The Psychic Next Door

[First Draft] Chapter 2: Crushed

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I awoke suddenly with a sentence halfway out of my mouth. In my dream I had been having a conversation; I could've sworn someone was beside me, whispering questions, demanding answers in my ear as I lay face down on the couch. As I was about respond, annoyed that they were interrupting a rather excellent sleep, consciousness kicked in—I had barely uttered a word, but it was enough to jolt me awake. Then I realized I was alone in my dark living room and that anyone who had been talking to me had been only in my dream.

I sat up suddenly, and the darkness was disorienting. What had intended to be an innocent cat nap had ended up spanning enough hours that Autumn sun had set and night had fallen. I had been asleep for at least four hours, and I could feel the lines embedded in my cheek from where it had smushed against the cushions of my new couch. My shoulder length hair was matted to one side of my head and I smacked my lips, trying to rid my mouth of that awful dry, cottony sensation. I hated accidental coma-naps.

My stomach rumbled angrily, the breakfast from this morning a distant memory. I groaned and slid off the couch, fumbling around my dark apartment for the light switch. I didn't remember the new layout of the room just yet, and so I smacked my shins against the new furniture as I went, cursing loudly with every impact.

When my hand finally found the switch, the light easily flickered to life—only to make that telltale tinkling noise and then sputter out. I swore again; I had no spare light bulbs. And still no food. 

It looked like I would need to go out again. I hesitated for a moment, because my nap had left me looking like a zombie recently risen from the grave. But I quickly pushed my concerns aside; who cared what I looked like? Who would even see me? No one important, no one who knew me, no one I gave two shits about.

Having a bad break up had done some interesting things to my self-esteem. It had flucated wildly over the past few weeks. Sometimes I felt like no one in the world would ever find me attractive again, and I was sure that I'd be alone forever. Or, I felt like the hottest thing to ever walk the Earth, a gift from heaven to those around me, so sure that it had been Rick's loss for letting me go. And then there were those other times... the times where I couldn't bring myself to care at all, about what I did, or what I looked like; I was impervious to all judgment.

Tonight was one of those nights.

I combed through my hair quickly—painfully—with my fingers and rubbed the side of my face in hopes of smoothing out the lines. It didn't really help, but it was enough to convince me to leave the house in search of a corner store. I was feeling brave. I had already conquered a mountain of Scandinavian furniture; I could do anything.

I locked up my apartment, the bolt sliding easily into place, already feeling like a natural habit. I leapt up the steps to street level and spotted a large illuminated sign in the distance — a convenience store was close by. I was just about to jog down the street, the promise of chips and pop beckoning to me, but I stopped suddenly in my tracks. I hadn't even made it past my own building, distracted by something extraordinary.

The light in the psychic shop was on, the sign was flipped to OPEN. 

After two days of no signs of life from the store, here it was, the middle of the night, it's neon sign flickering away, a soft warm glow peeping through the curtains. I stared at it in shock, bewildered that it would be open now, at this hour. At that moment, my stomach ceased growling, forgetting its need. My urgent errand of light bulbs was also dismissed. I didn't even stop to think that I looked like something that had crawled out of a dumpster.