I laughed bitterly, tears still streaking down my cheeks.

Never in my life had I felt such despair. Never had I felt such fear.

I stared at myself on the mirror on top of the sink and was suddenly brought to attention by something I’m so used to, it surprises me no longer.

A ghostly head rested on my shoulder beside my own, its face looking terribly amused yet ghastly. It was the face of the clairvoyant I had accidentally killed during my days as a field agent.

“When will the visions stop?” I ask, knowing the answer yet dreading it at the same time. I’ve asked the same question a million times before.

The face leered at me through the mirror, a malicious grin on her translucent face, baring rows of her sharp, pointed teeth.

“Never,” she hissed.

I was wishing she’d come up with another answer that day. I should’ve known better.

THE END