"—had to believe—"

May 10^th. 2:19:55 PM EST.   

Leonard wiped the beads of sweat that had started to pool on his forehead. It was hot outside, almost unbearably so. He spat into the dirt and tugged up his shirt sleeve, cupping his hand over the silver watch he wore. It read 2:20.

A cool breeze swept through the field, rustling the golden flowers together.

Two more minutes.

He measured the sun. It sat alone in its blue sea, separate from any cloud or plane. If it weren’t for the heat, he would’ve thought it was a nice day. Leonard checked his watch again.

One minute and fifteen seconds.

The belt his wife had given him was too tight. That and the sweat were causing him to chafe. He unholstered his handgun, feeling the polymer grip tug at his sweaty palm. He loosened his belt one hole, and then two holes for good measure.

He flexed his hands and checked his watch.

Thirty more seconds.

The bruises. He eyed the purple and black marks on his knuckles. He couldn’t remember where they had come from, and yet they were new enough to still throb with pain.

Ten seconds.

Leonard became aware of his hand’s shaking. His legs had gone numb. He stumbled forward, crushing a flower under his heel. He knocked another flower out of the way with the gun, unsure of how he should hold it. He wiped his forehead.

“Hey, Lenny.” A man called from behind.

Leonard spun on his feet. There, no more than a dozen feet from him was a tall man. There was a crack of thunder. The sunflowers shuddered.

He lowered the gun and watched the tall man fall like a great oak and shake the earth with a dull thud. After a long while, the ringing in his ears subsided, replaced by the monotonous beeping of his watch. The alarm he had set.

It read 2:22:12. Just as he had seen.

May 8^th. 2:19:55 PM EST.

Leonard relaxed into the wicker chair, smoothing his hair over with a heavy hand. From the deck on his summer home, he could see as far as the small artificial lake the prior owners had installed. The lake’s green water lapped voraciously at the shrub-covered shores. A cool breeze swept across the porch and fluttered the large umbrella he sat under.

He thought he could use a smoke. Or a drink. He ogled the empty liquor glass beside him. He could get up and serve himself another drink, but then he’d be sacrificing his comfort. There came a rummaging from inside the small home, beyond the sliding glass door.

“Beth. Hey, Beth, are you in there?” He called over his shoulder.

“Hey, honey,” Beth answered in her usual singsong.

He felt her hand squeeze his shoulder, then felt her breath on his neck. She planted a warm kiss on his cheek. As she did, he smelled her perfume; cut roses that were still wet. Very pungent and very expensive.

“Hey, Beth. Lovely perfume.” He didn’t remove his eyes from the glass.

“Think so?” She sauntered to a chair beside his. Out of his peripheral, he saw her curly red hair, done up in a small bun. It worked well with the white summer dress she had on.

“What’s the occasion?”

“What? Can’t a woman smell nice for her husband?”

He snorted, “you used to complain about that bottle, now you wear it every weekend.” He looked over. Beth sat hunched forward in her chair, her attention glued to the blue horizon.

“Beth.” He repeated, catching her dull eyes. “Do you think you could…?” He motioned towards the empty liquor glass and winked. She forced an obviously contemptuous smile. Obvious because her act was routine for him. His perfect American dream.

She dug her nails into the arms of her wicker chair, forcing herself onto her feet. He watched her step into the openwork home and fish through the liquor cabinet.

“What’s got you drinking so much, it’s not even past three yet,” Beth called.

But Leonard wasn’t paying attention. He was thinking about her perfume.

“Leonard, stop biting your nails. I keep telling you that’s bad for you.” Her chastisement snapped him out of his ruminations. She placed a full glass of scotch on the table beside him, then placed the rest of the bottle beside it. 

“Sorry,” he casually waved a hand through the air and grabbed his glass. “I just had a bad dream last night, is all.” He took a sip, wincing when it burned the back of his throat.

“Also, Leonard. I’m going out tonight. Me and some friends from my book club are—”

“You’re going out tonight?” Leonard soured at the statement. “You go out practically every other day.”

He flexed his hands and stared off toward the lake, hoping he didn’t look too bitter.

“Well, I like to have fun. And besides, Harmony, you know her from the HOA. Well, she just got her first story published in a literary magazine.” She smiled, “we just had to go out and celebrate.”

“Is Henry going to be there?”

“I’ve no clue.”

“Well,” he paused to take another drink, “send Harmony my congratulations.”

May 10^th. 4:25:16 AM EST

Leonard woke in a hot sweat. Streaks of neon light from the motel’s sign cut through the darkness of his room. Outside, he heard the muffled wail of a police siren and the howls of a chained dog.

He kicked off the heavy comforter and clicked on the bedside table lamp. At once, a fluorescent white light bathed the dreary motel room, revealing its torn wallpaper and popcorn ceiling. Another police car roared down the inner-city road, its siren shaking Leonard from his stupor. He froze, expecting to hear the clatter of police doors. But the siren’s cry receded as the car sped down the road.

Then it was quiet again.

Leonard fiddled with the wedding band on his finger while he eyed the room’s dial-up phone. He decided he’d call Todd, to warn him. He picked up his journal from the nightstand, flipping to a page marked by a ballpoint pen. He read over the two names he had written earlier. Predictions from earlier dreams.

Squeezing the pen, he grabbed the phone and dialed for Todd, a friend he had known since college. There was a monotonous tone from the machine, but no one answered. Leonard’s eyes fell on the journal, thinking about his prior dreams.

A robot masquerading as a human prompted him to leave a message.

Leonard paused, uncertain of what he should say.

“Damnit, Todd. It’s Lenny, just…Just listen, I know what they’ve been saying about me, and I know you’ve heard the news.” He fiddled with his wifebeater’s collar; hesitation catching his voice. “I’m innocent, okay.” He muttered, “I’m going to sound crazy; I know I will, but…But I can see things. Things before they happen. I saw Beth, and I saw Henry. And now I’ve seen you.”

He cursed under his breath. Did that come across as too cryptic?

He cleared his throat.

“Listen, Todd. You’re my friend, and I don’t want to lose you too. Just give me a callback, okay. I’m at the Knights Inn on Glendale, ask for Mark T.” The phone jingled when he slammed it down. He eyed an open line on the journal page.

Todd N. 2:22 PM. Sunflower Farm outside of town.

The hairs on his neck stood up when he finished writing. A dangerous thought had crept into his head. He tugged open the nightstand drawer with cold hands. In the silvery light, the steel handgun shimmered like a beacon. He gripped the firearm and lifted it away from the motel’s bible.

He racked the heavy slide with a click, revisiting a dangerous idea. He knew where the murderer would strike. He knew the time of the killing. The Sunflower Farm at 2:22. He revisited his idea. It was a dangerous idea.

And yet, a part of him believed he had to do it. He set an alarm on his watch for 2:22.

May 8^th. 11:15:42 PM EST.

“You’re back late,” Leonard muttered as the front door clicked shut. He rested in a tall, red leather-bound chair with a copy of Iain Banks, Use of Weapons. The flickers of light from the fireplace cast long shadows across the living room. In the orange light, he made out Beth standing by the door, her face obscured by shadow. He also saw her uneven stance; her crooked form that made her appear ghastly in the light.

“Come here, tell me how the evening went.” He gently set the book aside, trying to hide his quivering hands.

“It was nice.” She answered quickly, her visage still clinging to the shadow. “I didn’t expect you to still be up. I thought you had to get up early for work tomorrow.”

“I thought I’d stay up and surprise you. Come closer, I can hardly see you.”

There was an artificial laugh. A forced chuckle. Her heels echoed on the wooden floor with each step. She stood in the center of the room; her hands cupped at her waist. In the light, he saw her messy hair, the wrinkles in her crimson dress, the streaks of smeared lip gloss.

He wore a smile that was as cruel as it was testing; a smile that emanated anything but warmth and kindness. He watched her tired eyes avoid his gaze. He saw her weight shift between her feet. There was a silence only broken by the crackling of the fire.

“Something wrong, Beth?”

“Oh, no it’s nothing. I’m just tired, it was a long night.”

“Sure. I’m sure it was.”

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s funny,” Leonard started, his expression cold and unloving. “I gave Harmony a call…Wanted to give her my congratulations personally. It’s really funny, you know what she told me?” He laughed, “no, don’t answer that, how would you? You know what I mean.” He picked at the chair’s leather arm.

“You know what she said? She didn’t publish anything. Even weirder was when she told me she wasn’t in town right now. She had to travel to Manhattan for work.”

Beth’s eyes opened wide. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Leonard. But you need to stop and go to bed.” She stammered, “you’re drunk—”

“No.” Leonard ground his teeth and pushed himself up from the chair. “No, I haven’t had a drink since this afternoon.” He took a heavy step forward, kicking over a side table and knocking his book onto the floor.

May 9^th. 2:05:17 PM EST

Leonard read over his journal. There were two entries written in fresh ink.

Beth J. May 8^th

Henry P. May 9^th

He mulled over the words, half-listening to the car’s radio.

“—Murderer, Leonard Jorgeon, accused of killing his wife, Beth Jorgeon. He is still at large. Police say he is armed—”

They would never believe him. A monster murdered his wife. He had left Leonard as a red herring. The perfect killing. No one would believe him. He glanced out the window, eying the McDonald’s parking lot. It was quiet.

He looked back at the journal. Henry Phillips. A friend from Beth’s work. He hardly knew the man, only visiting for the occasional dinner party. He had dreamed of Beth, and now she was dead. And then he dreamed of Henry. He had to believe he would be dead too.

Leonard put the car in reverse and started a procession toward Henry’s house.

…

It wasn’t until after he knocked on Henry’s front door that he realized the mistake he had made. His name and face were on every TV station. Leonard began to scurry away from the door.

“Leonard? Hey, what can I help you with?”

Leonard stopped in the driveway and turned. He must have looked grim because Henry’s face was twisted in confusion.

“Henry, oh, I just wanted to visit a friend.” He forced a smile. “How are you?”

Henry, like Leonard, was a humble office worker. And yet Henry, unlike Leonard, had an excellent physique and a jaw sharp enough to cut diamond. Even at a distance of several feet, Leonard still saw how Henry towered over him. The two shook hands, though Henry’s grip was noticeably firmer.

“Come on in, it’s been a while. Go ahead and kick your shoes off.” He waved him in. Henry’s home was very nice and much more expensive than Leonard’s. Its large and open design seemed excessive, even for a bachelor. Dark oak furniture, fine linen drapes, tall bookshelves, and imported statues. Leonard caught himself biting his nails as he eyed the room.

“How are you doing today, Henry. Nothing’s been bothering you, has it?”

“Actually, today’s been awful. TV busted. Hey, but at least I caught the Jet’s last night, what a game, right?” Leonard nodded along, though he had forgotten about the game. “Hey, you look beat. Can I get you a beer?”

Before Leonard could respond, Henry had already wandered into the kitchen.

Leonard eyed his watch though, no alarms were set. He flopped onto the leather sofa, shaking the white blanket that laid across it. He sighed, smelling wet roses somewhere near him. The familiar scent picked his interest, and he found that it came from the blanket. He breathed the soft fabric, smelling cut roses that were still wet.

In a fury, he crumbled the blanket and threw it across the room, watching it drape the wooden floor. Leonard pressed his face into his hands and whimpered to himself in silence. His watches’ beeping broke the silence. Startled, he clicked off the alarm.

“Henry!” He smelled hints of alcohol and iron.

“Henry?” He repeated as he walked toward the kitchen, the bitter smell growing stronger. He almost slipped onto the kitchen’s floor when he entered. Rivers of wine and liquor crept along the tiled floor and pooled underneath a bloody and disfigured corpse.

Leonard fell out of the kitchen; gagging as he threw open the home’s front door and ran to his car. Fumbling and dropping his car keys, he went to pick them up. As he did, he saw torn skin and bruising around his knuckles. Purple welts had already started to form. His mind stuttered and slowed, unable to recall where the bruising had come from.

Not long after, he was driving down the road when the pain caught up with him. He felt fatigued, and his muscles seemed to burn. He squeezed the wheel, feeling hot flashes run through him. He needed to find somewhere to rest. Somewhere he could stop and collect his thoughts.

He followed Glendale until he saw a Knights Inn on his right.

May 9^th. 8:01:55 AM EST.

The maid’s screaming was what woke Leonard up. The throbbing migraine was what shook him awake. His joints groaned as he sat up from the couch. The maid scurried from the room, still screaming. Bewildered, he called after her.

Then he saw Beth, and his heart caught in his throat. Her bloody and unrecognizable state made him scream. There was a gentle thud. His frantic movement caused a handgun in his lap to slip onto the floor. His handgun.

“Murderer! Help!” The maid shouted as she ran toward the front door.

Sweat pooled in his palms and on his forehead as his breathing grew heavy. Try as he might, he couldn’t pull his eyes from her corpse. With an effort, Leonard threw himself onto his feet and started a shaky journey to his bedroom.

Standing in front of his closet, he wondered why he couldn’t remember the attack.

He tried to make sense of the attack as he loaded his travel bag. He realized the attack couldn’t make sense as he walked into the garage and started up his car. He followed the narrow road around his lake, only stopping when a bout of nausea made him pull over to vomit. Standing at the water’s edge, he saw his twisted reflection in the murky water.

Then he was driving toward the town. He recalled the dream from last night. A dream about Henry. But before that, he had a dream about Beth. A dream that could predict the future. It was unnatural. And yet, he saw his wife exactly how he had seen her in his dream. He stopped at a red light and watched the traffic roll past him.

A murderer. Whoever they were, they had killed his wife and framed him. He had to believe they would kill Henry next. He had to believe there was a reason for Beth’s murder and a reason for his dreams. But why couldn’t he remember the attack? Why couldn’t he remember last night? It didn’t make sense. He knew it didn’t make sense, but he had to believe that it did anyway. He wasn’t a killer. He was an innocent victim. No one else would believe him, but he still had to believe. Could he believe in a murderer? Could he believe in unnatural foresight?

Yeah, he could. After all, everyone needed to believe in something that seemed unbelievable.

He rolled further down the road and parked in an empty McDonald’s lot. Reaching under the travel bag in the passenger seat, he pulled out a brown leather journal. He hesitated when he flipped to a fresh page. Pen in hand, he thought for a moment, then wrote.

Beth J. May 8^th

Henry P. May 9^th