Palms

Holding hands, we step into the psychic’s tent together. We’d been to this fair every year since 2009, and he’d never let me go in. It was a deep purple and completely empty save for a single table and a chair for the psychic to sit on. She was old and wearing ragged clothing with many rings on her fingers. Fit the cliche pretty well. “Who’s palm shall I read?”

“His, his!” I shove my boyfriend toward the table. He reluctantly extends his arm and opens his hand. The elderly psychic takes it and begins rubbing two fingers over the creases. My boyfriend turns his head at me and rolls his eyes. It took a lot of begging for him to come in with me.

The psychic’s hand slowly begins to tremble as she reaches the center of his palm. Her forehead strains and her lips curl into a frown. Then her eyebrows raise and her mouth opens into a silent scream. She gasps for air and rises to her feet, the chair falling behind her. Her fingers do not leave him palm. “Murder!” she shrieks. Her eyes flash open with terror and she lets go of his hand. “Worse than I’ve ever seen! Murder!” she screams again, stinging my eardrums.

My boyfriend, completely unnerved, storms out of the tent. He doesn’t even look at me. Boy am I gonna get it from him.

“Why’d you go and do that?” I scold the woman, who is catching her breath. “You could have said anything. No one can really tell the future.”

The psychic glances at me, cringes, and stares blankly out of the tent at my boyfriend, who is still walking away. “My dear,” she whispers, voice quivering. “I don’t see the future. I see the past.”

—
Credits to: photofreecreepypasta