Page 45 of Unspoken Lies
I can’t think about any of that, or else I’ll cry. Crying girls get fired on their first day of work, and I can’t have that. I’m living a block away from here, and refuse to drive, so this is the best chance for me to make a small step toward starting over.
I’m not allowed to contact anyone outside of one person and my therapist. At least, not anyone who knows who I am. My therapist, Dr. Gerald Michaels used to work for a government agency, and is accustomed to the strict rules of therapist-patient care, which means my trauma and existence isn’t going to be leaked anywhere. Even then, no one knows who Rachel Thompson really is.
It’s just enough of a tweak that I’ll actually respond to my name, and I can fly really far under the radar. I already had a taste of happiness, flew too close to the sun, and was burned to a crisp.
I just want to be boring now. I know this is selfish, I should fight back against the Kings Society, but getting out of bed without having a panic attack is hard enough. I’m nowhere near ready to fight anyone or anything.
Crossing the street, I hurry to the store, Cellie’s Mystics, where the manager is waiting for me there. Brea seemed nice on my phone interview, and I had to force myself to leave the house tonight to get here. Even with medication, it’s a struggle for me.
I hate the meds, but I’ve been living with this for so long. I’m exhausted, and I refuse to begin cutting again. The very idea of self harm makes me break out into a cold sweat because it’s so familiar, like an old friend who isn’t good for you. The whisper of death would be too loud to ignore.
I’d rather avoid the temptation altogether. The world believes I’m dead, I don’t need to buy into the lie to make it happen.
Opening the door to the shop, I glance around to find Brea.
“Hello?” I call out tentatively. The shelves are full, the vibe giving off witchy vibes. She asked me to dress in cute clothes that would match the aesthetic of the shop, and sent photos to my cell to help.
I only have the phone as a lifeline to the world that is accessible to me, as everything that pertains to my apartment is paid for. In another life, I would feel guilty for taking the handouts, but not anymore.
I’m working as part of my treatment plan. I’ve been a shut-in for much of the last two and a half years. I refuse to watch the news, I order my groceries to be delivered on a phone app that gets paid for as well, and I’ve been really lonely despite my anxiety about seeing people.
Therefore, I made sure that I put together an outfit that would ensure that I fit in. I’m wearing black jeans with a pair of heeled combat boots, and a heavy metal band t-shirt with a lace long sleeved black shirt underneath it. My hair is up in space buns, having grown out finally, and dark makeup finishes it all off.
I haven’t dressed to impress anyone in years, and my therapist suggested that being in a position where I need to wear more than a lounge outfit was important to elevate my mood. I think it’s bullshit, but I do feel pretty today.
That has to count for something.
“Back here, dear,” Brea calls out. I recognize her voice from the phone, and slowly walk toward her.
The store smells earthy with different fragrances and spices, the walls covered in black and white flowered wallpaper. Even the black iron candelabra over my head puts me at ease with its beauty.
Walking around the corner, I smile as I see a woman crouched in a corner with some inventory.
“Can I help?” I ask her.
“That would be lovely. We’ve actually been busy since we opened, and now it’s time to restock,” she says.
“What are the best sellers?” I ask, following her lead as I put things on the shelves. Everything is well marked, making it easy to take the initiative.
“Limited edition, gold foil, or vintage tarot cards fly off the shelves,” Brea answers. “There’s a variety of herbs and incense that we also carry that are popular, as well as essential oils. Believe it or not, some of the massage therapists in the area come here for the oils because they’re better than the bulk stores.”
“Why is that?” I ask.
“Our quality is better,” she explains, shrugging. “Next in best sellers would be sage, crystals, and candles. I just restocked that all a couple of days ago. Our shipments ended up a bit staggered, which means we’ll be fully stocked now. After we finish this, we’ll sit down all proper-like so I can have you fill out the employment paperwork.”
Nodding, we finish a few minutes later, and she goes over what I need to sign. Potential customers walk in as I go through it, while she says hello or shows them to what they need. I’m so engrossed in what I’m doing, I vaguely hear someone ask about donuts, and my brows draw down in confusion.
I forget about it after the last signature, because reading through all of that was mentally exhausting. Putting down the pen, I see the place is deserted. Figured there would be nothing to do by the time I finished.
“I’d say tonight is just about familiarizing yourself with what we’re selling,” Brea says as she returns with a smile. “Did you say you could read tarot?”
“Yes, I can,” I say. I didn’t think when I started last year that I’d ever read cards for anyone other than myself. It led tostarting a social media account with my therapist’s permission, and then I started reading people’s cards for free.
My face is never shown, I call myself The Black Haired Mystic, and it’s completely anonymous. It’s an outlet for a piece of creativity, another way of making a mark in the world, even as anonymous as it is.
“Would you be willing to read cards for people? It would be a nice addition to the store,” she suggests.
I’ll be busier now, which means my social media may take a back seat. I feel called to read tarot, I should follow it where the need is.
