Madame Nostra

***Trigger Warning**Multiple Sensitive Themes**Drug Use******

As I turned on the faucet, I thought, how did I wind up in this situation? What hellish nightmare have I caused myself? I stared at the burgeoning kettle, replaying yesterday. The kettle rumbled with puffs of steam and spewing water. I tried to anticipate the whistle rethinking the recent events. A spot of calming tea is necessary right now.

I don’t have much time left, but I need to tell someone. I pretend to be a psychic, a con for monetary gain. At least I am not a thief.

I suffered an on-the-job injury. The company I toiled my life away for, turned on me when my injuries proved to be serious. The company jerks lied, faked evidence, and bought off my lawyer to win their case. Let’s say it left me cash flow challenged.

I tried to find work but the injuries held me back. I worked odd jobs, after crappy jobs, but the worst one, was a coffee house. Amazing how hard it is to work in a coffee house. People lose their minds if you don’t get their mocha latte, hold the milk, add two tablespoons of ground flax seeds, hold the sugar but I’ll take agave order correct. The worst part isn’t the order; it’s the freak-out from getting the laundry list of wants wrong. How do they know it’s wrong, anyway?

A friend noticed my dilemma, she told me to try something different. Become a fake psychic. You tell people what they want to hear, you bring them joy and never sorrow, plus it is an easy type of work that can be done from home. One rule to always remember, above all greed, do not ever threaten anyone to gain money. None of that, you are going to have a bad car accident if you don’t bring me fifty dollars type of stuff.  The second rule, do not extort the aged. The police have never been able to bust me because what I do is not considered extortion. The people I have tricked have never filed a complaint.

Yesterday, I had an appointment with a man who seemed kindly and frail named Cluanach. He bore the look that death leaves on the living when one loses a loved one. His eyes and nose were as red as a fire hydrant. He wiped his face with a thick dishcloth a few times during our conversation. Cluanach wanted to dance with his wife, Cozbi, one last time, to be with her one last time. He and his wife practiced some sort of mystic art.  They once belonged to a secret worship group of Orthon. The leader often communed with spirits. A perfect situation for me since I did not know much about channeling anyway.  I did not have to explain anything to him. 

If I had known better I would have looked into the cult. And who names their baby Cluanach or Cozbi?  What do those names mean? Cluanach wanted me to channel his deceased wife. They met in grade school and became childhood sweethearts. He proposed to her while sharing an ice cream sundae, her favorite dessert. Their marriage lasted for over sixty-nine years until the day before yesterday when she died. He found my advertisement in the phone book while making funeral arrangements.

I Perform Psychic Readings. I am Madame Nostra, a true descendant of Nostradamus. I can channel spirits on all seventeen planes. Speak to loved ones again! Find out where they hid items and money. I can help you, by appointment only. Call Me Now!

Cluanach tried to stifle his wailing as he wiped his face again and again with the towel. Something did not seem quite right. I could not put my finger on it, but something about him unnerved me. My phone rang during our wailing and consoling session. When I stood to answer it, he grabbed my arm with a great deal of strength and tried to pull me back to my seat.

I looked into his eyes, and said with a soft and sympathetic tone, “I will only be a moment. Would you like me to put your towel in the dryer?”

The phone ringing helped me break free from my feelings of sorrow and empathy for his situation. To not succumb to the guilt for what I planned to do.

It helped me to stay focused on the prize. I told myself to get the money for channeling his deceased wife.

At this point, we had not negotiated the exact sum of money. I wondered what it would be worth to him for me to channel her.

“Okay, dear, alright. No thank you to the dryer.” He sniffled and wiped his face as I walked to the phone.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed him moving, rising from his seat. He adjusted something within his coat. I'm not sure of what I saw, but it had a metallic flash, maybe a pen. When I looked over my shoulder, he hurried to sit back down as he shot me a boyish grin, more of a devilish smirk.

I answered the phone to screams which almost ruptured my eardrum. “Hello! Hello!” She was so loud I had to hold the receiver away from my ear as the voice identified herself as Cassandra. She spoke as fast as a misfiring Gatling gun; frantic, tangled, almost breathless, and shouting some sort of nonsense.

What I did understand before hanging up, she screamed, “You are in danger!”

I shook my head and stared at the phone, a second panic-stricken call from the same voice as the call from the day before yesterday. In the previous call, the troubled voice instructed me, “Do not do any readings for killers.”

What could be the harm I’m not a real psychic. I have trouble turning the channels on my smart T.V., let alone channeling a dead spirit. I thought her to be yet another cuckoo or competitor. No way would Cluanach, a sweet grief-stricken, distinguished widower, dare harm a fly. I wanted to give him a great show. I mean a final dance with his wife. No threats or any heavy stuff. I always use soft sweetness to sink them. When I finish channeling Cozbi, he will be elated, or so I thought.

“I’m so sorry, about that. I have many people who respond to my ad.” Red-eyed he wiped his face again and let out a deep sigh.

“Will you have time to assist me?” His weak voice sounded so pathetic. It almost burdened my heart.

“I do have a few appointments for later. Would you like to join me in a cup of chamomile tea? It is almost ready.”

“Tea sounds nice.” His eyes brightened, the corner of his mouth turned up as the tremble in his voice began to dissipate.

“How do you take it?"

“Plain and hot, please.”

“No milk? No honey?”

“No, tea only, thanks.”

I brought the teapot to my end table and poured our cups. I moved his sniffling towel to make room to place his cup. We had talked for a long while. So it did not surprise me that the towel was dry. When I sat in my chair I felt a pin stick me. "Ouch."

"What happened, dear?"

I examined the offending pin and it did not look like any of my pins. All of my pins have a shiny pink ball on the top. The black pin topped by with red ball on top was unfamiliar to me. I shrugged it off and placed it on the table between us. "Nothing, a straight pin stuck me in my rump."  He laughed and remarked the tea did not smell like chamomile.

“Of course, it is”, I assured him it was chamomile tea, although I did not tell him I spiked it. My dealer sells the best hallucinogens in this part of Venice Beach. If I had known then, what I know now, I would have told this man to leave.

We talked on and on about him and Cozbi, with me refilling his cup once without him asking, twice with him wanting more. His speech became slurred. I knew it was time to talk about the money to channel his dead wife. I gave him an endearing look as I told him, “It is very taxing for me to channel some spirits.” I scrunched my face, stared into his eyes, and used my hypnotic tone of persuasion to get another yes from him. I believe a person needs to agree at least three times to seal any deal. He offered me two thousand dollars. My eyes widened, knowing I would have taken half that. I placed my hands on my face covering my eyes and my smile. I regained my composure. I leaned in closer, dead-eyed him, and tried to sound exacerbated at his lack of understanding.

"Cluanach, I do not think you understand what I will have to endure to bring your dead wife into this spiritual plane."

Through the fading haze of the tea, he became exasperated, demanding I take his last offer of fourteen thousand dollars to channel his wife. "Do it now or ..." he looked down slump-shouldered; his eyes began to water, "Please?"

I extended my right hand to him, offering a dance. His face beamed, he wiped away his tears as we danced. He hummed in my ear a beautiful tune. A subtle scent of bay rum, mixed with a hint of tobacco, enveloped my senses. Cluanach continued to twirl me around and around, dizzying me as the world blurred and faded into nothingness.  The unfamiliar tune began to vibrate within me, he kissed me as we hummed.   He pulled me ever so close to him, our bodies sealed together as one. Then I felt it. A shiver bolted through me, consuming me. I ignored it at first, caught in the clutch of his dance. A warming calmness poured over me, through me. We continued to dance like a dervish as a fire blazed through my guts. The warm wet liquid gushed from my right side.

What had Cluanach done? His bright eyes held an unusual glow. His exuberant face frozen in euphoria, he eased me onto the floor. I am not sure of how many times he stabbed me or the meaning of the strange words he chanted. Plunge, chant, plunge, chant a firestorm of pain made ash of me. Through my delirium, I kicked at him, he laughed. I faded in and out of consciousness, seeing images of some odd-shaped creature. I tried to get off the floor, but he just pushed me back down.

“Cozbi, are you in there? Are you in her?” He shouted while he stood straddled over me, with a bloody dagger clenched in his fist. An odd feeling flowed through me, a raspy voice replied. “Yes, my love. I’m here, but so is she.” Cluanach extended his free hand, helping us to my feet. He pulled us into his loving embrace, his breath warm and sweet as he kissed my lips. His body felt familiar. “She’ll fade away soon, dear.” We danced sweet, slow, and close.