It’s as normal as any other day has ever been. I wake up, take a shower, get dressed, and start making breakfast for my daughter and I. My husband left early for work, which leaves only Maya, my four year old daughter, and I for all of Valentine’s Day. I figure what better way to spend this cheesy, hallmark holiday dedicated to love than with the one person who can always put a smile on my face.

I pick her up from her seat at the kitchen table and spin her around in a quick, loose, hug, letting her feet dangle. Her smile widens and her eyes gleam.

She yells, “Wooo!”

I laugh in response and she giggles, grabs my neck tight and pulls herself up to my ear and whispers,

“I lub you sooo much, Mommy!”

I whisper in her ear, “Don’t worry, Mommy will never let you go. I love you so much.”

A sudden knock at my door makes me put her down. I tell her to go sit and finish eating. I’m a cautiously intrigued because I’m not expecting any packages and I’m not expecting any company. I walk over, look into the peephole to find blackness, just a darkness. Is someone covering the hole? Thinking it’s my husband playing some stupid prank, I yank the door open wide to reprimand him for trying to scare the crap out of me. I’m left more than a little stunned, mouth agape. Confusion must be strewn all over my face as I take in the sight.

An older man, maybe six foot, two inches tall, wide build, salt and pepper hair with a beard to match is standing in my doorway. I’ve never seen this man before and I look down and take note of the axe gripped loosely in his hand. He swings the butt of it up and smacks me across the face before I can form a second thought. I try to clamber to my feet. My daughter, I have to get up for my daughter. Nausea hits me as I try to pull myself up. He kicks me in the stomach and my breath escapes me. I double-over, and I’ve fallen back to the floor and don’t remember doing it. I try to grip the carpet with my fingertips and pull myself towards her, trying to squirm or move or do anything besides lay helpless. Meanwhile my daughter is wide-eyed, crying, and yelling out for me.

The last thing I see is him pick her up and toss her into a wall. My vision starts fading to black. The last thought I have is an angry one, with myself.

I awake to the feeling of harsh twine surrounding my wrists, which are bound in a very uncomfortable angle behind my back. My eyes search frantically around my bedroom for any sign of Maya. There is none. My stomach drops and my heart starts to ache. That gut-wrenching feeling is replaced by a hot rage and an angry determination. I feel around the small of my back under my jacket to find that my knife is still there, still attached at the waste. I send a prayer to whatever Holy Spirit is watching over us, and focus on trying to get a grip on the blade. It’s difficult enough to get unclipped, but now I have to open it and try to cut this twine one-handed. I spend the longest ten minutes of my entire life rubbing the dulled blade against the weakening rope and soon enough, it gives. My hands are trembling with anticipation as I unknot the twine around my ankles. Anticipation that he’ll walk in the door at any second and I’ll lose my last bit of leverage, the element of surprise.

I have no idea who this man is or why he wants to hurt my family and I, but I’ll be damned if I don’t go down swinging.

I tip-toe to the closed door of the room and put my ear against the crack to listen for anything. The only thing I can hear is the whirring of the air-conditioner in my kitchen. I crack the door open and peek out, and it’s seemingly empty. With the blade death-gripped in my right hand and my head still throbbing, I inch my way down the hall. My heart leaps into my throat as I pass by my clearly occupied bathroom. I gulp and quickly sprint out into the dining area, searching like a hungry shark who has just had the scent of his prey tickle his palate. I look from one side of the room to the next; Maya’s nowhere in sight. There’s a bloodspot on the wall from where he threw her into it and my body trembles with unaddressed rage. I look for my cell phone and that’s also lost. It seems as though the only rooms I haven’t checked might be holding the key to our escape and the retrieval of my four year old daughter. The light is still on in the bathroom and the door to my daughter’s room is cracked.  

I inch my way back down the hall, passed the bathroom door, towards her room. When I swing the door open, I see her lying facedown, wrists bound by the same twine that left annoying red and purple burns on my wrists. I run to her and hold her in a tight embrace before I start to cut the rope off of her wrists. When she’s freed I feel for a pulse in her neck, slow but steady. I gently pick her up, so as to not make her injuries worse than they already could be. The blood matted to her hair makes the blood in my veins run cold but I try to remember what’s most important, getting her out alive and safe. I inch my way past the bathroom door when the toilet flushes. I run into the living room, looking wide-eyed for my car keys, very aware of the little time I have and the large amount of noise I’m making. I finally get a grip on the noisy metallic pieces of freedom and head for the door. It feels like ten years to do something as simple as unlock my deadbolt. The bathroom door opens just as I get the second lock undone. I swing my front door open wide and bolt. We can deal with Maya’s injuries once we get to a hospital, once we get out of here alive.

I startle awake, pulse racing and an ache in my knees, as if I’ve been running. I turn in bed to see my husband still fast asleep. I look over at my nightstand to catch the time. It’s six-thirty in the morning. The date makes me shudder. Valentine’s Day. I’ve had dream-like premonitions but nothing this vivid before. I’ve dreamt about seeing a substitute teacher the night before we’d have that same substitute in school but nothing this violent. My body’s covered in sweat, as the hot Florida rays start to peak in through my blinds. I throw the covers back, stand and try to stretch the horror I still have creeping up my spine out of my body. My mind is aware that it was only a dream but my body hasn’t quite gotten the memo.

I take a shower, get dressed, and start making breakfast for my daughter and I. As my husband’s getting ready to leave for work; I can’t shake this feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. This feels oddly too familiar. That’s when I know. It’s going to happen. This dream was a warning. I’ve learned from my mother, there is only one rule regarding our genetic psychic ability. One cannot change the future. In other words, I have to just accept what’s in store for my daughter and I or it could alter the future to make the outcome even worse.

I’ve always followed the rule, never having any reason not to. I’ve never encountered a dream quite like this one. I try to remain as calm as possible but I know when my husband kisses me goodbye he can see the fear in my eyes. Even with my reassuring tone, my eyes never lie. I sit my daughter down to eat and look at her beautiful chubby cheeks, big brown eyes, and listen to her adorable laugh as if it’s the most tranquil melody I’ve ever heard. My eyes close and the picture of her being tossed as if she’s nothing but a ragdoll, the bloodstain, the pain in the pit of my stomach, the anger all come rushing back in a fuel of adrenaline. Before I can stop myself, it’s too late. I’m already changing what’s to come.

I go and unlock the gun case and grab our shotgun. I rig it to one of our kitchen chairs with a piece of twine so when the door is opened the shotgun will blast whoever’s in the doorway.

It’s done and I expect it but still I jump at the sound of a knock at the door. I tell my daughter to go into her room to play with her toys. I look through the peephole. Sure enough, it’s black. I unlock the door and then jump to the side, near the hallway. I hear the doorknob jiggle and then the door swings open simultaneous with the shotgun blast. The sound reverberates through the small two-bedroom apartment. Blood pools on my white carpet. I hold my knife with a death grip as I slowly inch my way around the door to make sure he’s dead.

My eyes have a hard time comprehending what’s in front of me. They fill with tears and the knife slips out of my hand. My husband is holding his stomach with one hand and a bouquet of blood-splattered, white roses with the other. Blood is pooling in his mouth as he drops to his knees. He looks at me, confusion filling his face as fast as the blood is filling our carpet. I strip my shirt and hold it to his abdomen, I whisper apologies and false notions that everything will be okay. I go to look for my phone, and I can’t seem to find it anywhere.