By: Bruce Levine

She walked blindly into the room as if she’d been there before, but she knew that she hadn’t. And yet there was a faint memory of an aroma that seemed to hover somewhere in the atmosphere and tweak at a recess of her brain. Could she have been there before? Something told her no and something told her yes. She wasn’t even sure why she was getting this sense of – what? Foreboding?

It was supposed to be a wonderful evening; a gala event that she’d looked forward to, had waited impatiently for and now that it was happening and she was there, and it was happening something seemed to be pushing her to run. Why?

This is what she’d wanted; this is what she’d worked for – or so she always thought.

Hadn’t she always believed that she’d catch the brass ring? Or was it simply the indoctrination to strive for it that began when she was two years old and her parents had begun repeating that, one day, she’d achieve the true greatness that was her destiny.

How did they know, she wondered over the years as the phrase kept getting repeated until it was burned into her brain, that she actually was destined for greatness? They certainly hadn’t achieved it and no one in her ancestry had. Why her? What had they, or everyone else who said basically the same thing, seen or sensed that gave them any indication of greatness?

True, she had begun showing signs at what was considered an extraordinarily early age, but that simply could have meant that she was preconscious.

Tonight, though, she wondered again as she took off her coat and found her seat at the table assigned to her. Even that seemed odd, like she’d done it all before. Taking her place and yet she knew that she hadn’t.

Was this a dream? Was it a case of déjà vu? Did that really even exist? She’d always been so pragmatic, so definite about things. The one thing her parents were right about was that she knew exactly what she wanted and who she wanted to be at a very young age. While the other kids were riding bikes and playing games she only participated, never being fully engaged in any of it. It was almost as if those activities were age-appropriate moments to be gotten through until she could move on to what was really what she wanted to be doing. But, on the other hand, she hadn’t known then what she wanted to be doing; that only seemed to become clear as it evolved. A fantasy turned reality.

What was it? Had it all been a fantasy? And if so, when had it begun? Did she dream of this all happening and then work toward making it happen?

The event was beginning. Words were being spoken. She could hear them, but they seemed, somehow, in the distance; like a vision seen through a gauze filter on a camera lens. Words reciting her chronology as she moved forward along her path toward tonight. Words of praise. Words and more words. Meaningful and meaningless words, like the words spoken by her parents reciting that she was destined for greatness. Over and over and over. And, tonight, there they were again only, now, they were being spoken by a group, each speaker taking their turn and repeating the same words, finding synonyms, but saying words and phrases she’d heard all of her life.

Suddenly the words stopped, and she was being beckoned to step forward to accept the plaudits of her peers. A hand was held out to her to help her up and lead her.

Was this the destiny her parents had spoken of? Was this, in the end, greatness? To obtain recognition?

If that was what it was then they had been right. She had achieved greatness. She had fulfilled her destiny. Now all she had to do was walk a short distance and it would be showered upon her like confetti thrown out of windows as the parade passed by through the canyon of champions at a triumphal event.

She stood but didn’t move in any direction. Standing seemed to refocus her vision and, as she looked around, she saw, in her mind’s eye, the people who had so often repeated the never-ending phrases, the prognostication of success, the brass ring that seemed so elusive and yet was always there, slightly out of reach, but getting closer and closer each time the merry-go-round made another rotation.

She continued standing in place. Now she looked at her hand, as if she were seeing the brass ring in her palm.

Yes, she thought. This is it. This is the moment of glory and, yes, I was destined to achieve greatness. Somehow it was known. Somehow, like a neon sign hanging over my crib, it had been proclaimed to the world that, one day not only would I achieve that greatness, but I would leave a legacy of the effects of that greatness. There were her predecessors and there would be others, but she knew that she had a place in that list.

Tonight, though, was her night. And whether it really was her destiny or simply the result of the sheer hard work that had gotten her here didn’t seem to matter. All that mattered was that she was here.

Gradually the images that had been surrounding her since she’d walked into the room cleared and she saw, for the first time that night, everyone’s faces. They were all familiar faces; faces she’d known all of her life. And yet it was as if she were seeing them for the first time.

What was happening, she wondered? Why was the sense of confusion starting all over again, only in a new form? Why had she gone from feeling the need to run to this new sense of unreality?

Had she been drugged and was living a hallucination? Of course not. This wasn’t a movie. There was no evil character waiting to usurp her success because of envy.

She continued standing in place. Why, she now wondered, did no one seem to notice that she was still simply standing in place? Why didn’t anyone think that that was odd and come to walk her forward? Why did it all seem to be a surreal manifestation of reality rather than reality itself? Like an Edvard Munch painting.

Once again, a mask seemed to be covering her face and a veil thrown over her body. The faint memory of an aroma that she had felt when she’d walked into the room returned. It was like something, or someone was tweaking at her brain again, playing with the synapses and redirecting them in ways that suited some unknown purpose.

Had her foreboding been correct? Was this the culmination of something beyond her control? Was this the end of… What?

It looked like a Brancusi sculpture. The polished aluminum reflected off the glass shelf. She stared at it as she had repeatedly for the past two weeks since receiving it. Once again, she wondered if this was the manifestation of her destiny or simply an award. Was life playing another trick on her or was this the brass ring that she’d always believed was hers?

Time had taken her on such a circuitous path but, somehow, she’d known that she was on the right path, the path prescribed and predicted as her destiny.

Now it seemed that fate had intervened once again and given her the recognition that, along the way, had eluded her. Now she could look at and touch something physical that said to the world – you’ve made it. You’ve grasped the brass ring and held it in your hand and it’s yours forever.

Suddenly she had that same sense of déjà vu that she’d felt the night she’d received the award. There was even that same, faint memory of an aroma that seemed to hover somewhere in the atmosphere, permeating the room. Of course she knew that was impossible. This was her home. She lived here and nothing had changed. And yet there was that same nagging sense in the recesses of her brain, that foreboding – again.

The first explosion struck at noon sending a blast of fire fifty feet into the air. Four more blasts followed in rapid succession, each one shooting skyward as a ball of fire consumed the house and sent sparks in all directions, igniting the surrounding homes. The air was suddenly filled with the smell of acetone as the inferno spread in the hot, dry wind of the recent drought.

Fire trucks were everywhere, and firemen raced to gather gear to keep from inhaling the fumes.

Crowds of neighbors and news media formed. Police and more fire trucks arrived as everyone watched as each house crumbled into a pile of rubble. What had been an affluent block of homes were now simply charred remains.

It took three days before it was certain that all the fires were completely out and that it was safe to inspect and look for any bodies since it was assumed that no one could have survived the holocaust, not that it was usual for residents to be at home at the time of the explosions.

Gradually each house received the careful tour of the devastation, workers carefully prying up timbers in the hope against hope that, if anyone had been there, they might still be alive, but, more likely, their bodies could be recovered – rescue efforts had been abandoned almost before they started and were replaced by a recovery rather than rescue mentality from the beginning.

Teams had spread out, however, and each house received a thorough inspection.

The sudden shout from the third team caught everyone’s attention. Now the focus was on a pile of rubble that seemed to be oddly shaped, almost like a pyramid. As quickly as possible the blackened timbers were carefully removed so that none would cause others to cause an avalanche of debris.

Now there seemed to be a sense of something among the rescue workers, something that none of them, even thinking back on it later, could ascertain, but it hovered in the atmosphere as if it were the scent of perfume left behind in an elevator long after the occupant had departed.

One piece of wood at a time was lifted in what felt like a never-ending stream; each piece handed to the next rescue worker to be placed away from the scene.

Gradually the ground became visible and then a woman.

They moved more quickly in the hope that she might, miraculously, still be alive.

As the timbers were removed and the ground became visible it also became clear why the pile of rubble had looked like a pyramid, the entire center was being held up by a polished aluminum statue, about two feet tall and still shiny as if brand new. A woman was holding it in the way recipients hold up their award in victory or simply acceptance. It was also clear that, while unconscious, she was still alive.

The sense of foreboding was gone. The aroma that had seemed to linger in the air around her was gradually decreasing as she realized it was part of the aftermath of her memory. And the sense of déjà vu was also gone, replaced by a sensation of presentiment.

Then again, she wondered, was it presentiment at all or simply a coincidence?

It didn’t matter.

In the end, perhaps, it was her parents’ presentiment of her destiny. Or was it the brass ring that had saved her life?