I knew what the day was when I opened my eyes. When you wake up with your body feeling heavy with cold, invisible chains, you really have no choice but to know what day it is. Most people call these sort of things “anniversaries.”

            But me? I called it a “black day.”

            I’ve gone through this repeatedly, every year praying it won’t rise to the surface and drag me down. After going through it so many times, you would imagine that I’d be used to it. That all of it would occur and I wouldn’t even flinch. But you know, that doesn’t really matter. No matter how many times I go through this, every damn year I do it all over again. And every single time, the pain is just as strong as it ever was when this awful event occurred. Every time, the fear and anguish bubbles up and leaves me paralyzed in a turbulent sea that threatens to drown me.

            I try desperately to brace myself in advance, but so far I’ve yet to be successful. In fact, the more I try to shield myself from the inevitable, the worse I seem to emerge on the other side of the day.

            As the time draws near, the initial waves begin washing along the shores of my mind. The air begins to grow heavy. Cold. Still. Yet violent. That feeling of ice that comes into your stomach when your extrasensory ability—what many oft call “intuition,” but I call “advance warning”—is alerting you that something horrific is approaching you fast? It slams into my gut like the fist of a world-class champion fighter. It takes my breath away, sickens me to the core, leaves me to close my eyes and reel back for a moment.

            And that’s when the first vision crosses my mind: Standing in the kitchen with my younger family stood nearby as an older member of the family suddenly walks into the house from the darkness. We all turn to see him, but his normally happy eyes are dimmed and misty, locked gaze upon the tile floor beneath our feet. And it’s in that moment that the sick feeling pierces my stomach and I slowly start to peer upwards towards a clock upon the wall.

           The world around someone who sense things like me—someone who feels a strange, if not spooky, connection to the energies of the universe… energies both past and present—becomes a sometimes unnerving thing when the energies of the past flare up and insist you pay them mind. And I’m beginning to hear the faint buzzing of nostalgic whispers fluttering in the wind that nobody else even seems aware of; in the corners of my eyes I can even see the occasional flicker of a wispy figure, standing clear as day before me but unseen to all the rest. And should I make eye contact with this figure or blink my eyes to try and be sure my vision is correct, he or she will simply fade away into oblivion. Images of people who normally bring me feelings of love and calm suddenly cause me to jump with fright or feel that sickening sense of impending doom. It’s possible to see ghosts of the living—if a memory is so powerful and impressive, a person who is very much alive can appear to you in an instantaneous vision to deliver a message.

            I’m seeing before me that older family member from the vision before. I know he is very much alive if not many miles away, but he appears in a transparent haze and right now he looks so sad. He’s normally a vibrant, happy man. His eyes look up from the floor, yet he cannot seem to look me directly in the eye. But that’s okay, for neither can I. God knows I try, but something about matching eyes with him warns me that I’ll be presented with something really horrible as a result. Perhaps he feels the same way about meeting eyes with any of us kids. We are young, we’re confused, and above all… we’re scared. We come to him for reassurance, comfort, and knowledge… but instead he walks past us children and to another older member of the family, who slowly stands up. The two men stand face-to-face as if about to duel. My eyes again turn back towards the clock.

            But I blink my eyes and the image disperses, instead I realize I’ve halfway outstretched my hand towards thin air. I look at the clock, and the heavy chains just seem to grow with weight. The day is slowly starting to escape, only forcing me closer to my sentence. I look back towards where that image haunted me before, head slightly falling to one side as I wait for it to return. But after a few minutes I realize it’s all faded away, and I walk away to try and keep myself preoccupied.

            The worst thing you can do is try to distract yourself. The more you try to forget to remember, the stronger you remember everything. Every last little detail, even if you couldn’t remember it when it actually occurred. I often wonder if this is a side-effect of my special sense, but I cannot be sure, for the only other person I would ask such a question of has the same special ability as me.

            He isn’t so welcoming of the images, feelings, whispers, and people who cross his path—not the way I am. But by some strange twist of fate, we have ended up together, and I’m certain that our lives will be forever entwined as a result of our spooky otherworldly shared trait. And while he doesn’t openly explore his ability to venture into other realms the way I do, he will cross the borders if it comes to helping me. He gives me strength and I am his shield. We are symbiotic—one of us cannot manage to survive without the other.

            But right now he is not here. We communicate through multiple time zones and right now, my partner sleeps soundly thousands of miles away. He knows this black day takes its toll and he does his best to guard me, but it’s not his fault that he can’t be here for me now. For black days have no bearing or respect for time. However, thinking of him does keep me well distracted, and for a while it feels as if today is not the black day it truly is. My partner in life and partner in understanding, despite his power of influence over my thoughts and mood, cannot save me when the moment finally comes.

            The clock strikes the moment of my sentence, and suddenly I peer up from my preoccupation. Outside my window it is black, but I see a pale, white light. I slowly get up from where I sit and I peer out past my curtains. The world outside is still, dark, silent, still. The moon is a pale sliver of white in the sky. My eyes come up to meet its illumination, and with its light the truth is revealed.

            The men whisper to one another faintly, and the other man who had spent all evening with us suddenly sees his shoulders slump somewhat. The other kids don’t seem to notice, they are too caught up talking amongst themselves. But I see this subtle sign and I draw myself closer to the conversation. And as I do this, the icy cold in my stomach has begun seeping throughout my entire being. I feel sick, I feel scared, I feel… something slipping away. I begin shaking a little though I’m not sure why, and all I hear is the normally happy man with his back turned to me say in a stoic yet broken murmur, “Well, she’s sleeping really peacefully now.”

            He turns sideways so my eyes meet his at last, and upon his lips is a smile most mournful. And while the feeling in my body tells me I have heard something most painful and tragic, my mind is too young and innocent and has completely missed the hidden message that was in those nasty words. My mind portrays that of a woman resting and recovering in a bed.

            But the truth is much worse than that. That woman in my mind is a family member most beloved… and she is not sleeping—she has slipped away.

            I blink my eyes and discover them to be wet as this last vision strikes with a silent efficiency and has left as quickly as it came. I slowly turn away from the moon and I turn my gaze back to the room before me. But the air around me is electric and buzzing now with the whispers of living ghosts, all reminding me of the whirlwind that followed that awful sentence.

            She’s sleeping really peacefully now.

            And she was—from within a frightening box. When we walked into that room and my eyes laid sight upon it for the first time, I stumbled backwards out of the room and nearly toppled over a column supporting a vase of flowers. I guess that was the moment that the reality set in. But I wasn’t able to be mournful or fall apart—at the time, I had promised my distraught mother that she could come find me whenever she felt the need to cry.

            My mother was strong. Crying was never something she would allow to be seen. To be the one she turned to when she needed to express this most vulnerable weakness in her design… I couldn’t allow myself to falter. She lost the nails and the support structure that had kept her world intact. And me? I was attempting to be glue and tape that hoped to put it back together again.

            I eventually approached the box alongside my mother, and we glanced down at the sight within. My beloved family member looked as if she were just having a nap, but the first thought that came to my mind and nearly erupted from my lips were that’s not her lying there. It looks nothing like her. As I looked down at her, all I could think was that she looked hollow. Empty. She was dressed in her best and her makeup done just perfectly, but it was like staring down a mannequin. I remember shakily touching her hand and feeling disturbed at how suddenly she felt like a plastic doll. I had unknowingly responded to this by touching my mother’s living hand and trying to comprehend the difference of sensation.

            Just two days ago, the hand that now felt strange and fabricated had been warm and pulsed with energy. I stepped out of that room and found a private corner with which to cry openly for a moment. That was when I heard a voice whisper into my ears that gently asked me to look up. Standing before me, in the same outfit she was resting in a few rooms away, my lovely family member. It’s okay, honey. I’m still here. My body was just too tired and sick. I escaped it so I could go on.

            I blinked and reached out, but she was gone. I began to realize that, with my special sense, blinking would send away whoever was reaching out to me. I had to go back into the room, where I was taught that a body is but a vessel and can only operate with energy inside it. Should that energy leave, the body turns into an empty shell. This was a strange, but powerful lesson. And I learned it when I was only thirteen.

            But it’s been so many years since that day, and it was this experience that devoted me to learning the extent of my special sense and be brave enough to explore that other realm and communicate with its residents—even if I didn’t know them. Because my beloved family member was now walking this realm, and it was a way I could remain in contact with her despite the fact she vacated her body. Plus I wondered if I could console lost souls the way my family member had comforted me. And then I found my partner and he discovered that he shares this same special sense. Knowing he sometimes experiences the same things I do is a great comfort, providing me with someone who understands and granting me some comfort that we’ll remain tethered together even when we pass into the other realm. I sometimes suspect that this was the doing of my family member, ensuring I would have someone who would understand and help me get by.

            At the end of the day, I find myself feeling drained and weary, uneasy and even afraid to go to sleep. Sleeping peacefully has a second connotation to me and it makes me scared. Especially on this black day. So I stay awake until the minute past midnight—only then do I feel even remotely safe enough to close my eyes and allow myself to attempt to slumber.

            Time is not a linear thing. It is alive and can run, jump, and stand still. It can even stop if it decides to. And today, time lapses—jumps from its place in the present to all those years in the past. My mind is aware of the lapse, yet there is nothing I can do but feel that horrible coldness swell up in my stomach.

            Time lapses, and all of the pain and every last wound is suddenly fresh once more.