The woman on the subway just touched me. She just touched me and she doesn't have the slightest clue that it happened. As she'd settled into the narrow plastic seat, her elbow brushed my fingertips. One second. In hindsight, it wasn't even one full second. It was enough, though. It's always enough.

I recognize the feeling before it really catches up with me. It's like being trapped in a tunnel, one with light warped and uneven, the way a funhouse captures it. Nausea hits me; a wave of it shows up right before I'm grounded in the scene.

She's not with me on the subway anymore. Instead, she's alone in her apartment. It's a small place in Bed Stuy, and I'm just a specter. I watch her set her purse on the counter, clicking the button on her answering machine to hear the messages for the day. As someone on the other end of the line rants about her husband, the woman pours herself a bowl of granola, douses it with milk, and settles into a chair at her table. The gossip is background noise, and she eats in an unfocused haze. It's an unassuming scene.

She returns the call, calmly. The weird thing is, her words are unspecific to the message. It's almost like she wasn't listening in the first place. I take she must be close with the lady who left the voicemail, because she tells her she loves her.

The words are wrong.

The words sound wrong.

That's the moment I figure it out.

I've seen quite a few suicides. They don't outnumber any other cause of death, but I've still seen a lot of them. There are a number of ways to take your own life, and I'm pretty sure I've borne witness to every single one.

Her lifeless eyes, her calm resolve, the emptiness in her face— it's all a sign. She's scribbling onto a notepad now, writing a letter presumably. I keep trying to pull myself from the vision, but I know what's coming. I know I'm probably gonna have to watch anyway.

She's eerily calm as she takes a blade from the kitchen, a short, thick knife for cutting meat. Then, she lays in bed, assessing her forearm. There's only a moment of hesitation before she drags the metal down the length of her wrist, and slits her veins wide open.

The blood spurts everywhere, leaking across the crisp sheets of her bed. She cries out, and her hands are trembling so bad she can't cut her other arm up. It doesn't matter. She's done enough damage on her own to bleed out.

It's a terrible way to die.

When she takes her last breath, I'm shoved back into reality. I fall into the plastic seat hard, struggling for air. I look around me, scanning all the faces, examining the train car. I'm on the subway again, and there's bile rising in my throat. If I'm lucky, I won't throw up.

The woman glances at me, the corners of her mouth tilting upward stiffly before her eyes fall away. She looks normal. She doesn't look suicidal, and yet she's about to go home, eat a ceremonial final meal, and kill herself. I want to say something, but I don't know what. I know, deep down, that I can't save her.

I can't save her, and it's going to tear me up inside.

I've lost count of how many premonitions I've had after over a decade of them, but the ones that get me the most are the ones that could be stopped. Change one factor and that person could go on living their life. They're so easy to prevent, yet they happen just as I see them. Every death I foresee comes true, and it's a disturbing, plaguing thing.

Sitting next to her, knowing tomorrow she won't be taking the train again, is driving me up the wall. I'm so desperate to move, to escape this situation. Even despite how warm it is in the subway car, I tug my gloves back onto my sweaty hands and stand. My stop is several blocks away, but I'd rather walk than spend another minute here. I shove my way out, take the stairs two at a time, and try to get as far away from the woman as possible.

Sometimes I think New York City was a bad place to attend grad school.

I'm shaking like crazy. My whole body seems like it's been electrified and is buzzing with energy. I can't control each tremor that runs through me as I remember the haunting image left in my mind. I'm left wondering how long it'll be until someone finds her on the floor, all blue and stiff as rigor mortis sets in. I'm left to think about what will be left of her, if she'll decay, if that room will always stink of the lingering remains of a corpse.

Jesus, Violet, get it together.

I need to shut down this train of thought and fast. The longer I think about the dead lady, the longer it'll take to snap me out of it. Every vision is sort of like this, but sometimes I get so fixated on what I saw that it's impossible to break myself free. I never asked to deal with this. As long as I've questioned what I did to deserve it, I've still received no answer. I suffer in silence, and when I get careless, when I decide that maybe I can afford to take the gloves off, I'm reminded of the precise reason that isn't an option for me.

I don't get the luxury of being able to make a mistake.

I'm lucky to live in Brooklyn. While every part of New York City is crowded, Williamsburg seems less packed with people sandwiched together on the sidewalk, at least at this time of night.

The train ride was long enough as it is since I was coming from Harlem. I'm exhausted after sitting through a lecture, and the premonition took all my energy with it. I want to be home, but I still have a few more blocks to walk.

I want to sleep, just a handful of hours. I'm praying my phone doesn't ring. All I ask for is a moment of peace. That's it. That's all I want.

I live on the fifth floor up, in an apartment overlooking the city skyline. It's a beautiful view that I'm lucky to have, and sometimes I stare at the buildings until my eyes go blurry. It's a strange way to ground myself, but it works.

I never wait for the elevator, since that's usually a way to get trapped with a couple of strangers and be forced into an awkward conversation. I avoid people as often as I can. Avoiding people means avoiding a vision. Simple as that.

Taking the several flights of stairs is frankly exhausting, especially after the walk I've just had, but I do it. I lumber up to my hallway, walk to the front door, and unlock it with a somewhat steady hand.

My roommate, Betsy, is on the couch with a tall glass of red wine. She drinks the stuff religiously, and it's become a tradition for us to unwind, watch some Food Network, and drain a bottle. I guess I could say she's the closest thing I have to a best friend, even though I don't really talk to her about my personal life. It's easy to keep people at a distance with me, because there's so much I'll never be able to say without sounding insane.

"Hey, Vi," she says, pausing her show. "I just started a new episode of Chopped if you want to join."

"That's okay. I have a lot of homework," I lie. I really need a hot shower and some time alone, but I'd rather come up with an excuse so I don't hurt her feelings.

"Suit yourself," she replies, turning back to the TV.

I have a vision every day. Sometimes the number is small, with only one or two. Other times, it climbs all the way up to ten. The most I've experienced in the span of twenty-four hours is fifteen. It was a New York Summer, and I had to tour Columbia's campus for orientation. Between all the handshakes and accidental elbow brushes, it was an absolute nightmare.

I never fully recover. Every premonition is taxing, and depending on how gory it gets, my mind is branded with the images long after it's over.

I peel away my clothes and curl into a ball under a stream of hot water, hoping to make the lingering impressions of the woman's suicide go away. Deep breaths are important, and I'm hoping if I can get my oxygen intake under control, I can calm myself down.

I end up sitting there until it gets cold, wet and tired and shaken up.

My standard pajamas consist of a worn Columbia t-shirt that I've washed so many times it's grown thin in some places and my underwear. I went to college in Massachusetts first, hoping to stay in home territory. In my comfort zone, there was less risk, less trouble around the corner.

It took a lot of bravery to come here, to a big city full of visions at every turn, but I hoped I could make a difference by doing it.

So far, that part is to be determined.

I climb under a mound of blankets and pull the covers tight over my head. I feel like a little kid, hiding after a nightmare. The problem is, these nightmares come when I'm awake, and then replay when I'm asleep. I don't get a reprieve from any of it.

I try to sleep. Shutting my brain down feels like an impossible mission, especially when there's much to think about. If I can rest, I'll get a few hours. I hope I can get a few hours. I don't need much more than that.

I toss and turn until well after midnight.

It seems as though I haven't been asleep long before my phone starts ringing.