A Dream of Destiny -- Part Three

According to the files, none of the city's unsolved murders resembled the dream, or so the doctor said. George suspected it was a lie rendered to reassure him, to lead him into a prolonged analysis that would cost thousands of dollars. He contemplated suicide, but feared his destiny, if not fulfilled presently, would follow to his ensuing lifetime. He trembled at the thought that an individual's destiny might be the same in each of his existences, that there was no escaping it. Of all things! He lamented inwardly, thinking only a rapist had a worse fate. He wondered if murdering a dark-haired lady, whom no one would miss, would end the nightmare. He sensed that destiny would not be so easily appeased, that he would have to kill again, and he had no desire to kill more than once.
Despite therapy, the dream occurred more frequently. It now came upon him as soon as he was asleep. His nerves were frayed. He stopped seeing the doctor, who called several times, urging him to return. His appearance suffered. His hair grew longer than it'd been during his college years in the early '70's. His beard grew in shaggily. He neglected to bathe. He kept to himself at school and exploded several times in the classroom. His students cowered before him.
"I want to see you after class!" he snapped at a dark-haired beauty one day.
"But I didn't do anything," she whined.
When finally they were alone, he simply stared at her, at a loss for words. Her lovely dark eyes, filled with fear, had mollified him.
"I'm sorry," he said softly, bowing his head. "I haven't been myself lately. I have insomnia. You're dismissed."
She hurried away. He was disappointed she hadn't tried to communicate with him, yet relieved he hadn't done anything he would have regretted. She has her whole life ahead of her, he told himself, alarmed at the violent scenario his mind had conjured. Soon, upon reflection, the incident seemed a precursor, having transpired exactly as it'd been destined, as it'd occurred in the past.
Unable to face the confinement of the apartment, he went to the school library and immersed himself in Poe. The approach of darkness no longer frightened him. In fact, he welcomed it.
As he was making his way through the parking lot, a familiar voice greeted him. Kristen Coten was beside her car, whose hood was open.
"Destiny calls," he whispered to himself as he approached her.
"By any chance," she said, "would you happen to have jumper cables?"
As long as you don't come near me, he thought, inwardly appalled at the thought of forcing her into his trunk. "God, it's cold," he said, explaining his shudder. To his relief, she remained under the hood as he got the cables.
Despite the boost, the car would not start.
"Now what do I do?" she said, glancing at her watch. "I have class in half an hour. I can't wait for service."
"Where?"
"Brooklyn College. I'm a few credits short of my Master's."
"My alma mater. I'll give you a lift. It's on my way."
He was not surprised at the ease with which he'd lied. The school, which was not his alma mater, was well out of his way. She had accepted without hesitation, despite his reticence and appearance, as if she'd expected it. Such beauty always had its way. And hadn't this occurred before? Wasn't it all according to script? She deserves it, he told himself; just don't look at her eyes.
He stopped at a gas station. "I'll only be a minute. I'm thirsty. Can I get you anything?"
She declined. He returned with a large bottle of Pepsi. "I need my caffeine," he said, self-consciously. He scoffed at himself inwardly, as it would make no difference what she thought of him. He calmly sipped at his drink as she described her courses, how much she hated them. He finished the last of it in a single chug and bided his time, waiting for the right moment.