The Nibiru Effect

Memory 2

I awake with a scream. The cry echoes throughout the orphanage, but no one wakes. I sit upright in my bed, breathing heavily. My hands shake, but I welcome the feeling. It means I'm still alive. I press my palm to my chest but feel no blood. That can only mean one thing.

It was a dream.

I glance at my surroundings. Beds lie in both directions. It's too dim to make out much more, yet I know in each of these ninety-nine beds—mine is the hundredth—an orphan is asleep. The girl to my right—her name is Angela—stirs, but doesn't wake.

I pry the sweat-drenched sheets away from my frame and slide my legs off the edge of the bed. I lean forward and place my head in my hands. Eyes closed, I take a deep breath. And another. My heart rate slows, and the trembling in my hands ceases, but the feeling of shame persists.

It was just a dream, I tell myself, but I know that's a lie. It felt way too real to be a dream. But what else could it have been? A nightmare? No. A vision? Possibly. An omen of something yet to pass? I hope not.

A distant sound catches my ear. I freeze, listening for a repeat performance, but whatever made the noise has grown still. I decide to go back to sleep, though I know the odds of that happening are slim.

I'm about to slip back under the covers when I remember something from the dream/nightmare/vision/omen. The symbol on my wrist. Just thinking of it lures an itch to my forearm. I scratch it, but the feeling persists. In fact, it intensifies. I keep scratching, but relief refuses to come.

"What the—" I begin, but the final word dies in my throat when the itch blossoms into a flower of pain. I wince, still scratching, but I stop when the pain grows so intense I can't help but whimper. I stare at my wrist, half expecting the ache to take physical form. To my utter surprise, it does.

My wrist starts glowing. Thinking my arm is on fire, I shake it wildly. When that fails, I try to pat out the flames with my hand. When that also miscarries, I do the only thing I can think of. I close my eyes and wish the impossibility away.

Wishful thinking works in children's books. In real life, it makes no difference whatsoever. I fight the pain for as long as I can before finally opening my eyes. My face contorts into a grimace of distress at the sight of the beam of the white light that snakes across my wrist. It doesn't come from without, but rather from within. It's as if an invisible pen is drawing something on my wrist. Only instead of ink, it uses light. And pain.

The searing sensation intensifies with each new detail that's added to the mystery drawing. Tears fill my eyes. My teeth slam together with the force of a professional boxer's fist hitting an opponent's jaw. I want to yell, but my vocal cords have stopped working. All I can do is writhe around in pain. So I writhe. And writhe. And writhe.

It takes forever for the pain to fade and the light to evaporate. By then, I'm shaking violently. This time, deep breathing doesn't work. I lie there for what feels like ages before the shudders finally stop. By then my voice has returned, but there's no reason for me to call for help.

I slowly sit up, staring at my wrist. The light is gone, but where it once stood is a dark shape. I can't quite make it out, so I reach for my nightstand. I pull open the top drawer and rummage through until I find what I'm looking for.

I click on the flashlight. Angela groans when the beam hits her in the face, but I cover it before she wakes. I slip under the covers and shine the beam of light on my wrist.

A strangled cry escapes me as I take in the all-too-familiar symbol.

I stare at the mark for the longest time before finally grasping the implications of its presence on my wrist.

It wasn't a dream.

Nor was it a nightmare.

Or a vision.

Or even an omen.

It was real.