Sunday Scribblings: Vision

The Queen has surmised that it is difficult for me to write great fiction when happy; that my angst over the past few months (years?) made for a wicked muse.
She could be right.
I’m in a really happy place. One where I haven’t had much time to sit and write. As things settle down, that should change.
I formed the following on the road and was going to flesh it out Saturday night. But I got invited out to a home-cooked meal. Three of the five items on the menu had bacon as a component. And pie and coffee for dessert.
I know, huh? Where’s the angst in that?

Anyway, the prompt over at Sunday Scribblings is vision.

Seer
“Beam and Coke in a large glass, easy on the ice, heavy hand on the pour – no straw.”
And she absentmindedly makes his drink in a highball, filled with ice, light on the Beam.
She puts it on the square of napkin, slides in a pink straw - with a wink.
“Tia, Christ, did you not hear what I said?”
“I did, but that’s your sixth and I’m close to cutting you off.”
She retreats to the opposite end of the bar, argument over.
He covers his right eye with a calloused palm and lets the vision unfold.
He sees the new fry cook, the one that that fatass Hester hired on the spot, without a background check, take Tia to the grease trap. He rapes her, viciously, leaves her for dead. Floats on to his next destination, his next victim.
He sighs.
The Beam usually dulls the “gift.” His nightmare.
He could warn her, she could walk out with him – or anyone else in the place – and it wouldn’t make a difference.
What he sees happens. It always happens. Fate? There is no changing the future.
This he knows as fact. The hard truth.
From the very first time.
When he saw his wife and baby boy drive off to the play date.
He watched the crash.
The fire.