awake from yet another nightmare. My chest heaved. My lungs clawed for oxygen 

while the images burned behind my eyelids. A sky split open by a blinding 

explosion, its roar swallowing the screams of millions. Tidal waves, black and 

merciless, crashing over cities like a vengeful god’s fist. And people, humans, who 

can create fire with the swipe of a hand. I pressed my palms into my eyes, hard 

enough to see stars. But the visions wouldn’t fade. They never did. For a year now, 

ever since the clock ticked over to my eighteenth birthday, this apocalyptic reel 

had played on repeat every night. A suffocating loop that left me trembling in the 

dark. 

When sleep released me, the nightmares didn’t. Awake, I was haunted by 

something else, a language, alien and jagged, scrawling itself across my mind like 

a parasite. I couldn’t stop it. My hands moved on their own, possessed, sketching 

symbols that looked like fractures in reality. Sharp, angular slashes bleeding ink 

across every surface I could reach. Notebooks overflowed with them, their pages 

curling under the weight of my obsession. The walls of my bedroom became a 

canvas of madness. Black marker streaked over peeling paint, carving the strange 

text into the plaster until it looked like the house was screaming. I didn’t know 

what it meant, but I ‘knew’ it, bone-deep, how you know your own heartbeat. I 

was the only one who could read it. The only one cursed to understand. 

That night, I stood in the dim glow of a single flickering bulb, my marker 

squeaking against the wall as I traced another line of the secret script. The air felt 

electric, charged with something I couldn’t name, and I was lost in it. My pulse 

hammered, my breath shallow—when a sharp voice sliced through the haze. 

“Tawnie!” My mother, Madeline, stood in the doorway, her silhouette rigid against 

the hallway light. Her face, resemblant to mine, was pale, eyes wide with a mix of 

fear and exhaustion, the kind that comes from watching your daughter unravel for 

months. I froze, the marker slipping from my fingers, clattering to the hardwood 

floor. The trance shattered, and I saw what I’d done. The wall was a chaotic 

tapestry of symbols, sprawling like a disease across the room. My knees buckled, 

and I sank to the floor, sobs tearing out of me, raw and jagged.

She crossed the room in three quick strides, her slippers scuffing against the wood 

before kneeling beside me. Her hands were hovering like she was afraid to touch 

me. She was worried I’d break apart completely. 

“Have you figured it out yet?” she asked, her voice trembling but steady, the way it 

always was when she tried to hold us together. “The visions. The writing. Any of 

it?” 

I wiped my face on my sleeve, nodding through the tears. “I think… I think I’m 

starting to understand it,” I whispered. “It’s telling me something… and it's not 

good.” 

Minutes later, we sat cross-legged in front of the wall, a notebook splayed between 

us. The air smelled faintly of mildew and ink, the house creaking around us like it 

was listening. Mother held a pen, her knuckles white as she scribbled down every 

word I spoke. I stared at the symbols, my voice low and unsteady as the meaning 

clawed its way out of me. 

“Death is guaranteed,” I read, the words tasting like ash on my tongue, “and the 

world as you know it will fall in 2100.” The year blurred, unfinished, a void staring 

back at me. 

Mom's pen stopped. Her breath hitched. “When?” she pressed, her eyes searching 

mine. “What’s it mean, Tawnie? Do we have only 27 years before the world ends?” 

“I don’t know,” I said, my voice cracking. “But I can feel something coming, and I 

think I’m supposed to stop it.” 

A few days later, I escaped to Brewed Awakening, the coffee shop where I’d spent 

countless hours drowning in black coffee and my spiraling thoughts. The place 

smelled of roasted beans and burnt sugar, the hum of conversation blending with 

the hiss of the espresso machine. I sat in my usual corner, the wooden table 

scarred with years of carved initials, my notebook open as I scratched out more of 

the cursed text. The pen moved faster than my mind could follow, the symbols 

spilling like blood from a wound. I barely noticed the man until he slid into the 

seat across from me, his black suit crisp against the faded plaid of the booth. He 

wore deep, black shades and an earpiece connected to a wire. I couldn't see his 

eyes. 

“Tawnie Everwood?” His voice was smooth, too smooth, like oil sliding over glass. 

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his badge glinting under the fluorescent 

lights—some government agency I didn’t recognize. 

“I’ve been reading your blog. Interesting stuff. How’d you know about the 

education cuts? The push for human research efficiency?” 

My stomach dropped. I thought of the text I’d deciphered, the fragments about 

humanity’s greed—the hunger to dissect itself for power. I’d posted vague rants 

about it online, nothing specific, just feelings and warnings. How could he know? 

“I don’t—” I started, but he cut me off. 

“We’ve seen your drafts, too,” he said, his smile thin and sharp. “Things you 

haven’t posted yet. Things you ‘shouldn’t’ know. Classified things.” He leaned closer, his cologne sharp and chemical. “Your blog’s a national security risk, 

Tawnie. Keep it up, and we’ll handle you. Understand?” 

He didn’t wait for an answer. He stood, adjusted his tie, and left me there, the 

coffee cooling in my shaking hands. I stumbled out of the shop, the autumn air 

biting at my skin as I boarded the metro bus to get home. The vehicle rattled 

along, its seats stained and sagging, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. I 

slumped by the window, watching the city blur past—gray buildings, gray sky, gray 

everything—when a woman climbed aboard. She was thin, her coat frayed at the 

edges, her eyes darting like a trapped animal. She clutched a bag to her chest, her 

fingers twitching, and something about her set my nerves on edge. 

I slid into the seat beside her, the vinyl creaking under me. She flinched, her gaze 

snapping to mine, and for a split second, I swore she knew me. Tears streaked her 

dirt-smudged face. 

“I can’t do this,” she muttered, her voice breaking. “I can’t.” 

“Do what?” I asked, leaning closer, the air between us thick with her panic. 

She shook her head, frantic. “Leave me alone. Don’t trust anyone. Stop talking.” 

Her bag shifted, the flap falling open, and I glimpsed it. There was a tangled mess 

of wires and a blinking red light. A bomb. My heart slammed into my ribs as I 

yanked the chime cord, the bell shrieking through the bus. Tires screeched outside, 

and I stood to get off, but the driver urged everyone to remain seated. 

“This is a routine traffic stop… I think.” He said as he looked around. I could see 

police car strobe lights reflecting from the storefront we parked in front of. I saw 

the police car with an officer jumping out like he was on a mission. Quickly, he 

charged to the front door and stormed aboard, his boots pounding the steps. The 

woman next to me began to sob. 

“Officer, everything okay?” The driver asked. But the officer ignored him and 

immediately pulled out his gun and swung the barrel toward me and the homeless 

woman. 

“Everybody, remain in your seats!" He roared, not taking his gaze away from us. 

He grabbed the woman, dragging her out, her screams echoing throughout the bus. 

The man offered me a look of recognition with what felt like resentment. The 

woman's bag was left behind, abandoned on the seat. I waited for him to check it, 

to see the bomb, but he didn’t. He hauled her to the side of the bus as more 

cruisers arrived, their sirens splitting the air. The officers all exited their vehicles 

and immediately pulled out their pistols and pointed them at the woman. 

“Freeze!” I imagined all the officers pressuring the defenseless woman as she 

threw her hands skyward. Gasps and startled realization filled the bus as everyone 

looked on from the windows. But all I could focus on was the bag. The blinking red 

light within seemed armed to detonate at a moment's notice. I looked out the 

window of the opposite side of the bus and noticed another firing squad of police 

officers lining up. As my eyes scanned each of their faces, they all made eye 

contact with me.

In the deepest reaches of my mind, I recalled a passage from the ancient text that 

applied to this very moment. “In the eyes of God, the translator is sacred. Though, 

to the eyes of his people, the translator is thy enemy.” 

Without warning, they opened fire. Bullets tore through the bus, glass shattering, 

metal groaning as rounds punched holes in the walls. I dove between the seats, the 

floor sticky with spilled soda, my hands over my head as the world exploded 

around me. The smell of gunpowder choked me, sharp and acrid, the sound 

deafening. 

Then, everything went silent. I waited for a moment before moving. I opened my 

eyes, blinking in the dim light of— my bedroom? The carbon stench lingered in my 

nose, but I was home, crouched on the floor, my watch glowing October 14, 2068, 

7:37 p.m., four hours later. I staggered to the TV and flicked it on. The news 

blared: “Gang-Related Explosion Takes the Life of Metro Bus Passengers.” 

My heart ached as the aerial view of a flaming bus rotated on the TV screen. No 

mention of the woman, the police, the gunfire. Just a lie, polished and neat. 

Rage boiled in my chest, hotter than the fear. I paced, my sneakers scuffing the 

floor, when the broadcast cut to a new report: archaeologists had unearthed a 

tomb, its walls etched with markings— ‘my’ markings. My throat closed, a vice of 

ice and fire. I grabbed the paper where I’d last deciphered the text, my 

handwriting shaky but clear: “When mankind finds this, it will be the end.” 

The room spun. The symbols weren’t just a warning. They were a countdown. And 

I was running out of time.