Psychic Life

A/N: Hey guys, after a week with no internet I finally had time to sit down and finish this story. It came as an idea after reading a gazillion of books this week and most notably 'Dream Man' by Linda Howard. If you like my story, you should defititely give ms Howard's book a chance.

P.S. I own nothing…


It was eleven-thirty when Bella Swan left the cinema with the rest of the Friday night moviegoers. The movie had been a good one, a lighthearted flick that had made her laugh aloud several times and left her in a cheerful mood.

For six long years she had simply existed. She had been physically living but mentally she lived in a constant fog. But, like she had been warned, time had done its slow work and eventually she had healed.

The radio was tuned to an easy-listening station and she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel to the tempo.

the knife flashed down, gleaming dully. A ripping sound as it struck. The blade rose again, dripping red —

Bella jerked back, an unconscious physical denial of the horribly real image that had just flashed in her mind.


she moaned softly to herself. She could hear her own breathing, sharp and gasping. Her hands were clenched on the steering wheel, and even that wasn't enough to stop the trembling that started at her feet and went all the way up. Dimly she watched her hands start shaking as the spasms intensified.

Wide eyes on a red blooded face. A shrieking voice pleading -

It was happening again. The sight she had been cursed with was coming closer and she knew from experience that soon it would overwhelm her. Clumsily, her coordination already gone, she jerked the car to the right hoping she'd get out of the road and not cause an accident.

No sooner than she did that a strong wave of pain brought the image back. she closed her dark eyes but it kept playing behind her closed eyelids like private movie airing just for her. Her hands fell limply into her lap as the images forced her eyes to snap open. She sat in the car staring straight ahead. Her breathing became harsher.

Rough sounds began to form in her throat, but she didn't hear them. Her right hand lifted slowly from her lap and formed itself into a fist, as if she were gripping something. The fist twitched violently, three times, in a rigidly restrained stabbing motion. Then she was quiet again, her face as still and blank as a statue's, her gaze fixed and empty.