My name is Cassandra, and I couldn’t think of a name that fit me more. Even though I prefer simply Sandra.
Because, much like the mythical Cassandra, I have prophetic dreams that no one believes until it’s too late.
It may seem strange that I’m confessing this now, but I promise all will become clear at the end of this post.
These dreams all started when I was just four years old. I sometimes wonder myself how I remember back that far, but that’s the least of my worries now.
It started simple. I’d dream about my mother being late for work, or my brother Morgan forgetting his homework, or my father having insomnia.
I was too young to notice it then, but there was a pattern to my dreams. I would never dream about good things happening to others. Only bad things. And they would always come true.
And yet, I was very proud of myself for this ability. I thought of it as a gift, a toy, something to brag about. So I told all my friends, and for ages they were proud of me too.
Until the day I dreamed about Lizzie being hit by a car.
The next morning, as we were walking to school, I tried to pull her out of the way, but it still happened. She didn’t die immediately, but she was a vegetable for the rest of her short life.
And I always lived with the guilt. That happened when I was ten, and the encouragement and smiles when people were told about my ability were turning into eyerolls and gossip.
I kept trying to tell people I had dreamed about the accident, but no one believed me.
And my dreams only got worse.
I would dream that an old man would die and he would. My teacher would be fired in my dream and fired in real life. And worst of all, I dreamed about my family being thrown out of their house and they were.
Now, something you need to know is that my family are very Christian. I didn’t tell them about the dreams at first because I was worried how they’d react, but when we were thrown out I finally started telling them. And after a while, do you know what they did?
Declared me a witch and threw me out like they were a bunch of Puritans! Sandra Waterhouse was dead to them, in their eyes I was just Cassandra, the witch who cursed others with her dreams.
And who knows. Maybe my dreams were causing the things to happen, maybe some sadistic God was just showing me what was coming. Who knows, maybe I am a witch.
I stopped sleeping. I was homeless and constantly begging for uppers to stop me sleeping, stop me dreaming. The bags under my eyes grew, and there was never a moment when I wasn’t tired, but I didn’t care. The dreams…they were getting so awful I don’t even want to describe them. And I was growing more and more afraid of myself by the day. I’m still afraid of myself even now.
I can’t take it anymore. I can’t let people suffer because of me anymore.
I type this on somebody else’s phone that I stole off them. I was very lucky it didn’t have a password or anything. I just want someone to know what I went through.
Last night I had my last dream.
I jumped off the very building I’m standing on now.
This is my suicide note.
…….
I found this on my phone after some homeless creepy lady stole it off me and jumped off the roof of Blackthorne Mall. The phone was on the roof after she jumped.
I started asking around and eventually found a family who seemed to know Sandra Waterhouse but all they did was call her a witch who cursed them with her dreams and got them thrown out of their house. They absolutely refused to talk about her further.
I’ve been rereading this post over and over and over, trying to make sense of everything that happened to this poor woman.
It seems like she wanted me to post it somewhere, so I did. Do with this information what you will.