The date had been going well. Not only was she clever, interesting and pretty, but she was laughing at my jokes and responding in kind. The connection was palpable. We were both enjoying letting it build over the course of the dinner.
Then I felt that old familiar urge. My heart sank.
I pretended to check my phone. “Hey, something’s come up.”
“What?” Her expression told me that my ruse was transparent. I pressed on regardless.
“This is terrible timing, I know, but I can’t put this off. I’m so sorry.”
“What’s going on? Is everything okay?”
“It’s—private. It’ll be all right in the end. I have to take care of this now, though.”
I stood up to put on my coat. “I’ll grab the check. Can I text you tomorrow? I’ll explain a little better then.”
She nodded, still confused and more than a little annoyed. There was about a fifty percent chance that my apology text tomorrow would go unanswered, I figured. I’d have a story to tell her by then at least. Maybe a drunk friend that I’d had to bail out of jail, or suspicious activity on the home cameras. Something hard to verify and easy to keep controlled. Something that wouldn’t come up again later.
Who was I kidding? There wasn’t going to be a later for us. Even if she did respond tomorrow, even if I got another date, this was going to happen again sooner or later. I couldn’t bring someone else into my life, not in any permanent way. I was called away much too often for that.
I don’t know why I have this affliction. I don’t think I did anything to deserve it. I almost hope that I did; no one should suffer like this for no reason.
I am called to witness violence.
It happens at irregular intervals—sometimes several times a week, occasionally nothing for months. It just began one day when I was out walking. I suddenly felt the need to go to a specific place downtown. It was an odd, insistent desire, and I remember wondering where the abrupt impulse had come from. It wasn’t far out of my way, so I decided to indulge my whim and see what was there.
The spot that I reached was an unremarkable intersection, like any of a thousand others in the city. I looked around, trying to see if there was a shop here whose name I had seen on a billboard or something. I could find no reason why this spot was different from any other in the city.
There was a screech of tires. Metal tore and glass shattered. I hadn’t seen either car enter the intersection. I didn’t know which one had run the red light. All I saw was a dynamic moment of wreckage and blood. One car flipped onto its side, its passenger door bashed in. I saw the driver of the other flung into his windshield, his face contorted against its smashed surface.
A horn blared in the aftermath. The windshield wipers of the upright car flicked comically back and forth, as if attempting to clear away the damage. People were already running to help the drivers, but I just stood still in shock, the image burned into my brain.
I couldn’t explain what had happened. I didn’t know how I had known to be there, or why. It haunted me.
A few weeks later, at home one evening, I felt the need again. It was farther this time, but driveable. The issue was not getting there in time. I could feel that I would be able to. I also felt a deep terror that I was going to see another car accident when I arrived.
I resolved to ignore the urge. I settled deeper into my chair. I turned the volume up on the television. I covered myself with a blanket and arranged a pillow behind my head. I poured myself a glass of wine.
Despite all of these distractions, the itch grew stronger. It was a biological need, something I could no more ignore than the need to go to the bathroom. It grew worse and worse, until finally I flung off the blanket, grabbed my keys and ran to my car.
The sensation did not lessen as I drove. If anything, it grew worse as I could feel myself running out of time. I sped up, racing an invisible clock. I was almost there.
A light in front of me turned yellow. I considered running it. Then it struck me: was I about to be the next car accident? I slammed on the brakes, coming to a halt at the light just as it turned red.
Movement in the alley to my right caught my eye. I glanced over in time to see a man stagger back against the wall, hands clutching his stomach. For an instant, I thought he was drunk, until I saw the other man leap forward and stab him again.
I called the police. I hoped they would somehow be in time to help, but the victim had fallen to the ground after the second stab and hadn’t moved since. His assailant had long since run off. I steeled myself to go into the alley.
I told myself that maybe I was supposed to help. This could be some kind of a gift, an opportunity to save someone who otherwise wouldn’t make it. I hadn’t acted at the car accident, but I could now.
It was already too late. He was dead before I ever reached him. I had his blood on me from kneeling next to him and checking his pulse. I didn’t want to get back into my car like that, so I just waited next to him, holding his limp hand until the police arrived.
They questioned me and let me go. It was clear I hadn’t been involved.
Clear to them, anyway. I was significantly less sure. If I’d ignored the desire to come, would the mugging not have happened? Had I played a part?
I promised myself that whatever this feeling was, I would reject it the next time it came. I remembered the irresistibility of its pull, but I swore I would hold strong.
The opportunity arrived two days later. I was at a table in a restaurant when it came over me. I gritted my teeth and steadfastly stared at my meal.
The feeling ballooned inside of me. I wrapped my fingers tightly around my fork and shoveled in bites of food, trying to tamp it down. I only succeeded in nauseating myself.
It continued to intensify. I felt feverish. I gripped the table to press myself into the chair. My legs burned. There was a sensation of pins and needles all over my entire body.
Then, in an instant, it all stopped. Relief washed over me as I was blissfully returned to myself. I had outlasted it. It could be beaten.
At the same second, back in the kitchen, the fryer exploded.
The cooks burst through the doors, screaming. Thick black smoke billowed out with them, but even through the cloud I could see their horrific burns. Their skin had bubbled and dripped onto their stained shirts. Their hands were bloody claws.
They shrieked for help, but the restaurant was bedlam. People stampeded for the doors, knocking chairs and tables into others’ paths as they did. I saw a man trampled underfoot. I tried to help him up, and was nearly knocked down myself. I gave up and ran for the exit like the rest.
The restaurant burned to the ground. Five people died, including the cooks.
I searched the news for the place I should have been. It was a baseball field at a public park, and there had been a scuffle between an enraged parent and an umpire. Punches had been thrown, but that was the worst of it. The parent had gone to the hospital with a broken knuckle from punching the umpire’s mask.
This is how it’s been for years. I never know what level of violence I’ll witness, but if I don’t make it there in time, something far worse will happen. The original event will still occur, mind you, so it’s not even like I can save whoever’s there.
I’ve tried to lock myself away from everyone, thinking that if there’s nothing to see, then nothing can happen. There are many ways to witness, though. I’ve heard vicious beatings. I’ve heard people beg for their lives. I’ve had bullets come through the walls. One time I hid in a sewer tunnel, certain that no one could be nearby to be hurt then. The gas explosion above crumbled the street and dropped eleven bystanders almost on top of me in a violent tumult. I huddled there, trapped, and watched them die in the rubble.
I’m far from unscathed from these incidents. I have scars, burns, broken bones and more. There always seems to be more for me to witness, though. I always walk away.
This time, I have found myself downtown again. It is packed with humanity, thousands upon thousands of people going about their lives. I like watching them in these peaceful moments where nothing is going wrong. I have seen too much death and destruction. I have witnessed too much.
There is a low rumble, a sound rising up from the earth itself. It is all around us. The buildings are starting to sway. The peaceful moment is over, and now the air is filled with panicked shouts. No one knows what to do. People are running for their cars, running from their cars, simply running.
I see it all. Cracks are appearing in the street. A tree is slowly toppling, its roots severed. Windows are shattering. Everywhere, everywhere, the screaming.
Let this be my final witness. Please, let it be done.