Rob Thurman - Doubletake

The universe was a coin spinning on its edge. When I gated, I could see it. Violently unpredictable. You didn’t know which way it would fall. It was chaos and nothing more. But the peace-loving Gandhi wannabes thought differently, because they could see, but they couldn’t see what one like me could see. She was right. She was a hypocrite, but she didn’t know why. None of the good ones did. None of the good ones knew they lied to everyone and they lied to themselves. They told all that nothing big could be changed and you were stuck with what life gave you.

But I had proved them wrong. It took a while, but I wasn’t stuck now.

Not once did they stop to think that they took hope instead of giving it. Not that I needed hope or a denial of my fate. I made my fate.

What will be will be.

Suck that shit up.

It was too bad. She’d been an adequate teacher, one of the best I’d had. But sometimes you had to move on.

Because “what will be will fucking be.” As much as I despised her fucking kind, I couldn’t let her be anymore.

As I’d stood by her desk, she’d taken my hand, the dark gold of hers a contrast of the light tan of mine. She met my eyes through the sunglasses I refused to take off in class. “I knew someone like you when I was a year or two younger.” Younger…when she’d lived in NYC. Someone like me. There was only one like me, except…I felt the grin start, but held it back.

Cal-i-ban.

“I loved him.” She’d squeezed my hand, but her eyes held only calm, no sadness. No fear. If she’d known me, she should’ve feared. “And he loved me. Too much, I think. He said I was born of peace and he was born of blood and death. He told me it wasn’t a guess, but that he knew I wouldn’t survive in his world. And he was a killer, but he wouldn’t be responsible for killing me just by being with me. I was willing to trust fate. He wasn’t.”

Then there had been sadness. It had made me smile. “He was right, but he gave me a chance,” she’d said. “He’d let me look at our path and where it led. I told him no. Little things can change. The whole of your life or death cannot. I refused to look and he refused to risk me without a guarantee I would be safe. That I would survive. I’ve thought since I came here of my sin and my lie. I loved him so much that I broke my only rule. I did look. And then I left. He was right and neither of us should have to see it happen.” Her voice was soft and would have been boring had it not been for the information on Caliban.

She’d put her other hand against my face. I’d felt the warmth of it through the hair that fell across my cheek. “I know you won’t believe me, as he didn’t believe me, but the first day you sat in my class I knew you. I broke my rule again and looked into your future too. I won’t run and I won’t blame you. You were born to be who you are, Grimm. We are all born to a purpose.” I hadn’t told her my real name in class, yet she knew.

I really hated those damn seers.

“Balance in this world is far more important than those who live in it.” She’d leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “But, Grimm, you will not tell him what you think to do here.”

Not tell Caliban I sliced up one of his old girlfriends? Yeah, that was a promise. Stupid bitch.

Her hand on my face had burned, and the brown—no, what color?—of her eyes had turned to pure glowing golden amber, and I thought felt something leave…no, something stolen from my mind. It was there. It was about Caliban, who was in NYC, but what…? I wasn’t supposed to tell…tell him about my teacher? Why would I?

I’d forgotten her name and face the second I used a switchblade to slice open her stomach. It wasn’t like she was important. Finding Caliban, after all these years, that was the only thing.

I’d retracted the blade to put back in my pocket, shook my head, and removed my sunglasses to rub at my eyes, my headache fierce. The teacher, Georgina…George…G.

Eh, it was gone. Why would I waste a brain cell on her name or her face anyway?

I’d left her sprawled across her desk. Blood pooled around her. I couldn’t really tell what color her hair was—brown? Black? Red as her own blood? I did see the palm of her hand—it was the same silver-white as my hair. Freaking bizarre.

But she was gone and so was I. And the world was better off with one less psychic. I’d planned on killing her when the GED class graduated anyway—martyrs and psychics. Hell with them. And I knew where Caliban was, NYC—I didn’t know how I knew, but suddenly I did know—and teachers were a dime a dozen. I was on the move. Blood dripped to the floor. I vaguely remembered gutting her, but not with the intensity I normally did. I loved a good gutting. I liked to lie in the grass or abandoned buildings or even a bed and relive them from time to time. I shrugged. She must not have been that interesting.

Now the blood began to splatter the floor.

But that’s what happened when you broke your own rules. My kind had no rules. We lived—or had lived—in the same place, but dwelled in different worlds.

I was sure she thought she’d gone to a better one. They always did. There were other worlds, I knew. Whether she went to a good or bad one wasn’t up to her, whatever she thought. It was up to that ever-spinning and capricious universe. And if it had made me, it couldn’t be very good and generous, could it?

She had been a good teacher, though.

I took the apple out of my jacket pocket, polished it on my sleeve, and left it in her limp hand before I left. I’d brought it to be ironic. An apple a day will never keep an Auphe away.

I walked out into the hall and closed the door behind me. I thought I heard the sound of something being tossed into a metal trash can, the kind by the teacher’s desk. With my Auphe hearing, if I heard something, there was something. I glanced back through the frosted glass and saw a misty outline of a crying woman, face in her hands, red hair.…I rubbed my eyes again and it was gone.

Just a dead human on the altar of a teacher’s desk, martyred as she’d meant to be. A human without a face or color or a name.

“I’ll find a way to change it. I will. I don’t care if it’s never been done. The world can’t stop me. No one can stop me.”

It was a woman’s voice choked with tears and determination. Familiar. I turned to look again, but then I’d found myself on the first floor with no memory of coming down the stairs. Too much excitement, too much glee at the games to come. My brother. Fighting, blood, family joined again and maybe a few hundred deaths or so.

Because he was in…She’d said he lived in…Fuck.

I’d known.

I’d just this second known and it was gone too, like the other things…like…what other things?

Absently I put my sunglasses back on, left the building, and stepped down to the sidewalk. Why was I standing here doing nothing? I could be in the library searching the Internet for Caliban. Or I could be off showing one of those gangs downtown that when they said they were going to take your money and shove your head up your ass, it was harder than it sounded. You had to break a lot of vertebrae to do that, have some real upper-body strength, and a machete to make that back door a few sizes bigger. I had the ability and the motivation. Tonight, I’d thought, I’d be the teacher.

Out of the corner of my eye, I’d seen a face in the window…colors of brown, red, and amber. I’d smelled the pumping heart and the circulating blood of healthy life.