I knew that night that there was something wrong. I knew that I was going to die. But no one believed me. No one wanted to help me. Not even my mother would believe me. “It’s all in your head,” she would say. “No one is going to kill you in the middle of the night.” That was stated not three hours before she died, in her bed, murdered by a bullet wound. And I was next.
I knew forever that it was going to end this way. I knew that my dreams meant something. I knew it all. I was only fifteen, and I had experienced the fears and the sorrows of a lifetime. I had seen a murder taken place, and no one would believe me when I pointed out the killer. No, the police commissioner of the NYPD would never commit murder. Oh, yes he would.
That man seemed to know wherever I was at any given moment. He seemed to know to plan his crimes only when I was around. And each time I pointed him out, no one would take me seriously. It didn’t help that he had always established an alibi by the time I could get someone to listen, if there was someone who would listen. I think it felt good to him to have someone know his dirty little secret. That behind all those plaques and awards for bringing justice to the city, he was a dirty cop.
But I was getting older. I would be able to convince people now. At first, when I was five, no one would believe me. I was a toddler, what would I know? But that was ten years ago. There was talk that people were beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t crazy. And I was a threat now. I had to be stopped.
I kept trying to tell my mother of the things I’ve seen, but even she was reluctant to believe her own daughter. But I would tell her of things I saw before they were even on the news. I would know each and every story. And she to was starting to believe, that it was just possible. So she too had to be stopped.
I would dream about the crimes before they were committed. I would dream of his face, his clothes, his weapon, every little detail about him. And I would dream of the setting. It would be in an alley by central park, or a parking lot behind a dumpster, any secluded area in all of New York. But I would know it. I would know it, even if I had never been there myself. I don’t know how I knew, I just did. And now I was going to pay for it.
No one would make a second thought of it to see a police officer walking around in the night with a gun. They were only there to protect us, to take care of us. They would never have the wish to go and kill someone. That was a criminal. Cops aren’t criminals; they put away criminals, in a cell where they can’t hurt anyone anymore.
I had a dream the night before I was to die. I dreamt he was in a hallway. The hallway in my house. He was holding a gun. His hand was pushing open the door of my mother’s room. His steps were soundless, and my mother didn’t wake up. He put his face close to hers, and breathed on her. Only then, did she open her eyes. Only then, did she finally believe me. Only then, when it was only too late. She died, and then I awoke.
I could fill in the blanks. I knew that he would then travel the last few steps to my room, and open the door. I knew that I would be awake, because the gunshot would wake me up. I knew that it wouldn’t matter, and I would be trapped. And I knew that all that was going to happen tonight and I couldn’t stop it.
I had nowhere else to go, nowhere to hide for the night. My friends wouldn’t take the risk of staying in a house with me for the night, just in case my accusations were true, and they would be in danger. No family member lived close enough for me to go on such short notice. And anyway, where would my mother go? If she was going to die because of me, then I too should die with her. It was only right.
It was over. I sat in my bed, waiting for my mother to turn off her light. I knew that I would never see her alive again. I didn’t know what to do. If I sat there, I would die. If I called the police, no one would believe me. So there was only one thing left to do. I would have to fight him on my own.
I tiptoed downstairs, praying I would not be heard. I searched through the kitchen drawer, and found what I was looking for. My mother’s carving knife. She always kept it nice and sharp when she wasn’t using it. I thought it would do the job nicely.
I went back to my room, my heart beating faster and faster with each moment passing. I looked out my window, and what I saw made my heart almost stop entirely, and my legs wobbled beneath me.
He was here. He was here, and it was going to happen now. My mother was going to die, and she wouldn’t believe me enough to do anything to stop it. I would have to try one more time. Keeping the knife in hand, I slunk into my mother’s room.
“Mom,” I whispered. She stirred in her bed.
“Jesse? What are you doing out of bed? I told you, no one is going to kill you.” She then noticed my weapon. “What on earth are you doing with my carving knife?”
I was about to explain when I heard the noise that would haunt me for the rest of my life, no matter how long or short it may be. The opening of a window. He was here, in my house, with all his intentions focused on one thing. Making sure that I couldn’t ruin his crazy killing spree.
I couldn’t turn back now. It wasn’t an option. I had to fight for my life and my mother’s too. I wasn’t ready, but time was something that was not at hand. All I had was the element of surprise. He didn’t know that I was aware he was here, or that I was armed. Although, a knife compared to a gun wasn’t much of a fair fight. That and the fact that I was a fifteen-year-old girl, and he was a grown man with immense training on how to use his weapon. But I couldn’t let that stop me. I closed the door, and hid behind it, waiting to strike. I wasn’t going to kill him, but I would make him writhe in pain.
He began his climb up the stairs. His footsteps were getting louder and louder each time. I counted. He would be up the stairs now, and he would begin walking down the hallway. The door opened, revealing his face to my mother. She had her eyes closed in fear, and he thought she was asleep. He began to walk up to her. His side was right in front of me. It was now or never. I thrust the knife into his side; pushing the blade in as far as I could make it go.
He didn’t even have time to scream. He fell to the floor, his face twisted in pain, his gun unattended at the ground beside him. I grabbed it, and trained it on him.
“Try anything and I blow your brains out!” I shouted.
My mother was screaming, and I had to calm her down. “Mom, mom, call the police, now!”
She ran out of the room, and seconds later I heard her talking to talking to the operator. They would have to believe me now. I looked at the man on the floor, the man that had ruined my life for the past ten years. It was all over for him now. He would be tried heavily for all the murders, if he walked out of here alive. I hoped he would, just so he could go to prison forever instead of taking the easy way out.
I heard sirens outside my home. Cops broke down the door, and arrested police commissioner Myles. One of the men looked at me as his partners hauled him away.
“I can’t believe that for all these years, you were telling the truth, and we didn’t believe you. You will be hearing from us in the future. You are one brave young woman.”
“Thank you, but I’m not the one that you should be apologizing to. You should be apologizing to the families of the victims, the ones that you could have prevented.”
I couldn’t stop myself now; it felt so good to rub it in their faces, how they were wrong, and I was right. But I did feel terrible for all of the victims and the families, and I wished I could have done more to help them. But at least it would help bring them closure now that their killer was caught. And it would bring me closure too. I would no longer live in fear, no longer have the dreams, and I would never have to think about this menace again. He wasn’t my problem anymore. He wasn’t anyone’s problem anymore.