2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Kalevala Darana
Three Years In The Future
Being able to see variations of the future has always been such a gift. Too bad the only time I ever use it is when it’s for someone else’s demise.
A vision came to me last night, flickering like candlelight against a dark surface.
I saw her, Lise, pale and breathless, surrounded by that sterile white light that hospitals love so much.
Machines hummed softly around her, as if they were singing her a lullaby.
It was supposed to bring her peace, to ease her passing.
They didn’t know peace wasn’t part of her fate. They couldn’t see me.
Now, I stride through her newfound home, the hospital, retracing the movements from my vision to real life.
My shoes click quietly against the tile as I walk down the corridor.
The air smells like antiseptic and decay, the scent of endings.
I keep my head low, hair falling in front of my face, and count the tiles under my feet like steps toward absolution.
One, two, three… Left turn. Last room. 240.
I pause outside the door, hand resting on the metal handle.
The faint hum of machines reaches me even here.
Seeing what’s coming tends to strip the thrill out of everything.
The annoying voice attached to this body keeps yelling at me. “Please. Stop. You can’t do this. Please don’t make me do this. Please.” She’s no fun, so I ignore her and push the door open.
The room is dim, curtains drawn halfway.
Lise Briar lies in the bed, fragile and still, her skin thin enough to show the map of her blue veins.
The monitors blink lazily beside her, each tone a reminder that she’s still clinging to this world.
According to their precious hospital records, she’s on comfort measures now.
No more desperate interventions. No more hope.
It could be any day, according to the doctors.
It would be such a shame if I just… helped it along.
I move toward the IV pole, my movements measured, patient.
My fingertips brush the clear bag of saline.
It’s almost beautiful in its simplicity.
No sound, no blood, no mess. Just a quiet surrender.
In a way, I’m doing her a favor. Probably not one she would be a fan of now, but maybe later? I stifle another laugh.
I pull a small yet thick bottle from my coat pocket—a little vessel filled with liquid retribution. The label is worn away, though I remember what it once said: Insulin, 100 units per milliliter.
Such a tiny thing to have the capability to end a life.
I puncture the top of the vial with my syringe and suck up all 10 mL.
Thankfully, I’ve learned a thing or two about how to avoid puncturing when a needle makes an entrance into a fragile object.
I allow the syringe needle to slide into the saline bag connected to Lise so easily, without popping it.
As the contents of the syringe empty, I watch the cloudy swirl mix into the clear solution.
For a moment, it looks like smoke curling on top of water.
Then it vanishes, invisible and waiting.
I adjust the already connected drip, slower, then faster, until it looks just right.
The clear liquid snakes down the line, innocent and precise, heading straight into her vein.
Lise doesn’t stir. A laugh escapes me, soft at first, then sharper.
The sound echoes too loudly in this little room.
I press a hand to my lips, pretending to stifle it, but I don’t really try.
Excitement practically drips off the corners of my mouth.
“I know she’s the problem,” I whisper, my voice low and honeyed.
“You raised her and now look at what she’s going to do.
” She doesn’t answer, though I imagine she can hear me somewhere inside that fading consciousness.
Maybe I’ll get lucky, and this will be one of the instances where the dying actually do get those few moments of fleeting clarity before they’re finally gone.
“Maybe this loss will make her take care of herself,” I hiss.
“Then, she’ll finally fall apart without you.
I’d love to do it myself, but this… this will do.
The future will move just as it should. I just need you to die a little sooner than expected.
” I glance at the door again. No footsteps, no interruptions.
Just the hum of the machines, the quiet drip of the IV, and the quickly approaching flatline from her monitors.
I lean closer, my lips almost brushing her ear. “Your granddaughter is taking what’s mine,” I murmur. “I’ve seen it. I’ve seen what she becomes because of you. And I can’t let that happen. I need this to seal the deal, granny.”
I just need to adjust the timeline slightly to see where we go from here next.
The machines keep their steady rhythm. The saline drips faster now, each drop a countdown. I straighten, adjusting my sleeve, and take one last look at her face. So peaceful. So unaware. The monitors will start screaming soon enough, but by then, I’ll be gone. Thank God for her DNR status.
I turn and walk back down the hall, tracing the tiles again, my footsteps light and even.
The vision from last night lingers behind my eyes, her body still, her pulse gone, the grief that will follow.
The other voice in my head is back to screaming for me to stop.
Unhook the bag. Please, before you kill her.
Please. If I was alone in this body, my job would be so much easier.
Why must I remind her that this is great for us?
Us as in Beau and I. Why would I help her?
Seeing the future truly is a gift. It just depends on how you choose to use it.