I hear the screaming first. It's the kind of scream that sounds like it's coming from a wild animal being mercilessly slaughtered. It's not human. It can't be. I don't want it to be.

But it is. And, it's female. Her savage cries for help will go unanswered. There's no one to hear her. No one to save her. Not from this beast. A thing that kills without remorse. Without regret. A creature without a soul.

I want to help her. But the only way to do that...is to remember. Remember everything. Every little detail I recall later will be another piece to the puzzle.

But why does it have to be me? What did I ever do to suffer these visions of the soon to be dead? Every prayer I have lifted to the heavens has been to forget. Yet no one is listening. I wasn't given a choice. I was given a burden. And it's one that will probably kill me some day.

My senses are bombarded from within. Bright flashes that bite into the back of my skull and gnaw on my mind. A mind that is not my own when these glimpses happen.

What he does, I do. What he fears, I fear. What he loves, I love. And, he has a love for...

Blood.

So much blood.

I can smell the coppery scent as it hangs in the air. Taste the metallic tang on my tongue as I lick my lips. Feel the cooling warmth as I rub it between my fingertips.

And I want...MORE.

Zayne Matthews bolted upright in his bed. Screams that were hers were now his own. His body was drenched from the sweat of his paralyzing nightmare. Oxygen became the most precious thing to him as he gasped for air in his one-bedroom apartment. He swallowed the sob that tried to wrench itself free from his throat.

His phone vibrated softly against the wooden nightstand and was about to fall off the chipped edge when he grabbed it.

"Yeah," he said, his voice filled with gravel. The person on the other end of the call kept it short and sweet which he was grateful for.

"Fine. Half hour."

He ended the call with a forceful tap.

Zayne sat there alone in the welcomed darkness, the hum of the central air unit his only company. But, that's how he liked it. It was how he needed his life to be. Especially when he had nights like this one.

Throwing the sheets off his naked body, he gathered some clean clothes from his dresser and walked into his large bathroom. The sun had not yet risen but he knew there would be no more sleep for him today. He turned on the water in the shower and waited for the steam to consume the room.

A small night light bulb was the only light he afforded himself. The headache he knew would come after such a vivid dream was already brewing behind his eyes. He filled the small cup by the faucet with water and downed four ibuprofen tablets.

He stared at the face looking back at him in the mirror above the pedestal sink. A long, tired sigh came from it. Running his hand through his longer than usual dark hair, he gazed into his own eyes and began to wonder if it was all worth it. This wasn't the first night he questioned whether or not life was worth living and it wouldn't be the last.

The nightmares were getting worse. HE was getting worse. No one had to tell him he was not the same person who had graduated from the Center for the Gifted ten years ago. He could see it himself in the darkening shadows on his haggard face.

Gradually, the image in the mirror fogged over and he made his way to the shower. Before stepping in, however, he turned the handle from the red H to the blue C and waited a few seconds. Then, without hesitation, he stepped into the shower and stood tiredly under the now freezing water.

He hung his head, palms flat against the pale blue tile wall, and let the droplets rain down on his feverish skin. He had splurged on having dual shower heads installed two years ago but this morning, all he needed was one.

Droplets of ice rained down onto his back and shoulders. Raising his head slightly, Zayne moved it side to side to wet his thick black hair. The frigid water made its way down his face as he tried to free himself from the clutches of his downward spiraling mind. With pointed claws of madness, the images from his dream scratched away at his sanity. Even flashes from some of his past nightmares taunted him, unwilling to be ignored any longer.

He stood under the sting of the shower trying to forget. He needed to forget if he was going to function like a normal human being today. It had never worked before but there was always a first time. Right?

Unfortunately, he quickly realized that today, he would still be waiting for that first time.

Finished showering, Zayne walked lethargically out to his kitchen which opened into the living room. Looking around at the mess he called home, he shook his head defeatedly. He used to be an extremely neat and organized man who took pride in his attention to detail. Now, he didn't even have the energy to pick up the fast food containers left over from the previous day's meals.

He grabbed a granola bar from the cupboard and a bottle of water from the fridge before heading out the front door.

Glancing at the watch on his left wrist, he cursed himself for staying in the shower too long. Work for him was whenever the Baltimore police needed him. And today that was at 5am. It was now 4:50am and the drive to the crime scene would take him at least twenty minutes.

Fortunately, traffic was non-existent this time on a Friday. The same could not be said about the construction blocking the road. Zayne tried to keep his temper in check but the lack of good sleep last night was already taking its toll.

Oh, who the hell was he kidding? He hadn't slept well in months. Meditation, yoga, relaxing sleep music, and sleeping pills all failed. He had even resorted to wearing concealer under his tired eyes just so people would not feel the need to point out the obvious to him.

"What the fuck is taking so long?!" he shouted, pounding his fists against the steering wheel.

A tug.

A pull.

Shit!!

It was coming. Again.

Zayne inhaled sharply and gripped the wheel, his long fingers wrapping around the worn leather. He knew he would have imprints of stitching ingrained into his hands afterwards but there was nothing he could do about it now.

A vision was coming. And there was no way to stop it. His heart pounded. There was a buzz in his ears and the world around him twisted sickeningly.

And then, nothing.

The clickety clack of train wheels on tracks.

The erratic flashing of a broken neon sign in the distance.

The smell of a creek.

The warm, slick feel of blood between his fingers.

I knew you'd come back. You always do.

The man's voice he had heard for the past six months was raspier than before. Had he been yelling? Was he ill?

Why so curious? Do you like to watch?

NO!

Are you sure? We've been doing this dance for a while now. You say you don't want to watch and yet here you are. Again. Our connection is getting stronger. Can't you feel it?

NO!

You can deny it all you want. But I know. You'll be begging me to help you soon enough.

The loud honking of a car horn shattered the vision and Zayne's control. He opened his door and vomited right there in the left turn lane. The driver behind him spat curses as he aggressively drove around the obstacle in front of him but Zayne didn't hear him. He was too busy trying not to pass out. His world was slowly closing in on him. He knew he only had seconds before strangers would be picking up his limp body off the cold dark macadam.

He pulled himself back into his car and reclined the front seat all the way back. Raising his legs as high as he could considering he was a six-foot tall man in a Honda Civic, he began his relaxation technique. His eyes closed and he hummed lightly between his pressed lips when he exhaled, regulating his breathing to the ticks of his blinking turn signal.

Thankfully, this time it only took him two minutes to recover instead of the five it normally did. Waving an apologetic hand to the people swearing at him, he sat up, put his car in drive, and drove obnoxiously slow to the address he had been texted earlier. It was only three miles down the road but it felt like it was the longest three miles he had ever driven.

When he couldn't find an empty space in the small apartment complex lot, Zayne was forced to park in the street two blocks away. Before leaving the safety of his car, he took one final deep breath, opened the water bottle lying in the passenger seat and rinsed his mouth out. He could still feel the burn in the back of his throat but at least the taste was minimal now.

"What else can go wrong today?" he murmured to himself. He looked up to the black sky above him and said, "If there's anyone up there listening, I could really use a break today. Maybe give me a good sign instead of a bad one? Let me save one for once. Please?"

With that hopeful prayer in his heart, Zayne put on his best smile and strode into the building filled with people who depended on his talent to make the world a safer place.

****************************************

Zayne showed the officer standing outside apartment door 215 his ID badge and was quickly led inside. There were two other officers also in the apartment dusting for fingerprints and cataloging evidence. He tried to stay out of their way as he walked towards the kitchen but, as always, he felt like he didn't belong there.

"Zayne. Over here," a middle-aged man called out.

With a pressed smile and nod of his head, Zayne walked into the small kitchen where a young woman still wearing her skimpy club dress sat red-eyed, holding onto a stuffed bear that looked decades old.

"Miss Stanton, please," Detective Porter said softly. "We understand what has happened is extremely traumatic but we need you to describe the man you saw your friend leave the club with to our sketch artist. It's best if we do this now before details are forgotten. While it's still fresh in your mind. It might save her life."

Zayne admired Detective Porter. He looked rough and unforgiving on the outside but he certainly knew how to talk to people. The young woman looked up at Zayne with big blue eyes rimmed with red. Her once on point mascara and eyeliner were now a smeared black mess around each eye.

He tried to be hopeful but to date, none of his sketches had saved anyone. Nor had any of his visions.

"It's alright," Zayne said softly, crouching in front of the distraught woman. "You just have to answer some very easy questions. I'll keep it simple. And you can take all the time you need."

Miss Stanton nodded with a tremble. Her blue eyes never left Zayne's gray ones. He got that a lot. Most people expected him to have dark brown ones considering he was of Chinese descent. So, when they saw his eyes that had the appearance of faded steel, they often stared.

Detective Porter pulled a chair over for his sketch artist to sit in and left the kitchen area to give them more privacy. Zayne pulled out his sketch pad and pencils and flipped open the cover.

He looked at the traumatized young woman and asked calmly, "Ready?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Okay. We're going to start with some basic questions. If I need to, I'll ask you for more details. But, if you think of anything on your own, at any time, please just tell me. No matter how common you might think it is, it could still be something important. Understand?"

She nodded again but this time it was more relaxed. Zayne's voice remained gentle yet strong. It helped to keep the victims calm during his questioning but also showed them that he was someone who could be trusted.

"Okay, first question. What color was his hair?" Zayne asked slowly in an encouraging tone.

"Light brown, I think? I don't know for sure. The lights in the club were really dim," she answered uncertainly.

"That's fine. Don't worry about it. I need you to be honest with me so you're doing very well."

The young woman relaxed a little more in her seat, her hands sliding off the stuffed toy held in her shaking hands.

"Now, was it short or long?" Zayne asked.

"Short."

"Excellent."

"Was he white, black, Asian?"

"Umm, I think white?"

"Good."

Zayne knew he had to keep her calm, her mind clear and focused on this one memory. His pencil etched lines onto the paper as his own mind began piecing together her answers, transforming her words into a face. His fingertips rubbed the graphite, shading and softening it with precision. With every answer, his drawing of a possible killer began to take shape.

"Do you know what color his eyes were?"

The young woman suddenly hugged the stuffed bear tighter. "I never saw his eyes. I'm so sorry! I didn't get a very good look at him. Why can't I remember what he looked like?"

"It's okay, Miss Stanton. You're doing the best you can. Anything you can remember is helpful."

"But if I could remember, you could..."

"No. Don't think like that. You can't blame yourself for what happened. None of this was your fault. There's nothing you could have done to stop it. All we can do now is work together to bring her home."

He asked her a few more questions and then the two of them sat in silence. Zayne continued to drag his pencil over the paper in short strokes. When he finished, he held up the portrait to the young woman.

"Does this look anything like the man your roommate met at the nightclub?"

Miss Stanton gazed in awe at the drawing. Her eyes darted over every part of the sketch, searching for an answer.

"I don't know. Maybe? The hair seems right. I just didn't see his face clearly enough to say for sure. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"It's alright," Zayne murmured in a strained tone.

Detective Porter and a young female officer knocked on the kitchen doorway before entering cautiously. The officer went over to Miss Stanton and escorted the distraught woman out of the room. Once they were out, Porter motioned for everyone in the apartment to leave.

The detective noticed the glazed look on Zayne's paling face and realized what was coming. He had seen this happen a few times to the younger man during their time together and the seasoned veteran knew the signs of a vision.

After removing the pad and pencil from Zayne's trembling hands, the detective went to the sink and wet a hand towel with cold water. Without asking, he placed it on the back of Zayne's exposed neck. The sketch artist didn't flinch. His eyes were glassy and stared into nothingness. His breathing rate increased and became more staggered.

Detective Porter stood in front of Zayne and placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it firmly to let the younger man know he was still there. He leaned his face downward trying to gauge the psychic's mental state.

"Zayne," he said warmly.

He had only met Zayne when the sketch artist agreed to help the police. However, Porter had instantly grown to think of him not only as a colleague, but also as a son.

When Zayne didn't answer, the detective gripped his shoulder tighter and lightly shook the unblinking man.

"Zayne Matthews. That's enough."

With a harsh gasp, Zayne snapped out of his reverie. He panted like an exhausted runner, his hands flying to his head. Tiny whimpers, like those of a frightened child, passed through his trembling lips.

"Take a breath, son," Detective Porter said. "It's over."

Zayne shook his head. "It's not. Damn him to hell!"

His eyes were now closed, his head hung low, cradled in his hands. A wave of nausea washed over him but he was able to force it back down. He was sick once today, he wasn't going to do it again.

"Are you alright?" Detective Porter asked.

Zayne nodded weakly.

"I hate to ask but...what did you see? Who did you see? Could you see his face this time?" Porter inquired desperately.

Zayne looked up at the detective's worn face and shook his head slowly. Most victims vanished without a trace until their bodies turned up a few days later. This was only the second time since the killings began that there was a witness. However, neither one had seen the killer clearly. Zayne was trying to construct a face from puzzle pieces that didn't seem to fit. And it was wearing down his patience.

They were all tired. All frustrated. This had to end. This was the ninth victim in ten months and they still had no solid leads in the case. The police weren't even sure it was the same person committing the murders. There was no commonality between victims or the way they were killed.

"Can you tell me anything?" Porter murmured.

Zayne clenched his jaw. "He's already hunting for the next one."

"I don't want to be alone, I want to be left alone."
― Audrey Hepburn