I See...

• Juliette Mililli, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2008

“I see… wealth. And prosperity. You will prosper.”
She stands.
“That is all for today. I need to rest.”
The man nods enigmatically. Of course.
“See yourself out. I will contact you when I see something.”
Of course.
Alone now, she sighs, pulls her hair out of the turban and changes from the loose fold robe into a pair of jeans. She doesn’t particularly like the turban, but it is necessary to distract the patron from your eyes, examining them for information – a crease on their forehead: they are worried – or your hands as you search delicately through their possessions. And the men won’t even look at your face if you wear the dress in the right way…
On a business card on the bench, her name is printed in a decorative font, beside the words ‘psychic extraordinaire’. Every time she sees them she has to laugh. If you stretch the definition, she fits it. Psychic means observant, extraordinaire means not as stupid as the patron. Five years she has been doing this, and no one has ever doubted her. Not once in all that time, since she was seventeen years old and ran away from home with nothing but a few changes of socks and her wallet. And it had been empty.
And for all her ‘supernatural wisdom’, she still has trouble understanding herself. Other people, yes. They want to be told they’ll be happy and rich and loved, and after that it doesn’t matter how much you charge them. But herself… She wasn’t sure. She could stay in this job, but only until her looks faded, and then she wouldn’t be able to maneuver the menfolk so much.
Five years. She can remember every single lie she has told. The standouts are the ones when she had to pretend to vanquish a ghost. There was the spirit of Denver, that boy who’d drowned in the Hill family’s pool. He’d been fun – she’d told them how he would suck the life out of them while they slept. Or there had been the ghost of St Catherine’s Chapel, who’d drained the blood out of devout believers via their mouths. Or the musical ghost of the public school.
She is a con artist, but it is really an honest trade. She relieves people of their fears, points out for them what they cannot see, guesses at their future. Really, she isn’t telling any lies. If she is, she doesn’t know it. She’s a good person, she should go to Heaven when she dies… shouldn’t she?
Doubts, doubts, doubts.
Coffee. She needs a coffee. And as the kettle boils, she thinks she can hear the distant sound of… a flute? That was what she’d claimed the schoolghost had played. No, it’s just her imagination. Shakily, she pours the coffee, and swears she can see eyes in the reflection. No, it’s just…
And a faint voice. Sounds kind of… watery.
I can see your future, prophet. But it doesn’t look too good.