The Prophet

When I originally wrote this story it was supposed to be a graphic novel of sorts. An artist friend and I had begun work on it and had actually created some pretty cool panels, but scheduling became an issue and unfortunately the idea was canned. At the time I really liked the story, but I wasn't sure how well it would work without the illustrations so I shelved it for a while. Recently I decided to write it out fully and I think now it might be stronger than it ever was as a comic. Enjoy.
-dale

The Prophet

Let me ask you officer, do you believe in prophecy?

The first thing I notice is the full moon hanging ominously outside the window, just a few inches over a neighboring building. Only after that do I notice the fire. The overwhelming fire, moving like a tiger on the hunt, a blur of orange moving gracefully through the apartment. The fire dances around the room consuming everything in its wake, but there is one thing that is unaffected, a photograph, in a shiny silver picture frame on the coffee table.

It’s a picture of Cindy and me at a carnival; she keeps it on the coffee table in her apartment. It seems impervious to the fire engulfing it. I reach out to grab it, but the fire blocks my way. I try to jump through the flames. I feel my skin burning; I can smell my own flesh. No matter what I do I can’t get a hold of it. Over the sound of the flames I faintly hear sirens.

An axe cleaves the door as I pass out.

That is exactly what I wrote in my dream journal three days ago, Sunday morning, still dripping in sweat from the intensity of the dream. I keep a record of my dreams, because there is no randomness in them; every detail, no matter how small, means something. I started thinking about possible meanings of the dream, though I knew by then that it doesn’t work that way. Dreams are sometimes literal, sometimes metaphorical. You don’t figure out or interpret dreams, you just remember them, and, when the time comes, everything just falls into place and you'll know what to do.

Regardless, the dream haunted my thoughts.

On Monday I was preoccupied at work; I could hardly do my job. Lock picking requires absolute attention and precision and with my mind wandering it was almost an impossible task. My first call that day came from Henrietta Johnson – an old woman who lives over on Christopher street. She has one of these cheap Korean locks that look really impressive but pops open in about a minute when you stick anything in them. On a normal day I could have picked her lock with a toothpick in twenty seconds, but not on that day. Every time I got a pin into place I would lose the previous one, and then when I finally got them all lined up I would fumble the tension wrench and have to start over. It took me nearly half an hour to open the door.

I knew from the full moon in the dream that if there would be a fire it wouldn’t happen until Wednesday, so I decided to close up shop until then. Any one who got locked out of their apartment would just have to wait two days, even if that meant their cats were going to starve. In my apartment I held my copy of the carnival picture and thought about the dream. Try as I might to convince myself that the dream was just a metaphor, I couldn’t shake my feeling of dread. I was concerned for Cindy’s safety; I needed to find out what would happen to cause a fire in her apartment. I knew she would never listen to me if I told her that I saw it in a dream, she hated that stuff.

On Tuesday morning I called her anyway. I didn’t know what else to do. “Hey I’m not home right -” I hung up before the answering machine finished. As the day went on and I was unable to reach her I became more and more uneasy. I looked for her at Old Navy where she works and then at The Great American Health Bar where she generally eats lunch, but she was nowhere to be found. Day became night and my worry continued to grow. I tried calling her again, but again all I got was her voice mail. I knew that there was nothing more I could do, so I tried to sleep. After several hours of sleeplessness I had the dream again.

I couldn’t contact her all day Wednesday, so at about seven o’clock I drove over to her place. There was no elevator in her building, more importantly there was no fire escape, So I walked up five flights to her apartment and knocked on door 5a. There was no answer. I took out my lock pick set and wished I had been wearing my uniform. One of the perks of the uniform is that no one looks twice when you’re kneeling in front of a locked door. Now I had to be quick, I couldn’t be seen breaking in.

I put the tension wrench in place, and inserted my favorite pick into the door. Cindy had an unassuming American lock that told burglars you could probably get through me, but I’m not really hiding anything that great anyway. In truth the average burglar could probably not get through, which is why I had chosen it for her. I heard the last pin move into place with a satisfying click and turned the tension wrench.

I walked in and closed the door behind me. Cindy’s place is a one-bedroom apartment that opens into a small living room with an attached kitchen. I set my tools down on the coffee table next to the silver picture frame. The lights were all on and there was an empty pot on the stove. I checked to see if, perhaps, the burner was on. It was not. I continued to scan the room for possible fire starters.

I walked towards the bedroom to see if perhaps there were scented candles or some other potential fire hazard I could snuff out. When I opened the bedroom door I almost screamed, but I managed to control myself. I silently closed the door, hoping they hadn’t seen me. They hadn’t, how could they? They were too preoccupied. I sat on the couch and looked at the silver picture frame. I was no longer in it. It was a picture of a different couple. Cindy and another man in some undefined place. We hadn’t been apart even a year. I looked out the window; the moon was hanging there just as it had been in my dream.

Everything fell into place. I knew what to do.

Once the fire started, I tried to leave, but the fire had already blocked the door. I saw the fire ferociously consuming the contents of the room. It didn’t have a hint of grace, it was a savage beast uncontrollably devouring everything. The picture in the frame was blackened already. I smiled. As my vision began to blur I could hear sirens in the distance. I passed out as the axe came crashing through the door. They never came out of the bedroom.

So let me ask you again officer, do you believe in prophecy?