This Is Why I Am Not An Author

Katiebird asked for conspiracy theory or short story...
I was never really one for conspiracies, so short story was the obvious choice for me. I am very good at rambling on, you know.

well....
I'm going to post it.
and it isn't finished because I have no idea where it would have gone if I had the patience to keep trying.
Mind you - I am not good at this, even a little. I don't care about how to paragraph or phrase, how quotations work or anything like that.
This is why I am not an author :)

It was a cold and foggy morning… It was almost as if I remembered it. I walked the familiar halls with their familiar walls, my fingers dancing across the grey paint as I moved. I made a left turn at the end of the hall. Then all I could see is myself sitting on my bed, agonizing and mourning over something that I could feel had not yet happened yet. I could almost feel where the tears had dried on my face. I watched as I buried my head in a pillow, the dam threatening to burst again as the sound of my own muffled scream filled my ears. All I could do is watch.

Then I wake up.

I get out of my shower, still rattled by my dream. I had it a thousand times but each time I awoke, I was only more confused. I dry quickly and get ready, dancing along to some instrumental version that sounded like a rap song I was vaguely acquainted with as I brushed my hair. I grab my phone but I already know what awaits me as I enter my password.

“Are you okay?” lights up on my screen.

I sigh, shaking my head, but grinning as I do. My short fingers quickly tap out my response.

“Yes, freak. Get out of my head. I’ll see you in ten!” I put my phone in my purse and run outside in enough time to catch the bus. Seven blocks later I get out, fondly looking up at the Bizzy’s Bookstore sign I have seen almost every day of my life. Exactly three seconds later my best friend bounded out with a concerned look on her perfectly made face.

“I’m fine, really Ains. Stop worrying!” I shrug her arms off my shoulders.

“Xanthippe Alexandra Ross! That dream is creepy, I hate how you feel every time you wake up from it. Are you sure we shouldn't go to the leaders about it?”

I snort. “Ainslee, the leaders won’t care about some weird dream the moody precog keeps having. Come on, let’s get our coffee so we won’t be late.”

Ainslee Alixer has been my best friend since the sorting in third grade. We were the only two girls in our grade with a level of ability high enough to move to the government school.

Ainslee is my polar opposite. She pays careful attention to her appearance while I can hardly be bothered to pull my hair back. It may be because she is an empath: she has the ability to feel what other people are feeling. Since we’ve been friends for thirteen years, she’s almost always in tune with what I’m feeling. Her philosophy is that if other people can influence her emotions, she certainly won’t allow them to affect her appearance too.

I on the other hand, am blessed and cursed with the gift of precognition. I see the future. Or, well, at least the current future. Whatever future the world is currently on track for. Ainslee and I both work for the Terra government, we were trained from the ripe age of 8 on how to use our talents to better the world.

Ainslee refused to drop the subject, droning on about how my dream could actually be a vision that would mean something is going to happen as I ordered our coffees. As we walked down the street, she kept rationalizing with me, and I kept ignoring her until she slapped my arm realized I wasn't actually listening anymore.

“Xan! You should really talk to someone about this!”

“And tell them what, Ainslee? That I keep having a bad dream where I’m in a place I’ve never seen crying over something I have no clue about? Yeah, that’ll make them really happy. I’ll just keep focusing on the war.” I rolled my eyes as we entered our building. I nodded at the large telekinetic man standing guard, who returned my nod. Ains and I got in the elevator, she pushing the round number seven as I leaned over and pushed the fourteen.

My floor was actually the thirteenth floor, but because of superstitions and whatnot, our building decided to skip thirteen and label the precognition floor fourteen instead. The other twelve other people in my field laughed at the notion, and it was made even better when I was added two years ago, for a ripe number thirteen anyway. We couldn't get away from it, we were simply unlucky.

Very unlucky indeed.