Albert Marquet, “Window overlooking the Bay of Algiers” (1913)

I can feel the future.

I know, it sounds silly, but believe me. For whatever reason, my left hand can feel what’s going to happen to me exactly half an hour in advance.

When I was a kid, the doctors just thought it was a nerve misfire thing. You’d put a warm cup in my hand and I wouldn’t feel it at all, until I felt the cold of the doorknob from half an hour in the future. All seemingly chaotic, if you’re not paying attention.

When I was fourteen, I got this horrible, searing pain in my hand. Half an hour later, I dropped a pot of boiling water right on it. Left blisters all over. Had to go to the hospital. After that point, I paid attention to what my hand told me, though I was never able to avoid it.

It’s warned me of similar painful events over the past few years. Even though I couldn’t change my future, I could brace myself for it.

Early this morning, I woke up with this horrible pain in my hand. It felt as though I was being stabbed through the palm, like my entire hand had been set on fire. I screamed at the pain, until suddenly, it stopped.

I let out a shaky breath, then realized with horror that I couldn’t feel anything through my hand anymore. No touch, no heat, no pain. It feels… lifeless.

That was twenty minutes ago. I know what it means, of course. There’s no point fighting it. I’m glad that I got the chance to brace myself.

But I will admit, it’s strange, sitting here. The sun’s just begun to rise. I can hear birdsong through the window. I made myself a mug of coffee, even.

It’s a beautiful morning, and I have no idea what’s about to kill me.