People see the little flyers everywhere. Lost dog. Homework Tutor. For Sale. Just pull off one of the little tags and call the number. Get what you need. What you want. My flyer is just one of a hundred.

Want Help?

Feel like the world is pushing down on you? Call the Oracle and connect with someone who will listen to all your troubles. Like a confessional, but without Christian prejudice. Call today!

You saw my flyer today. You told me that you were coming home from work, just gotten fired, and was waiting at the bus stop, watching them all go by. You didn’t want to hail them. You didn’t want to go home.

At home waits your husband. Your children. Your dog. If you go home, you’d have to tell them about the perverted boss who tried to feel you up, about the male co-workers who looked but didn’t touch, the women who hissed whore and bitch and slut around coffee cups and photocopiers. You’d have to tell them how you finally stood up for yourself, called the boss a pervert and sick and twisted, yelled at the male co-workers for leering and the women for judging. You’d have to tell them how your boss went red and screamed, how the male co-workers leered even more and sprouted filth, how the women looked on and justified themselves.

FIRED! It still rings in your mind.

So you saw my flyer, glued to a power pole. You saw all the tags that had already been pulled off, saw how few were left. Want Help? Call today!

You pulled one off. You called. The phone rang through once. Twice. Thrice. You were about to hang up.

It connected.

“Hello, this is the Oracle. How’s your day been?”

“It-It’s been absolutely shi-Horrible. Horrible.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“YES!” You flinch at your eagerness, the relief in your voice. There’s no judgment on the other end of the phone, just polite interest.

“This is a safe space, where you can talk about whatever you’d like. Are you somewhere you feel comfortable?”

You look around. You’re still sitting at that bus stop, but buses have stopped coming by. The sky is getting darker, but the light nearby flickers on. “Yes.”

“Then, you can talk for as long as you like.”

And you do. You talk, and talk, and talk. You complain about your boss, your male co-workers, the women. You complain about your job, the lack of thanks or perks or basic, common human decency. You find yourself complaining about your husband, the way he comes home and sits on the couch, the way he expects dinner on the table and a drink in his hand, the lack of thanks or perks or basic, common human decency. You complain about your children, the two boys and little girl, the way they spread paint on the walls and mud on the carpet, the way they throw away their food but expect more, the lack of thanks or perks or basic, common human decency. You even complain about your dog, the way you never wanted it, the way it stinks up the house and backyard, the slobber that covers the floors and fur that covers the couch, the lack of thanks or perks or basic, common human decency.

Because that’s all you want. Thanks. Someone to acknowledge you.

Finally, your voice goes hoarse. The sun has completely disappeared. No car has driven past in ages.

“Erika, how do you feel now?”

You feel surprised. How did I know your name?

“Erika?”

“Oh, I-I I feel… lighter? Calmer, definitely.” And you really do. You think back to that flyer. Feel like the world is pushing down on you?

“At Oracle, our goal is to make you feel better about yourself. Are you satisfied with our service?”

“Yes. Yes I am. Thank you so much!”

“You’re very welcome Erika. If you hold onto our number, you can call us whenever you feel down. Have a nice night.”

“Wait!” You can’t let me go yet. You don’t want this conversation to end. “What-What’s your name?”

There’s a pause. “My name is Kiera.”

“If I call again, can I talk to you?

There’s a longer pause. You pull the phone away from your ear for a moment, afraid that I’ve hung up. I haven’t.

“Next time you call, ask for Kiera.”

“Okay.” You begin to grin. This day, that had been so horrible, now seemed a whole lot better. “Goodnight Kiera.”

“Have a good night Erika.” And I hang up.

You’re still smiling, even when your husband yells at you for being ‘late to the bus stop’ and having to pick you up.

---------

“Hello, this is the Oracle. How has your day been?”

You frown. “Um, my-my day’s been… not good. Can I- Can I talk to Kiera?”

“Of course you can. Please give me a moment.” The line is silent before another voice speaks. “Hello, this is Kiera.”

“Kiera! It-It’s Erika.” You are slightly ashamed of your eagerness, but it’s been an entire week since you’d spoken to me. You didn’t want to call too soon.

“Hello Erika! How has your week been?” You hope that you’re not imagining the hint of excitement in my voice.

“It’s not been the greatest. Can I talk to you about it?”

“Of course.”

You complain about your family again, the dog and the kids and the husband. You complain about the lack of references from your old job. You complain about the way no one wants to hire you.

In a whisper, you worry that you’ve been blacklisted by your old boss, that your male co-workers have been talking about you to their friends, that the women have been gossiping with other companies.

“And-and there’s something else.” You murmur later, after almost two hours of complaints and worried.

“What is it?”

“It’s like there’s an itch… my back feels weird whenever I go job-hunting, like there’s someone touching me. But there’s no one there! I keep checking, I wash my clothes with tons of fabric softener, I’ve stopped wearing wool and started putting tank tops on under my button-ups, but my back still itches!”

“Maybe it’s worry.” My voice is smooth and calm. “Maybe you need to relax. Don’t worry too much about job hunting, or your family. Everything will work out.”

“Will it?” Your voice is weak, a little desperate.

“It will.”

-----

“Hello, this is the Oracle. How has your day been?”

You don’t even bother with a greeting. “Can I talk to Kiera?”

“Certainly. One moment.”

You’re restless, shivering. It’s been another week. Another horrible, itchy, sweaty, chilly week.

“Hello, this is Kiera.”

“Kiera!” You don’t even try to disguise the relief in your voice. “It’s gotten worse!”

“Erika? Are you talking about the itching?”

“Yes! I’m still itchy, and I’ve started to get these random shivers! It’s like someone’s tap dancing on my grave! But I’m not cold! I’m absolutely boiling!” You’re almost sobbing.

“You’re going to be okay Erika. Why don’t you tell me about your week first?”

Your complaints this week are much the same as before. Work, dog, kids, husband. The longer you talk, the calmer you feel. Eventually you fall silent.

“Better?” I ask.

“A lot better.” You answer. “I’m not itching, I’m not sweating. It’s great.”

“That’s very good Erika.”

----

The next few weeks follow the same pattern for you. You itch. You sweat. You don’t find a job. Your husband begins to complain about the lack of money coming in. Your children complain about the ceasing of trips to the movie, the necessity of saving money. Even the dog seems to be disappointed, as he’s begun to poo on the carpets.

But this week, it’s gotten worse.

“Hello, this is the Oracle. How has your day been?”

You begin to sob. “I need Kiera!”

“Hello, this is Kiera.”

You sob harder, tears running down your face, snot dripping from your nose. You’ve hidden yourself in the bathroom, because you can’t find the courage to leave the house. “Kiera!!”

“Erika! What’s wrong?”

“It-it-it…” You hiccup. “It’s gotten worse!” And now you’re wailing.

“Tell me all about it,” I sooth. “I’m listening. I’m here.”

The itching got worse, you explain. It’s now all over your body, like ants crawling under your clothes. You shiver uncontrollably, but you can’t stand sleeping under the covers. The sweat makes everything worse, with clothes sticking to skin. You’ve been showering three times a day for the past week. Your husband is going to be very upset with the water bill.

For hours you talk. The kids come home from school, but you ignore the knocks on the bathroom door. The shivers abate. The itching disappears. The sweat dries on your skin.

“Feeling better?” I ask.

“Much better.” You sigh.

“You know, you can call me more than once a week, if that will make you feel better.”

“It will.”

“Then call me when you need me Erika.”

------

It’s only been three days. But since your last phone call, your mother has visited.

“Hello, this is the Oracle. How has your day been?”

“I need Kiera!”

“Hello, this is Kiera.”

Your mother is very disappointed with your lack of a job, especially since your husband had called her to complain. He’s always been her favourite. She’d picked up the kids from school, and they complained too, about mum having too many showers and never being able to go over to friends’ houses. The dog’s coat wasn’t brushed. The house wasn’t vacuumed. There were dishes in the sink. With every one of your mother’s complaints, your skin itched. You began to sweat through your thin summer dress, and you were shaking like a cold-turkey ex-addict.

You’ve locked yourself in the bathroom again, to hide from the mother and husband and kids and dogs, to scratch at your skin, to leave stark red lines behind.

But the more you talk, the better you feel. You leave your skin alone.

“Feeling better?” I ask.

“Much better.” You sigh.

“Remember, call me whenever you need me.”

“I will.”

“Have a good day, Erika.”

-----

Soon, you’re calling every day. Soon, even Kiera’s words aren’t enough to stop the itching, the chills, the sweat. You’re beginning to bleed, and the cold water from your near constant showers make the marks sting. You’ve become almost incoherent.

But I can still hear you.

Your children have been taken in by your mother for the school holidays. Your husband has gone off ‘fishing’, but you whisper your suspicions of a mistress, a woman younger and more beautiful. Your dog escaped the house last night, and you watched through the window as he was hit by a car. You didn’t collect his body.

“What’s your address Erika? I’ll send something that can help.”

You’ve been living in the bathroom, climbing into the cold bath every time the sweat and itchiness gets too much. The only time you left was to get the package.

“Take two of the pills now, and another two when you go to bed. Don’t take more than six a day.” I tell you, and for a time the shivers and sweat and itchiness abate. Your husband comes home. Your children go to school, and no one asks about the dog sized rectangle of fresh soil in the backyard.

And every time the itchiness picks up, every time the sweat gets too much, you pop another two pills. And another. And another. Until just six pills aren’t working. You call me twice a day now, falling asleep as you talk. You beg for more pills, for the itchiness to go away.

And then, one day, I tell her exactly how to do it.

You lay down in your bath, strewn with rose petals and lit up by candles. There’s a glass of wine on the stool nearby, and the bottle of pills is in your hand. You don’t stop drinking and downing until the bottle is empty.

-------

“Hello, this is the Oracle. How’s your day been?”

“Hi, uh, I-I found this and I… ugh, I really need to talk to someone. You see, my wife, she’s killed herself, and I- I just – I don’t know what I did wrong, I need someone to talk to.”

“This is a safe space, where you can talk about whatever you’d like. Are you somewhere you feel comfortable?”

“Yes.”

“Then, you can talk for as long as you like.”