when I was 2 or 3 I was talking to my grandmother and told her that my mom and dad weren’t my real mom and dad. My grandmother, knowing this wasn’t true, said they were. I calmly explained that no, my real mom and dad were killed when the bad men came. I had lived because my mom hid me behind a rock. I then went on to describe white men with guns and us “dark” people with long hair. When I was done, I went back to eating my ice cream.
My cousin, approximately 3 years old and riding in the car with my mum and dad, pointed out a random house that they went past and declared “I died there”.
I did something sort of similar I guess. When I was about 3 my mum and I were driving over a bridge on which there’d recently been a major accident that resulted in a car bursting into flames and the driver dying.
Anyway, I asked my mum who the man in the front seat was and when she told me to describe him I said, “Well he’s on fire and he keeps looking back at me.”