Ever since I bought my first tarot deck, my fate has been sealed.
“One card wouldn’t hurt,” I told myself. I pulled out a card, The Devil. Later that very same day, Karen asked to see my manager.
Truly, the resemblance proves to be uncanny.
The next day, I pulled out another card. Ten of Swords. On my way downstairs, I saw a kitchen knife sitting on my counter. I’m certain that the two are connected. The universe works in mysterious ways.
Then, I began asking innocent questions. Will I make the track team? Does Brian like me back? What are the lottery numbers? When exactly will I meet my untimely demise? At first it was simple and noncommittal, answering my life’s conundrums through the cards. Soon, however, I began to spiral.
These days, I fear that I may have grown . . . a tad too attached.
The cards have become an ever-present item in my bag. I take them with me everywhere. They even stay next to me as I sleep, tempting me still even in the darkest corners of my unconsciousness.
The Magician, he torments me in my nightmares.
“Is this your card?” He asks me that over and over again. It’s not my card. It’s never my card.
I can feel his disappointment looming over me even as I wake.
“Should I go outside today?” I question, huddled under my duvet. I pull out The Hermit. Little do I know the gravity of its statement.
“Will I survive the rest of my semester?” I huddle over my laptop, jittering from a bloodstream consisting only of red bull. Death. But of course, any esteemed tarot card writer will tell you that The Death is purely metaphorical.
Day after day, the cards flow endlessly. They begin to dictate my every move. The Hermit has appeared more often than I can count.
I soon realize that my deck only consists of The Hermit.
I write this now, huddled in my corner. I draw a card with trembling fingers. With a gasp, it flutters down to the floor before me now.
The Fool.
My own image stares back at me —
Oh god —
It was me all along.
