A young girl came out of my pupil and told me when I was going to die. I didn’t believe her. How would she know? She made me look down at the ground at a mountain of ants. They formed a number. The number was eighty-nine. I was to live until I was eighty-nine. I stomped on all the ants. The blood stained concrete kept my number and I ran off as my heart pounded out of my chest…I caught my heart before it hit the ground and in my hand was a pack of….
This young girl, not sure how old she was, not sure where she went. Not sure. When I turned eighty-nine, I died. I died alone…and was carried off by eighty-nine ants. Eighty-nine ants…eighty-nine ants.
My whole life I waited to see if this young girl was right. If this young girl knew when I would die. My whole life. I waited. She knew. The age of my death, she knew. But why? Why did I kill those eighty-nine ants?