The Clairvoyant

The man in front of me in line for the clairvoyant coughs three times, deep and rattling coughs that shake his whole frame, his knees bobbing like loose springs. His cap, a faded military green, dangles precariously from his hanging head. His 5 o’clock shadow feels more like a midnight one, and his shirt stretches across flabby, sagging shoulders. I feel inclined to hate him.

The houses just outside the carnival sit squatting on the pavement, almost black in the setting sun. I prefer them this way. At least now the beige drywalls and bumpy brick walls are less oppressively in view, though no amount of darkness can hide the chipping paint and decrepit lounge chairs. Despite my best attempts, I sometimes ask myself how I got here, how anyone gets here.

The woman behind me, Jim Beam and burgers on her breath and red glitter above her eyes, staggers into me, her nose pressing into my neck. I hate her too, not because she’s hurt me but because it’s hard to feel respectable while sandwiched between Mr. Hillbilly and Ms. Trailer Park.

Mr. Hillbilly goes up to the clairvoyant but is turned away just as quickly once she catches sight of his empty wallet. People really are disappointing. It’s finally my turn, and I walk up to her, fishing out a fiver and handing it to her like a ticket to a ride.

“And what’s your name, my dear?” The clairvoyant looks young, too young to have the kind of metaphysical wisdom she claims to possess, but this is just for fun, so I don’t mind too much.

“Talia,” I say.

She looks unnervingly closely at me. If I were any stupider, I’d almost believe she actually has some kind of power. “Well, Talia. What do you want?”

“What do I want? I want to live somewhere besides dumpy rural Pennsylvania. I want to have a job I don’t hate.” I don’t know why all these words rush out of me all of a sudden. Why does she even need to know any of this? She’s a carnival scammer, not a genie. She can’t grant wishes.

“Plenty of people want all that. What does Talia want?”

“I want to be-” Special. The word dies on my tongue, but I can tell that she understands. That’s what I’ve always wanted. Noteworthy first over everything else.

She lets out a head-back laugh, exaggerated and theatrical, like a witch’s cackle. “You already are. Your essence is unlike any human I’ve ever met. I almost wonder if you are one at all.”

My face heats with blood. “Are you mocking me?” I stand abruptly, taking my bill back, and I rush away from the table. My skin still feels flushed and burning and tight around my body, as if it’s shrinking, pressing me in.

My head spins in a subtle, disorienting sort of way, and I find my way to a Porta-Potty just outside the carnival. Locking the door, I stumble forward, suddenly hurling into the toilet. The vestiges of Jim Beam and burgers fill the toilet.

Unless she was telling the truth. What if she was telling the truth? Would it be so terrible to be different? Is it worse to be Hyde than to be Jekyll? I was right. I was meant for more than this.

Why did I tell her all that? Was I really so desperate for some reassurance that I spilled my deepest feelings to a grifter? Or, somewhere deep down, did I know that something was wrong? Did I know that I transcend the ordinary?

It all makes sense now. Everything does.

I step out of the Porta-Potty feeling lighter, almost as if the physical world thins around me. The sights and smells of the carnival fade around me, but the blank canvas of sky still lies bright above me, chemtrails and the orange light of dusk painting the sky. The laughter sounds distant, like it’s underwater. I feel something I can only remember from the antediluvian past. Something not unlike hope.

What was I even so upset about before? People and places and things of a world I no longer belong to. I weave through the crowd like it’s my first time, seeing everything and everyone like the gods must, with a condescending, pitying sort of amusement.

The makeshift Ferris wheel towers above the rest of the carnival, rust encircling the metal frame. I’ve always been too scared to go on one, but what do I have to be afraid of? The lines look too long to wait in, so once I arrive at the foot of the ride, I grip the silver spokes and hold on, even as the wheel begins to rotate. The employees on the ground start yelling and trying to get me down, but their words are as unintelligible to me as birdcalls. A crowd gathers around the wheel, laughing and pointing.

People are finally starting to notice me. It’s about time.

From up here, I can see the clairvoyant all the way across the fairgrounds, and we lock eyes for a moment. Her eyes narrow, and her lips purse. I thought she’d be happy for me. She gets up from her table and runs at top speed over to me until she stands at the bottom of the ride.

“Talia, what are you doing?” she calls.

“You were right,” I yell, my voice muffled by the wind. “I’m not human.”

Her eyes widen with pity and barely contained disdain. “I say things like that to people all the time. It’s just part of the clairvoyant routine. I don’t actually have any powers. I don’t actually think you’re special.”

I don’t actually think you’re special. She’s blind, and I tune her out, instead fixing my eyes to the horizon. The beginnings of the high-rises and city lights that lie beyond the town are visible from this high up. Maybe I could make it there. Maybe I could make it anywhere.

Maybe I could fly.

My grip loosens around the metal, and my vision blurs, clouded by something, some water in my eyes I refuse to name. I let go, and for a moment I’m weightless, suspended in the air as if by an invisible parachute, before I connect with the ground, one with the dirt. Some unpleasant, eminently human sensation I also refuse to name blankets me. Red and blue lights, bright and indifferent, accompanied by sirens, approach me, and I close my eyes, some dark red liquid seeping out of my cuts.