Someone is frantically shouting my name, but I can’t hear them. I stare through the window of my van, up at the bright orange flames roaring through the windows of my old workplace, and pillar of thick gray smoke climbing the night sky. 

   What’s the fuck’s going on here? Why is my workplace on fire?

   A pair of thin, cold fingers cup both cheeks, and suddenly I feel my soul pulled back inside my body. I turn my head a few degrees to my left, and see a pair of panicked red eyes, shining and glassy with tears, staring right back at me. Emile. 

  “Listen. I know you’re in shock, but we have to leave now. It’s not safe,” Emile’s thin, worn face comes into view. Beside him, a little black and white baby mouse scampers up his shoulders and clings tightly to him for dear life, her pink tail curling around the side of his neck. Its tiny claws dig into his flesh.   

  “Please, let’s go back,” he begs. “Mochi is panicking.”

  A chorus of screeches and squeals rises up from the small carrier cage at Emile’s feet.   

  My chest pangs for the tiny creature, but I’m bubbling over enraged at its owner – the crimson-eyed devil, this weird psychic who swayed me off path of my path of common sense survival.

  “You liar,” I seethed, glaring. “You knew. You fucking knew this place was going to be on fire when we got back!”

  His eyes widened in surprise. 

   “So—-Yes, and no,” he calmly holds out two fingers; his ring and pinky fingers were mere stumps, cut off at the bone. I see the white scars crisscrossing his palms, where it looks like it caught a knife over and over again.

  “I did know. But I didn’t realize when this fire was going to happen; if we can just get out of here, back to your place, I can give you the full story…”

 “Oh, no, no, no,” I shake my head. “I’m not listening to shit until you tell the truth about who — more like WHAT — you really are!”

  Emile put a hand on Mochi, kissed her back and petted her gently.  

  “I’m just…I’m just a future consultant.”

  "Liar!"

  "It's true. I only tell the future, I don't do anything to influence it." 

  He’s lying. I know he’s lying. He’s something much bigger and his silly rats are a crucial part of it. He’s only one of six survivors of that huge massacre ten years ago; how did he escape? I can’t trust him at all. 

  I want to get away from him, but knowing that he’s the one who might be able to restore my family back to our former glory. He might be the only one who can help me . 

***

****THE FOOL *********

   I swept the blood-stained glass into my dustbin, staring at the beautiful glass sparkling in like rubies and aquamarines under the sunlight. It made a tinkling sound like fairy dust when I poured it into the garbage bag. 

  “A severed arm just smashed through the window, huh,” I said blankly. “I hear about this kind of thing on the news, but never thought it would happen here. How does an arm get up to the 10th floor?” 

  “Oto and I were asleep when it happened, and it scared me to death,” my mother let out a shivering sigh, hovering over my shoulder and watching me clean as she smoothed out her silk embroidered dress. I look down at her sheepskin slippered-feet, which have left wet gray footprints on the linoleum. 

  “Mother!” I brayed. “I just finished mopping!”

  “Oh, my,” she takes a step back. “Sorry—“

  “Please, be more careful!”

   Mother sniffed and shrugged her shoulders.

  “The storms didn’t used to be like this in Vantura only 10 years ago. We only had mild rain year-round, and the temperature was always warm even in the harshest winter. It’s why we moved here, to escape the bad weather at home, and now it’s followed us here—“

  “Mother,” I cut in, and hold up a thin blue shard into the air with my left hand. “Did you notice how the Shinodas’ house isn’t in total shambles right now? It’s ‘cause this whole building is a scam.”

  I pick up a piece of the broken window and hold it up.

  “Look at how thin this glass is. Normal building glass isn’t supposed to shatter like this, and I don’t care how high the wind speeds were, an arm isn’t supposed to break glass. It would have just gone ‘bap!’” I gesture with my right fist, bouncing off the glass and falling. “This place is a hazard zone. You’re probably safer living under a bridge the next time there’s a big storm like this.”

  “Speaking of which, what did you do with that arm?” My father shuffles in, holding a bucket full of soaking wet towels. He almost knocks over the family heirloom katana on the table, transported from its usual spot on display during last night’s lightning storm. 

  “I threw it in the trash bag and took downstairs an hour ago,” I shrug. 

  “You WHAT?” My mother and father’s jaws drop open simultaneously. 

  “That was a human arm!” Father shouts in dismay. “That arm belonged to somebody!”

  I can feel my veins starting to stand out in my forehead.

  “Um. Yeah, obviously.”

  “Bezel, how could you?” My mother’s literally clutching her pearls now, and that theatrical look on her face is making blood rush to my head. My heart is starting to pound in my chest so loudly it’s literally pounding in my ears. 

  “What? It’s not like they’re going to re-attach it or anything. Would you like me to go downstairs and get it for you?” I ask, in a tone that suggests that there would be hell to pay if they asked.

 “Bezel, I’m disappointed by your bad judgment,” my father says. There it is: the dreaded d-word makes my blood boil. “Whoever it belonged to, they or their family deserves to know. You seem not to have the heart to recognize…”  

  “Oh, I DON’T HAVE A HEART? Did you really say that?” I snap. I’m having an out of body experience and am standing outside myself now.

  “Tell me what kind of heartless daughter drives down here at 6 a.m. to help her parents clean up after a storm! I didn’t even brush my teeth this morning, I had my shoes on 30 seconds after you called! Mom won’t even pick up a fucking rag to clean her own fucking house, which she picked out even though everyone else was saying it was a shitty idea!”

  “Language! Language!” My mother covers her ears in disgust and turns away from me, her face crumpling in tears. “We didn’t raise you to speak like that! Oh, oh!”

 “We’re not high society ladies anymore, Mother! You should hear the people I have to work with.”

 I slice my finger through the air like a knife, accusing, threatening. 

  “Speaking of work, let’s not forget, the main reason I got fired from my last job was because of you—-“

  A rubber-gloved hand wraps around my wrist, and lowers my hand. I turn my face and meet the eyes with my father. 

  “Enough. Show some respect,” he says, ice in his voice. 

 I lower my eyes, grab my bags and pause for a moment before taking the trash bag full of glass with me to throw out. I’m stomping mad, and my footsteps pound through the stairwell as I rush down like a hurricane on adrenaline. 

*****

  “Fuck. Fuck!” I curse, bursting through the broken hinged front door of the building. I lost my temper at my mom again; we never used to fight before. It’s because I’m always dealing with the insanity in their building — I have to get them out of there, move them somewhere safer. The trouble is, that costs money, and I can’t earn what they need to get a safer roof over their heads.  

  Right in front of the door of my parents’ condo, a drunk is doubled over, passed out on the concrete.

  I notice his leather wallet on the concrete, which seems to have slipped out of his pocket. I zoom in on the bills inside, and for a split second, I think about taking the money.

  Nope. No. You’re better than that, I tell myself, kicking the wallet closer to his body as I walk by. We might be down, but I haven’t sunk so low just yet. 

  My hands are shaking as I unwrap half a package of a CalorieMate protein bar from my pocket and chew the stale beige biscuit, dribbling crumbs all over my lap. My teeth suddenly crunch down on an unmistakeable sensation of a small rock. 

  “Ugh! Gross!” I spit it out. some of the storm water from last night must have soaked through.  

  It’s been 10 years since my parents and I last had fresh sushi and sashimi or French baguette sandwiches for lunch, and I curse myself for not savouring and appreciating the taste when I could. A few years back, I could remember the texture of a soft slice of sashimi, or the messy crunch of a flaky butter croissant. Today, these memories live outside my body; I feel like I’ve watched these experiences happen to someone else.  

 The cookie is gross, so I return it back in its container and look for a bin. A pair of mangey stray dogs trotting down the street make eye contact with me, so I approach and toss them each a piece of the biscuit; they wolf it down so quickly, I feel sad for not having more to give them.

  I walk through the garbage-littered, piss-smelling streets and take a deep breath, and stare up at the sun — an angry red dot in the sky against a piss-yellow haze. 

  “Hey! Hey, Bezel,” Christian’s sharp floral perfume reaches me before his high-pitched voice. 

   “Hey, Chris,” I greet casually. 

   “Long time no see. Still at your shitty job?”

   “…That’s a weird way to start a conversation. Yeah, I’m about to go to work.”  

   “Just quit. Don’t show up anymore. You’re too good for that,” he says, flashing his arrogant smile. “I’ve got a job for you, actually, it pays really well. You could be making in an hour what you make in thee days at your shitty cleaning job.” 

  Christian doesn’t realize it, but his smile is disturbingly fake when he’s lying. 

  “What are the qualifications?” I ask. “How much experience do you need?” 

  “No qualifications! And no experience needed, either.” 

   I pull myself away from him and lift his arm off my shoulder. This fucking guy. I know exactly what kind of job he’s trying to sell me. It’s the kind that would ruin my life, and I can’t believe he’s even thought about dragging me into it.  

  “No thanks! Maybe next time.” 

  My heart starts to race. I feel overwhelmed by sadness. Christian knows I have a college degree, he knows, he knows how unhappy I’ve been working in a job I’m overqualified for. And this snake of a friend wants to drag me into something dishonest. It hurts, to think he actually has such a low opinion of me. It honestly hurts. 

   

   I dig through my bag for my wireless ear buds, so I can listen to the one channel these days that can calm me down in a stressful moment. 

  The soft synth music floods into my ear, and my muscles relax as the soothing low voice coos,

  “Hello, Libra. Welcome to your weekly reading with Full Moon Tarot. Before we jump into it, I just want to thank you for all your messages and comments…Your entire life is about to change in a big way. This is a big week of transition, because…you’re going to be meeting someone, possibly a Fire Sign, who is going to be a game changer.”  

****

I’ve missed most of the reading — it’s just background noise ASMR at this point. The special dates, the Lion's Gate, none of it means anything.  

The buildings on the road grow ever sparse, and give way to dark, overgrown trees on both sides of the road.

In between the trees, I can see bright blue tarp and orange tents of homeless people who have taken up residence here; it’s weird, because just down the road there’s a few millionaires’ homes behind heavy metal gates. Giant, offensively palatial white homes surrounded by greenery and fountains.

 Actually, I didn’t used to find these homes offensive back when I was inside them. Only now, I realize how out of touch they were. 

  Finally, I approach the foot of a small road on a steep hill covered in a canopy of overgrown trees and vines. The road is slightly rocky, and my car hits uncomfortable bumps along the way, and I finally see the trees clear into a compact grey castle completely covered by a cloak of deep green vines, behind a massive iron gate. A semi-permanent fog looms over the area, giving the impression of a haunted building.

 Despite the remote location, I see the usual sprinkling of older men and women in white, shaking their fists in the air and shouting protest slogans with a megaphone in a language I can’t understand. I raise the volume of my earphones in and drive right past them, to the discreet staff entrance at the side of the building. Meanwhile, my nearly finished astrological reading continues: 

   “This week, you will be confronted with a turning point, a blessing in disguise. You will look back on the experience and remember that this was where your financial fortune started to shift, and the energy of wealth….”

   I roll my eyes at the wishful fortune and hit pause. 

   How many times over this past year had I heard this all before? 

   Every single month, it’s “turning point” this.   

   “Biggest jackpot” that.

   “Breakthrough moment.” 

But nothing ever really changes, for me anyway, and I’m back at the grind again, doing the same old. I slap my right hand on the black fingerprint scanner, let the camera above the door scan my face, and slip inside through the gates. 

 It must be nice to be able to protest every day, without having to worry about work. 

 I stomp through the dark hallway with musty carpets and creaky floors, and push past a paint-chipped red door marked “STAFF” — my ears are momentarily hit with a blast of howls and laughter. 

 A hush falls over the room as five heads swivel around to look at me.

 I nod a greeting, and they nod back, unsmiling. I’ve killed the vibe in the room — their eyes follow me with cold suspicion as I pour myself a paper cup full of instant coffee and get my cleaning cart ready.

“Hey, did you get caught by the protesters outside?” A hand taps my shoulder. I turn around and meet Aisha’s warm brown eyes. 

“Nah, they know I’m just staff. They didn’t even look at me,” I shrug. 

“Really? One of them actually grabbed my wrist and told me not to go into the building.” 

“Fuck, that’s horrible,” I grimace. “What are they protesting anyway?”

 “Oh, the President of Luna Water Corp. is apparently staying here tonight.” 

 “The guy who keeps sex slaves in his house? Wow. I thought he was supposed to be in court."

 “He’s been hiding here, but someone must have found out. There’ll probably be more protesters tomorrow.” 

 “You know,” I start ranting, “Cassandra should really give the staff some proper security. Not just for the CEOs, but for the staff. Isn’t it bad if we get attacked here? Also, how unhinged is it that there’s a whole warehouse of luxury coffee machines in the kitchen and she makes us drink from the jars of shitty instant coffee, the cheapest quality in town. Like you have to really look hard to find that these days.”

 Aisha’s face freezes; her eyebrows shoot up. 

“Lady Cassandra, right?” she corrects me, and adds in an unnaturally loud voice. “I think this is a good place to work. It pays well, and I don’t mind the coffee.”

What a bunch of bullshit. Aisha is my only friend at work, and this is where I should shut up, for her sake, but I can’t be quiet.