I Think I’m Psychic. I Hope I’m Wrong

Andy was trying to relearn everything about himself. At thirty-four years old, he had had a horrible motorcycle accident and was lucky to be alive.

He had spent months in the hospital with a broken collarbone and four vertebrae. He was lucky he could walk. Still broken bones heal with time but broken minds have no guarantee. Andy had amnesia. When he woke up, he didn’t know his own name. Didn’t recognize his family and friends. He didn’t know that he was an accountant or allergic to kiwi. Everything was just…blank.

At first the doctors said that his memory would likely come back but as weeks turned to months, the odds became slimmer and slimmer. It had been six months and he only knew what his friends told him. His buddies would check in with him any chance they could but Jenny checked on him the most. They hadn’t been dating; they were just friends but Jenny worked from home which meant that she had a more open schedule and would come and see him almost every day.

Jenny was in her late twenties with blonde hair and an infectious laugh. She was amazing. She had been his rock. His confidant. She was there when he needed her, but always made sure that he had his bro-time. She was never offended and would say that he needed guy time too.

Jenny was able to inform him on almost everything, but there was one thing even she didn’t know. Andy had an old, Victorian-style table with one drawer in it. To open it, you had to have a key… and Andy could not remember where that key was.

Andy had this feeling that there was something important in that drawer. He had searched his apartment but couldn’t find the key. Every once in a while, he would jiggle the small, ornate handle of the drawer fully knowing that it wouldn’t open; it had become a nervous habit of his.

One summer day brought even more questions for Andy; questions he didn’t like. He had just been sitting on the couch when a vision overtook him. He could vaguely see a figure opening a painted purple door. Walking inside he saw Jenny fast asleep in her bed. The room was so blurry but Andy had no problem seeing the figure pull out a butcher knife from the inside of his hoody and brutally begin stabbing Jenny over and over.

She was screaming. Blood was everywhere and the figure was relentless. After what seemed like hours, Jenny succumbed to her injuries and lay dead in her bed.

Andy snapped back to reality, gasping. Nausea overtook him as he ran to the bathroom and emptied his stomach into the toilet. What the hell was that? He had just seen Jenny being brutally murdered. It wasn’t a dream, that’s all he knew.

The sound of his front door opening startled him.

“Andy?” Jenny’s voice met his ears. “Where are you?”

“Bathroom.” He croaked. He flushed the toilet but the scene that greeted Jenny let her know that he had been sick.

“Oh my gosh! Are you okay?” She asked. Andy looked at his best friend. What was he supposed to say? ‘Oh, I’m fine Jenny. I just saw you being violently murdered and it caused me to puke. That’s all.’

“Y-yeah.” Andy said. “I think I have some sort of stomach bug. I really don’t want you to catch it. I’m sorry, but I think you should probably just go home.”

She looked reluctant and asked if she could get him anything, but he was insistent so she slowly made her way to the door.

“Wait, Jenny?” He stopped her, standing up. “Does your bedroom have a purple door?” He asked, praying she’d say no.

Jenny beamed. “Yes! How did you know that? Are you starting to remember things?” She asked excitedly.

“Y-yeah.” He lied; his stomach filled with dread. “Yeah I think so.”

Jenny was over the moon. She made Andy promise to celebrate when he felt better. Andy agreed, even though celebrating was the last thing he wanted to do. She almost hugged him before remembering that he wasn’t feeling well and practically skipped out the door, shutting it on her way out.

Andy would have the same vision every day, only each day it became a little clearer. Jenny’s room had yellow wallpaper and hardwood floors. Pictures of family adorned her walls. Most importantly, there was a full-length mirror on her right wall. Andy always tried to get a look at Jenny’s murderer but his hoodie always obscured the man’s face.

Jenny kept calling and after four days, Andy knew he couldn’t keep pretending to be sick. Andy grabbed onto the drawer handle and twisted, as was his little stress tick. Jenny came through the door looking worried.

“You have bags under your eyes. You look terrible. Have you been sleeping?” She asked worriedly. Truthfully he hadn’t been sleeping much. He hadn’t been eating much either. He knew he must have looked horrible.

He took her by the hands and led her to sit down on the couch with him.

“Jenny, I have something to ask you and it’s gonna sound silly but please know I’m being serious.” He waited for her nod before continuing. “Before my accident, did I ever tell you or show signs that I was psychic?”

Jenny looked at him like he had lost his mind. “I think you need to sleep.” She said gently.

“I’m being serious! Think hard. Please.”

“No Andy! You aren’t a… psychic. Jeez, if you were, don’t you think you would have avoided getting on your bike that day?!”

Andy was quiet before saying, “I’m not doing so good. I can’t really explain. I just need you. Do you think you could spend a few nights over here?” He begged. In truth, he just wanted her out of her apartment so the events from his vision wouldn’t take place.

She stared at him for a long while before slumping her shoulders. “Alright Andy. Let me go home and pack a few things. Just do me a favor and… don’t…do anything. Just sit here and watch TV. Okay?” She asked. He nodded, relieved.

Jenny wasn’t even gone an hour. She seemed terrified over Andy’s state of mind. He couldn’t blame her; he must have looked crazy.

It was getting late and Jenny went to change into her pajamas. Andy fixed up the couch with sheets and blankets and pillows. He had offered to take the couch but she wouldn’t hear it. Jenny was just walking back into the room when Andy fell to the ground, grasping his head.

He was back at the purple door. The figure in the hoodie walked in and stabbed Jenny over and over. He thought the vision would end once Jenny died, but instead it kept going. The figure got off of Jenny’s form and stood straight only to look right into the mirror. He was covered in blood but there was no mistaking who the man was.

It was Andy.

He was smiling contently as he looked over his blood stained reflection. The sight slowly vanished and Andy was back on his floor.

He felt cold. His hands were shaking and the truth was not going to let him go. This wasn’t a vision. It was a memory.

Crying, Andy got up to his knees only to see Jenny sitting on the couch, looking at him sadly. They were silent for quite a while.

“You’re dead?” He whispered. With a sad, small smile she nodded.

“And I killed you?” He asked; his voice cracking through his crying.

“Yes.” She said gently. Andy was reeling. This couldn’t be happening. This had to be a dream. “Andy.” Jenny interrupted his panicked internal dialogue. “It’s time for you to open that drawer.” She said.

Andy looked shocked, but numbly stood and walked to the table. “The key is taped under the table.” Jenny said.

Andy reached under and felt the taped key. He pulled the tape aside and brought his hand back out, now holding an old looking key. Shaking, he had a difficult time getting the key into the lock but he finally succeeded. He slowly opened the drawer.

Inside was a revolver, a butcher knife, and a stack of pictures. Andy gently picked up the pictures and looked through them. There were about twenty of them but they all had a similar theme: all were of the bloody corpses of random girls. Some had been stabbed; others shot. He made it to the last picture. Jenny.

He turned around, eyes swollen with tears. “I did all this?” He asked Jenny, even though he already knew the answer.

She nodded and he broke, sobbing uncontrollably. He fell to his knees in utter despair.

Jenny slowly stood up from the couch and walked towards him. She gently laid both of her hands on his shoulders.

“Andy, stand up.” She said gently. He did as he was told.

“Look at me.” She whispered. Brokenly, he lifted his head.

“The man in front of me is not the same man who got on that motorcycle six months ago. You don’t have the memories of torture and hatred that sculpted him into the monster who took my life. You are the man he could have been if he had only been given a fair shot.” She said.

“But the memories ARE returning.” She continued, “And that monster WILL come back. He WILL kill again.”

Andy looked at her. “How do I stop it?” Her only response was to look at the pistol still sitting in the drawer.

A tear fell down his cheek as he whispered, “I’m afraid.”

“I know.” Jenny said. “Which is why I’m going to hold your hand. We’ll go to the light together.

“What’s over there?” He asked, feeling childlike.

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Let’s find out together.”

Andy picked up the pistol and turned off the safety. In his right hand, he held the gun. In his left hand, he held Jenny’s hand.

He put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.