Young Writers Society

Let's find out where Bitter was running off to in Chapter 5.

Holding still had always been a pet peeve of mine. I remembered fidgeting miserably through mass as a kid. My Oracles Anonymous meetings were worse than mass. At least, the priest hadn’t expected me to participate…

“Who wants to speak next?”

A deadly silence fell again. I could hear myself breathing. I made myself stop shuffling my feet and wringing my hands. The guy sitting next to me gave me a dirty look ­– he had been growing increasingly annoyed at my restlessness. I gave him the finger. Childish? Yes, but it wasn’t like he was going to tell me off: he was laying low too.

That part was more like class than church.

The meeting room was on the first floor of a sacristy, but they probably used it for Sunday school because it had a blackboard, rows of rickety wooden tables and mismatched chairs that were uniformly hard on my ass. A patchwork of posters covered the cracks in the walls’ grey paint. There was everything: the Prayer of Serenity, the Twelve Steps, the Five Stages of Grief, the Ten Commandments, the Cross of St. Thomas, the Open Eye and children drawings.

“Maybe someone wants to contribute about today’s subject.”

The fourth stage of grief? Please, give me a break.

I snorted silently and almost choked on it when a lightly accented voice rose, “Can I go next?”

Oh, please, not Madeleine…

Madeleine Duval smiled at the rest of the circle. Nobody objected. Sure, why would they? She was a very popular speaker and one of the most peculiar members of our Tuesday meetings.

Then again, it was only 8 AM on a weekday. Most OA members in attendance were college kids, housewives and sweaty commuters stopping on their way into work. Anybody walking into the room by mistake probably wouldn’t blink – or only at the mismatched nature of our group. I was the only one who fitted the Oracle stereotype, although some of the younger members had started adopting my style and turning into tattooed punks themselves. We were still in the minority, though, and most attendants were middle-aged.

Madeleine had a good ten years on them. She was in her sixties, very clean and well put together. She reminded me of Duchess’s mistress in The Aristocrats. Her snow-white hair was neatly piled on top of her head. She had a delicate, lean face and the easy manners of a former diva. There was something a little overacted about Madeleine, a constant air of exaggeration.

“Hello, everyone. My name is Madeleine, and I’m an Oracle.”

“Hi, Madeleine,” I chorused along with the others.

“Most of you know me.” She smiled kindly. “And I’ve already told you about my son Paul.”

I immediately stopped listening. I knew too much about Paul Duval already. I stared out of the window and I let Madeleine’s story roll over me. It would have been all too easy to fall asleep to the sound of her cultured voice. Though she had lived in the US for over thirty years and looked every bit the consumed New-Yorker, she still retained a hint of a French accent, smooth and musical.

My eyes unwittingly floated from the window to the pretty picture she made. She had a soft, vulnerable look, with her small, graceful gestures and the labyrinth of blue veins under her fine, white skin, but she cast a powerful spell over her audience. Only I was apparently unsusceptible. All the other members’ expressions were a mixture of trust and hope as they listened raptly.

Short-Sighted morons…They were so easily fooled by a wrinkled face and a motherly smile. If they had any hope of reaching Madeleine’s age, they were in for a big disappointment. She only belonged in the OA by the loosest definition of the word “Oracle”.

Actually, she didn’t match the “Anonymous” part either. Most of us went by monikers or first names. I was Bit, for example, period. That’s an Oracle thing. Madeleine always just said that she was too old to go by a nickname, then she smiled apologetically, determined to have her way.

“So, I told Paul I would be glad to meet his new fiancée. Indeed, I’m grateful for any woman who can somehow put up with my son.” She giggled. “I’m sure she is charming. But Paul said I had to pretend to be normal around his Janey. Normal,” she repeated in disgust.

A groan went through the circle. I sat up a little straighter.

“Are you ashamed of your mother?” she asked, her voice rising in anger. “That’s what I told him. And that he had to tell the poor girl about our family if he wanted to have children with her one day. He told me he has gotten a vasectomy several years ago.”

Even I, stared in shock as Madeleine’s lips started trembling. She looked down, and it was obvious that she was trying not to cry. Someone shoved a tissue at her. She used it to gently dab at her eyes. She must have caught all the runaway tears because her makeup was spotless when she raised her head again.

“My son thinks our family should go extinct.”

I bit my lip not to speak up.

Madeleine’s case was interesting. Word, passed down from one generation to the next, was that the family was cursed with the Second Sight. Going up the maternal line, almost every ancestor of Madeleine’s had either died Scrying or displayed the Second Sight in some way.

It was a fairly common occurrence Scientists called the Trelawney Phenomenon. There were three theories that I knew of on the subject. It was entirely possible that there was a genetic predisposition to Scrying. It was also possible that Scrying, in those families, fell under the heading of “Self-fulfilling Prophecies”. Or maybe it was a combination of both explanations.

From everything Madeleine had told me about her family, I rather held with that third possibility. She had always known she had the ability to Scry, and so had her mother, Hélène. Madeleine had lost her shortly after World War II. I suspected that Hélène had fallen into her first Trance during the War. She had been an Oracle for the French Resistance. When the need had come, she had known what she could do, and, so, she had done it.

As for Madeleine, she was a pathetic old lady. She felt lonely since her husband’s death and her son lacked either the time or the disposition to lavish attention on her. She had been slowly dying – a flower deprived of water. The first Trance had been a desperate call for attention. It probably hadn’t come easy. Madeleine was an unreliable Scryer at best.

It would probably be decades before her senses started eroding as mine already had. Odds were fair that she would die of old age rather than because of the Sight.

“I understand your son,” I blurted.

Madeleine blinked at me, surprised I had spoken at all, then a smile creased her face. “You do?”

“I was a child when it happened to me,” I told her. “I’ve never had sex without contraception. Even if I could bring myself to become a mother, I couldn’t bear the thought of passing on this curse.”

“A curse?” Madeleine repeated. “No, my dear, it is no malédiction. You’re blessed. You can’t see it yet, but you’re blessed.”

“Blessed?!” I ground my teeth together not to speak up in anger. As a result, when the words finally came out, they were low and tense as a cord about to break. “I’ve never had a future. I’ve never even gotten the opportunity to dream I’d be a mother.”

“Nothing keeps you from…”

“I won’t have children only to abandon them! I wouldn’t live to see them take their first step. Hell, as far along as I am, I wouldn’t see their birth. I’m dead.”

For a second, a veil fell over my eyes and I went silent, not really listening to Madeleine’s answer. It took some painful swallowing of bitterness, but I managed to calm down. The blurring seemed to come and go at random, but it occurred most often when I was feeling emotional. I blinked and blinked, and breathed in and out deeply, and my sight returned to normal. I let out a relieved sigh. You just never appreciate colors quite so much as when you have just misplaced yours for a while.

And she thought I was blessed?

I smirked. “Unless anyone’s got an objection, I’m going to speak next.” I paused, then went on, “Hi, everyone, I go by Bit, I’m an Oracle.”

“Hi, Bit.”

“I want to tell you about a dream I had the other night. A real dream,” I added, recognizing the subtle tension in the room. “I was back in the hospital after my first Trance and the doctor was explaining everything to me. He gave me a couple of brochures. I remember that. In my dream, my father barged in and he was furious. He tore the brochures in tiny bits. The rest of the dream was just me wandering through the hospital desperately looking for the brochures. I woke up with the unshakable certainty that there was an answer I absolutely needed somewhere in them. I was heartbroken. Then, I remembered that it had really happened.”

Dad had come in, screaming I was a liar, a bitch, other words a father should never call his children. I had been well past shock by that point, I had been paralyzed with it. He would have choked me to death, I think, but Mom screamed for help and the security guards dragged him out.

“The doctor actually gave me another set,” I told them. “So, of course, I went digging for them. Not like I had something better to do on my day off…I hit pay dirt late yesterday.” I held up the handful of yellowed paper somewhat triumphantly. “Well, let’s look at that.” I thumbed through it. “We’ve got…a list of OA meetings. Bleh, that’s out of date.” I handed it over to the person on my right, so everyone could have a look. “A brochure that’s, uh, basically, the one we still use. There is an OES flyer.” I made a gagging sound. “And that’s…Oh, it’s my favorite. Look at that. It explains the eight stages.” I glanced around the circle. “Do they still give that one?”

A few people nodded, others muttered, “Yeah,” or, “I got one.”

I had expected as much. “Well, that’s pure BS.” Nervous laughter broke out. “I know people who went straight to stages 6 or 7, and I know others-” My eyes lingered on Madeleine. “-who’ve never gotten past stage 2.” She squirmed a little. I let a bit of resentment shine through. “I’ve been stuck in stage 6 for six years now. Stage 8, as we all know, is death. Stage 7 is…”

My throat tightened, all of a sudden. I couldn’t go on. A small, pudgy man with stunningly bright red hair supplied, “Stage 7 is permanent sensory disturbances.”

I nodded. It was the canonical definition, almost word for word.

“I almost wish I could just get on with it. I’m sick of stage 6. I’m even sicker of being stuck midway between stages 6 and 7.” I faltered. “I’m at the onset. The distortions come and go. Hot and cold, I…The size of things…Colors…It’s just plain strange. Sometimes, I don’t even realize my senses are going. You’re not always aware of colors or of the temperature.”

The redhead mumbled, “Yeah, yeah…”

A pretty blond housewife said, “Yes, but, sometimes, it’s beautiful too. The…melding of senses. Like, I’ve never liked music. I enjoy the visual arts so much more. But, now, when I listen to music, it’s colors and crazy shapes, and people’s voices have each their own taste!”

“For me, it’s smells,” I admitted. “They’ve got colors. I don’t know why, but industrial perfumes are often shades of yellow.”

“Exactly. And yet, sometimes, I couldn’t recognize yellow…” She shrugged. “Go figure.”

“As far as I’m concerned,” a big, bald man said, “colors are about as arbitrary as the decimal system. I suppose they make sense, but I’d be perfectly happy with pif, paf, and poof being the main colors instead of red, yellow and blue. Or no color. Who cares? Instead of ‘Look, mom, the sky is blue,’ kids would say, ‘What a lovely prismatic property for air molecules to have…’”

A lot of us burst out laughing. This was exactly why I kept attending OA meetings. It soothed a part of me to know that I wasn’t alone in my predicament.

“Well,” I said, “that’s all I wanted to contribute today.”

The guy who had been running the meeting replied, “Okay. Thank you for that, Bit. It was nice to hear your voice, for once. Unless someone else wants to speak, I suggest we close the meeting.”

He was looking at me, so I nodded. Everyone got up to recite the Prayer of Serenity,

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,”

“Courage to change the things I can,”

“And wisdom to know the difference.”

Madeleine tried to catch me on my way out of the room. “Oh, Bit, my dear, could we talk for a second or two? I can’t help sensing that you don’t like me.”

“You must be a psychic,” I shot back, and I darted out the door before she could recover and close her mouth.

I was chuckling to myself as I walked up the street, away from the small, battered church.

The sky was steel gray, not blue, a chilly drizzle dripping from lumps of clouds. The streets were almost deserted, but the meeting wasn’t far from the docks. It was only about a half-hour walk to my place. Since I had the day off, I decided not to wait around in the rain for the bus. It would do me good to stretch my legs before I shut myself inside my apartment with a cup of tea and a good Sci-Fi novel.

I was about a block away from the docks when I first realized that I had a tail. I probably wouldn’t have noticed the average-looking guy following me, if not for the inhospitable weather. There really wasn’t a crowd for him to lose himself into.

I wasn’t paying much attention and he really was remarkably unremarkable. Brownish hair, brown eyes, pale skin, a tall, soft body, a face that was neither handsome nor ugly, but ever so slightly effeminate. But he was following me, and I found that just creepy.

Being an Oracle made me oddly attractive to men – as that odd thing they were all curious to fuck. It was part of the reason why I preferred to be the aggressor in matters of love and sex. That was also the reason why I mostly slept with women. They were rarely stronger than me, physically. It wasn’t that I liked them better than men – I’m not judgmental. I simply preferred not to feel vulnerable in bed.

I glanced around for a quick way to lose him. I smiled grimly when I spotted a small convenience store around the corner. I headed that way, strolling like I didn’t have a care in the world. I pushed through the door and smiled at the Asian lady behind the counter. I pressed a finger across my lips, winked and dropped a twenty on the cash register before her. I sped up, darting behind the closest row of shelves. I had reached the back of the store by the time the small bell over the door rang again.

I stepped between the wall and the tall shelves laden with rolls of toilet paper and paper towels. There wasn’t much space, but I was rather petite. Squatting down a little, I disappeared behind the piles. I had taught myself to control my heartbeat and breathing – you don’t survive over a decade with the Second Sight without rigorous self-discipline. I slowed them down so I could hear. My follower’s footsteps echoed down the store’s narrow alley, then faltered. It sounded like he was hesitating.

Smart guy.

He sped up when he reached the tall cold-storage units with the milk and dairies. Presumably, he had finally spotted the backdoor between my shelves and the end of the canned goods aisle. In the privacy of my mind, I took back the “smart guy” comment. He was a moron – I wasn’t the type to run from danger.

Moron.

I relaxed the tight grip I had on my can of pepper spray. My other hand closed around the knife that traveled everywhere in my back pocket. It wasn’t very long, but it was wickedly sharp. The ominous click the blade made when it came out, plus its evil glint of bloodthirsty steel was usually enough to scare the meek away.

Judging from the guy’s body language and the few glimpses I had caught of his face, he was probably one of the meek. Still, it bothered me to use the knife. It is always risky to bring a weapon into any fight. You had to consider what would happen if it was turned against you. With the can, I would only cry my eyes out until I could get my hands on soapy water. With the knife…

The guy was about to pass by my hiding place without seeing me. I sprung out, grabbed his arm and pulled him against the wall. He offered so little resistance that I almost lost my balance. His only reaction to being flung around like a bag of potatoes was to let out a “whoof” sound as his lungs emptied. He blanched when my knife clicked open. I pressed it right under his jugular before he could get ideas. He gulped, his Adam’s apple brushing the naked blade as it somersaulted.

Up close, he was younger than I had thought – early twenties, maybe? He was also oddly attractive, if not handsome. This was due to the prematurely deep lines at the corner of his eyes and lips, and to the faint droop of his eyelids. They made him look like an abandoned puppy.

He wasn’t my type, but some women want men like that, someone to take in, to tuck in bed, to comfort and reassure. Control is part of the appeal, I guess. While I got a kick out of being in charge, I was way too selfish to enter a relationship with someone who needed to be taken care of.

“Who are you?” I growled.

“M-M-Murph-” the guy stammered. “Mike Mu-Murph-ph-phy-”

“Michael Murphy?” I repeated.

The name didn’t ring any bell. I was more confused than angry now, and I wasn’t alarmed anymore at all. Michael Murphy suffered from a severe stammer. I knew very well, of course, that handicapped didn’t necessarily equate harmless, but, somehow, that guy didn’t read as dangerous to me.

“My-My friends call m-me Mike,” he told me before his lips curved into a tentative smile.

“I don’t know you from Adam, Michael. Why are you following me?”

The smile vanished. “I-I-I-I-” he hiccupped, sounding like a broken record and growing redder and redder.

Shit. I finally clued into the fact that making him uncomfortable would complicate things for me too.

“Steady, Michael Murphy,” I told him, patting his elbow and returning the knife to my back pocket.

“I need,” he went in one go, then took a deep breath, “your help.”

“My help? What kind of help? Wait.” Realization dawning, I frowned at him. “Were you waiting until after the meeting to ambush whoever came out first?”

It happened all the time and the OA pamphlets told us not to listen to those requests – for fear that members would be systemically stalked using our one place of safety. We were usually good at spotting non-Oracles party-crashers but being outed because you were literally walking out of an OA meeting still happened.

“No,” Magic Mike replied shakily, “I was look-ing for you. Elizabeth Flynn.”

Then, he ducked his head, which would have been cute if I hadn’t been so consumed with the fact that he had probably followed me to the meeting from my place. I didn’t like that. Even fellow Oracles didn’t know my full name or my address. Hell, even Mazellan, my handler, didn’t know where I lived.

“Who sent you?” I asked.

He shook his head, meaning either that he wouldn’t tell me or that he was going to pretend nobody had sent him. Either way, I let him go, disgusted.

“Wha-”

I spun on my heels and strode out, ignoring both the curious lady behind the counter and Mike Murphy’s call of, “Wait! My brother-”

I stepped out of the store without a backward glance.

Fuck you, Mike the Hike.

I wasn’t the helping type.

More about Mike Murphy in Chapter 7.