Retrocognition

45 | supernatural

I sigh, leaning my back against my headboard as I massage my throbbing temples. The papers scattered around my mattress make ruffling sounds as I stretch my legs out, shuffling the articles surrounding me amongst my comforter.

After hours of reading and rereading the articles Ivy wrote about Naomi Amira's mysterious death, along with all of the police reports that have been released about her murder, I've still come to no conclusions that might help put this case to an end. I've only managed to confirm what I already know: Naomi was found dead by the campus lakebed, her cause of death was strangulation, and her killer is an unknown person on campus—more than likely a student.

However, I haven't come to a total loss. Every fact about Naomi's death eerily lines up with the visions I've been having as of late. I can't explain how I know this, though I'm positive I'm experiencing a reenactment of what happened to Naomi the night of her death.

I rub my neck tenderly as I recall the hands wrapped around my flesh in the hallucination. I can still remember the feel of the wet and rough dirt beneath my body as my breath was stolen from me. I feel sick as I think back over it all.

There's one part of the vision that doesn't necessarily add up with the events of Naomi's death, though I have a sinking suspicion it was, in fact, an event that took place the night of her death. I close my eyes and picture the dark room and the heavy body atop mine, my skin crawling as I think back to the feeling of my privacy being invaded in the worst of ways. Someone hurt her that night . . . in more ways than one.

"Why me?" I whisper to myself, burying my face in my hands. It takes all of the strength I can muster to keep myself together; I struggle to refrain from breaking into tears on the spot. "What is she trying to tell me?"

I sound insane. Maybe I am. Maybe Ben was right when he suggested these delusions could be caused by a lack of sleep. Maybe I've finally cracked and all of this going on with my head is nothing more than a broken girl losing her mind.

Or maybe I'm right and there is something that connects me to the death of Naomi Amira. Paranormal experiences happen all the time . . . in some cases, there is simply too much evidence to rule strange happenings as anything else other than supernatural. Maybe a dead girl is trying to warn me of oncoming danger that connects the two of us somehow before it's too late for me . . . before my fate leads me down the same path that ended fatally for Naomi.

I begin to question the reality of it all. Is it really possible that I am witnessing the death of a girl I never personally knew—am I somehow able to visit the past when I black out? It sounds highly unlikely, and yet a voice in the back of my head whispers that I am onto something. What else could these recurring visions possibly be about? But what do Naomi and I have in common—what could even remotely bring the two of us together? I've never experienced or heard of anything like what I'm going through, which leaves me unsettled. I don't like not being in control of my own mind, nor do I like being in the dark about something I'm living through. I hide my face behind my hands and squeeze my eyes closed as they well with oncoming tears, causing my vision to sting.

Frustrated with my mind and what is going on with my head, I release a pent-up groan and open my eyes. I meet my reflection's gaze in the mirror, nearly jumping when I find that the reflection looking back at me isn't mine at all. However, I instantly recognize the dark hair and deeply tanned skin. The features I glance at now through wide eyes are the same features I see in the visions I've been experiencing . . . the features I believe belong to Naomi Amira. I risk a glance down at one of Ivy's articles placed next to me on the bed, eyeing a picture of Naomi that is printed on the front cover. I stare at the page for a brief second, taking in the long, dark hair, tanned skin, and big brown eyes . . . the splitting image of the reflection facing me in the mirror now.

Staring into the wide brown eyes that peer back at me in the glass of the mirror, I realize I'm looking into the eyes of someone who isn't really there at all.