The Ultimate Foreboding

It’s happening again. That thing that happens to me every time something bad is going to happen. Something supremely life-alteringly bad. I told my previous therapist about this sensation. This feeling that I get. The ultimate foreboding. The anxiety…the sinking feeling in my gut…the clenching of my heart. These are the signs. To prepare for something awful. My therapist hadn’t understood. I could see the silent mocking in her eyes. She simply nodded at me through her black rimmed glasses, and furiously wrote on that little blue notebook of hers. She probably wrote that I’m crazy. Simon thinks he’s a psychic. A superhero, who can predict. In truth, she probably thinks I’m a supervillain. The way she backs away when I enter and shudders under my gaze, doesn’t escape me. She’s afraid. But she’s wrong. not about the superhero part. Not even about the supervillain part. About the prediction part. I can’t predict what is going to happen. I just know when something truly awful will.

It’s happened 3 times now. And each and every time, I’ve recognised the storm before the disaster, and I’m powerless to stop it. The death of my mother. The death of my father.

And then, the letter.

It’s not as though before it all occurred, I believed that the world had fairies and rainbows. In fact, I was quite aware of the atrocities of life. I would witness in fascination how people around me smile to the world, only to hide under their covers to cry at night. For different reasons, of course. Loneliness. Death. Betrayal. Heartbreak. Witnessing it and experiencing it, however isn’t quite the same. In fact, the real tragedy arises when you realise crying isn’t the worst of it. It’s when you have no tears left in you to cry. That’s when your truly fucked.

After the seemingly accidental death of my parents, I didn’t really, properly process it. With my younger brother in my care, I sought the responsibility, immediately ensuring that I can provide for him and deprive him of nothing. I left university and started working to secure funds, just adequate for him. I could deprive myself, but my little brother would get it all. I didn’t want him to miss out on a good life. He was 19, and I was 21. The age gap wasn’t vast, but the deaths caused me to age beyond my years. For him. For my only family.

The feeling in my gut came for the third time, before I stepped foot back in my parents’ house for the first time after their death. While clearing out my their rooms, in the midst of the aftermath, I had found a letter of threat. Addressed to my dad. And the true story began unravelling. It seemed that my father was working undercover, to unravel the dealing of drugs that had been undergoing in the La Vida Dance Club, across town. The letter made mention of SPH. It wasn’t hard to connect the dots from there. SPH: Senor Perez Herrera. He was the leader. And without a doubt, my father died as a consequence work. My mother was just a casualty, who made the mistake of being in my father’s association it seemed. That wasn’t uncommon. I knew enough about drug cartels, to know that families were often killed, rather than just the one man, for whatever intention. It was atrocious but the purpose was there: so that the children wouldn’t desire retribution, when they grow up. So that they would be silenced.

That is why, this revelation left me confused more than anything else. Why spare my brother and I? It didn’t make sense. Had I known about this; I would’ve sought protection sooner. But we’ve been travelling freely, and no-one had come after us. Why? I thought of my therapist...or rather my ex-therapist. Had she heard my flow of thoughts, she’d furiously write in that bloody notebook. Or maybe, she’d just call for security and label me insane. After all, this news should hurt. Maybe I should cry. But, no. I’m just plain confused.

As such, I decide to play the bar a visit. If they wanted to kill me, they would have already. My feet move of their own accord. For some reason, I don’t consider a mode of transportation other than my own two feet. I feel dazed. But I have purpose. I need to reach the club. Just to see. Just to understand.

I don’t really feel much, on the path. But then I arrive at the entrance. Which brings me to this very moment. You know, the moment with that feeling in my gut. For the forth time. The ultimate foreboding. The anxiety…the sinking feeling in my gut…the clenching of my heart. Something terrible is going to happen. That sense of foreboding doesn’t keep me away though. It’s like I know there’s a catastrophe but I need to walk toward it. It’s a pull, dragging me into the centre of a disaster. Of a tornado. I can’t run away. I don’t want to run away. So, I keep walking into the club.

And that’s when I see it. My blood stops cold. The world stops spinning on its axis. My motions halt. Maybe I’m heartbroken, but my tears refuse to fall. It seems as though any emotions I had have just evaporated. Or maybe they’ve spiralled in this tornado. In this disaster. The feeling isn’t heartbreak I decide. For it to be heartbreak, there has to be love. And I feel no love. I don’t even feel hate. I just feel…empty. I recognise what I see is betrayal. I recognise it. But all I feel is emptiness. My heart beat seems to have slowed. Tears simply don’t fall. Maybe this is the moment. After everything, this is it. You know, the moment that I’m truly fucked. Because the sight I see in front of me, isn’t one I’m going to forget in the any time soon.

My brother is shaking Senor Perez Herrera’s hand.