Blood Tangent | Sarai Nissan
It’s the winter of last year. Actually, wait, let me double check that….Facebook says December, thank god for the internet. And Broadway is dark and glowing with lines of street lights.
I walk down the alley past the Torchy’s that used to be a Arby’s that closed down because someone was murdered there or something like that. The area is brimming with nightclubs, taquerias, and pawn shops. Concealed among these alcoholic hot spots is Milk Bar, who have recently implemented a suspiciously inventive fortune teller who will ordain my future, present, and past in a dark room in an even darker club.
I walk into the room with my horde of black shrouded friends, (predictable I know,) sipping on my vodka soda, Depeche Mode is probably playing in the background. The woman, wearing jangly bracelets and a kind of renaissance festival dress starts telling my friends all the things about themselves that are either eerily accurate or so vague it could apply to my cat. They listen intently as I skeptically sip my drink and absentmindedly stare at my iPhone.
It’s not that I don’t believe in this type of stuff. I really do. There are just those types of people who think they are so clever. Trust No One, that’s my motto; I’ll have it tattooed on me by the end of the month, I can promise you that.
She finally stops talking and says, “Yes, I do take credit cards.”
I hand the reader five dollars and ask her when I’m going to die. Or maybe I just think that. And I’ve decided I’ve been to too many tarot card readers. I get no particular answer to a question I never asked. My fortune is almost always my destruction; I never remember my past. I don’t remember what the psychic said to me, but I know it was in a goth club in a dimly lit room. I was awash in blood red light and I was three drinks in already. Did she say something about my creativity, or maybe my instability? She talked softly and confidently, speaking half truths and half lies. Finally, I stopped listening.