Elena never did care for her overactive imagination.

Sometimes she dreamed of alternate versions of places and times, of what would have happened had she turned left instead of right, continued instead of turned back.

Sometimes she walked down the streets of her neighborhood late at night. Before long, she could no longer walk, gasping to catch her breath in the cool winter air. She saw things. Sometimes, her boyfriend’s car smacked into an oncoming semi at ninety miles per hour. Another, her father doubled over with one arm in pain and the other grasping desperately for his chest.

None of them were real, at least not here, not now, but she still never told anyone.

They’d just call her crazy or nuts or paranoid or psychotic. Lock her up and throw away the key.

Sometimes she wondered if they were real, vaguely aware insanity must run through her blood.

Sometimes she knew they were real.