I’d been able to see a countdown to death above people’s heads since I was a child.
The first time I saw it was when it appeared above my grandfather’s head. I told my parents about it, but they didn’t mind me. They thought it was just part of a child’s imagination.
When I saw my grandfather again the next day, he lay on the bed with a white cloth over his face. People were crying, but I didn’t understand what was going on.
Later, I saw the same countdown timer above my father’s head. When I told him about it, his smile froze for a second before he regained his composure. That night, I didn’t see him return from work.
All I heard was the urgent ringing of a phone. My mother turned ashen when she answered the call. She was already heavily pregnant at the time. She was in such a rush to head out that she slipped and fell on the steps, going into labor.
That was when I saw the familiar 24-hour countdown appear above her head. That day, she passed away due to major blood loss after giving birth to my sister, Phoebe. I stood outside the operating theater, feeling lost.
My third brother, Carl, shoved me to the floor and called me a monster. He said I’d cursed them, that I was the reason for my parents’ deaths.
I scraped my palm on the floor, and blood oozed out. I wanted to cry from the pain but forced myself to hold it in when I looked around. The people standing around me didn’t dare come near—I could see the fear and hatred in their eyes.
I didn’t dare make a sound. All I did was bite my lip and get to my feet. Then, I dusted my dress off and comforted myself.
