Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

"Petrovich, hurry your ass up!" The yell came from further up the street. "If you make me miss my game--"

"Keep your pants on!" Petrovich bellowed in response before digging into his pockets for his cigarettes. Shaking the pack, he pulled out two for the trip home and handed the four left in the cellophane to Zella.

"Thanks, old lady. Now get inside. It's curfew."

"I do what I can. Take care of yourself, eh Nicky?"

Groaning, he rolled his eyes. "Don't call me Nicky." The old woman cackled as he jogged to catch up with his team members.

Nickolas Petrovich didn't think much of the old woman's words during the walk home or during dinner featuring his wife's mystery meat pot roast -- what he wouldn't give for a thick steak. Nor did it faze him as he locked up his handgun for the night.

"What are you chewing on?" His wife asked, agitated as the bed shook for the sixth time in just as many minutes.

Petrovich rolled onto his side again. "Just something Zella said."

"That crazy old woman? What did she tell you?"

"She's not that crazy, Aly." He shrugged. "She was worried." He lied. He hated lying to his wife, but lying about Zella's prophesy felt worse. There was no way he could tell Aly the truth; he was going to kill someone before the week was over.

"Tell the chief," was his wife's simple solution.

Petrovich fell into a dreamless sleep woken only once by Aly's elbow in his ribs. "You're snoring," she stated groggily. Flopping over onto his belly, he drifted off again, and awoke at early dawn with the second loud chirp of his alarm clock.

***

Tuesday passed without incident and Wednesday was blissfully quiet until he arrived home. Aly, perched on an old step stool, was rummaging through a closet. Petrovich took a step forward to help but suddenly stopped. If he startled her, it wouldn't be good; he could see the events unfolding before his eyes. A surprised sigh, a tilt of the stool legs, a loss of balance, and his wife would be pitched backwards into the dividing wall. But if he didn't help, the box she was reaching for was liable to do the same. If he shuffled his feet or wrenched his utility belt, the creak of the leather would slowly alert her to his presence.

"Getting a good show, or are you going to help?" She glanced over her shoulder as he lifted a foot to step backward and gripped the buckle of his belt to yank.

Shaking himself from his delusions, Petrovich sighed in relief. Smirking, he moved towards his wife and placed his foot on the bottom rung of the stool, bringing his hands to her hips. "How's this?"

"You're useless." Aly laughed and strategically dropped an empty box on his head.

***

"Yeah, but who, Zella?" Petrovich buried his face in his hand for a moment before it pulled away to form a fist of frustration. "I'm going nuts here, thinking the next time I turn around I'm going to blow some poor bastard away. Or worse -- I won't be able to get there in enough time to help."

The old woman took a deep drag on her cigarette, cradling her elbow with her other hand as she propped up her chin. "You know as well as I do the stones don't show everything, yes?"

Leaning back in a chair that creaked in protest, Petrovich sighed and looked up at the yellowed ceiling. The room smelled like a fermented mix of tobacco and incense, the smoke so thick it cast the light in cloudy beams. Slumping, he rested his head on the high backrest, and added to the haze, lighting up a cigarette of his own