Death was a man in a black jacket, with blond hair and a silver knife. Life was an Asian girl my age with dyed red hair and fear etched onto her face as she fled.

We stood in Limbo, facing each other. Each step they took brought them closer until they ran right through me like I was mist. All I could do was turn and watch.

The man caught up in the span of three paces. The girl never stood a chance. She screamed as he grabbed her and threw her into a wall. They argued, but it was unintelligible – not that it would matter in the end. This vision would end like all visions did: Death would emerge victorious.

Steel cut through rain and the ground turned red. With that, Limbo faded away.

This was the future.

This was reality.

Would anything have changed if I'd told her that this was how she'd die?

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