I was nine when it first happened.
I dreamt I was on a boat, and we started to sink. I felt the cold water around me, and how tired my body was from treading water. I felt myself sink beneath the surface and the water fill my lungs.
I thought it was only a nightmare.
The next day my mom broke the news that the boat my aunt was on had sunk, and she had passed away.
At thirteen, I dreamt I was in a crib, face down in the pillow and gasping for air, too young to have the strength to move.
The next day, I was told my sister had lost her baby that night.
At fifteen, I dreamt that I was driving along a dark road when a speeding car plowed into me. I felt my bones break, the metal digging into my skin, the wooziness from the loss of blood.
The next day, I heard that my grandpa had been hit by a drunk driver and died.
I knew the pattern by now, that when I dreamt of death it would come true.
Last night I dreamt I was my best friend, Matt, alone in his room. The shadow in the corner came to life, darker than darkness, moving towards him.
I felt the fear, I felt its cold touch on my chest, where it broke through the skin and crushed my heart in its grip.
When the police informed me of his death, I broke down.
If all my dreams were real, then what the hell was that?