WITCH

Part One

Premonition: a strong feeling that something is about to happen, especially something unpleasant.

AUGUST

    I don't know if I've ever fully believed in psychics. Someone who holds the future in their hand so easily. Who claims to see a clear path leading into anyone's future whom they come across in a crystal ball. I don't believe in visions where images appear in your head, projecting what's to come.

    But I think I believe that feelings, instincts, and intuition hold so much more power then flashing images of an imminent future.

    This wasn't the first time it's happened, but it's the first time I felt like I couldn't excuse it as coincidence. In the past I've defined it as coincidences because the layers behind where a feeling came from are often blurred and indecipherable . I decided it was better to dismiss it as something it wasn't then dig deeper into what I felt.

    I smoke weed sometimes, and it's my day off. I rarely get those. I take a few, long drags from the tiny bong my roommate lets me use. Smoke crowds my throat too fast and I release it in painful coughs. Slightly gasping for air. I set the bong back down on the little table I sit by next to our front door, covered by the over hang, slightly tucked out of sight in the open area between the solid walls of the garage and my bedroom. I stare into space a bit.

    I don't feel uneasy necessary. I'm too tense from work all the time, I can't help but feel a pool of relaxation, catching a buzz on a day I can finally relax.

    After awhile I mindlessly get up and open the front door when my brain pauses. My feet don't move. I look back at the bong with the sudden urge to grab it, but my mind is tired and lazy.

    The words leave my mouth even though there is no one around, "It's not like the sherif will be knocking on my door."

    The table with the bong is shielded from any onlookers anyway, they would have to walk straight up to the door to see it. In fact, I leave it sitting out here all the time. I don't know why I'm justifying this all in my mind, but I erase my thoughts and finally go through the front glass door.

    We often leave just the glass door closed so my dog Bowser can watch outside. He's lying at the foot of the glass door like the good guard he is, sitting up and making room for me to pass by as I enter. I rub his head, his innocent eyes looking up at mine lovingly. They close slightly in satisfaction as I massage the spot behind his black, floppy ears.

    He may be a seventy pound pit bull built by pure muscle, but he wouldn't harm a fly on purpose. He's killed a couple geckos on accident, just trying to play with them. He doesn't realize his strength and size.

    I'm pretty sure he still thinks he's the same 8 week old puppy I brought home one day, napping for hours on my chest while I read. He still does that sometimes; tries to crawl up my chest till his whole body weight is crushing mine.

    I am swept by an overwhelming feeling of adoration when I look at those chestnut oval eyes. I raised him to be like this. Loving and affectionate. Although I believe most dogs are like that by nature I take pride in his gentle love for humans and other dogs, and fascination by the world around him.

    I walk through the hallway, checking to see if Bowser is following me before I enter my room. He looks up at me with his tail wagging, but stays posted at the door.

    Dogs are intuitive by nature just as humans.

    I slide under my covers, my mind feeling like it's buzzing from the bowl I just smoked. My heart rate picks up a bit and I have to take slow deep breaths to calm it down. Sometimes that happens when I smoke weed, and sometimes it's the opposite.