It’s insulting, really. 

 

If half the number of ungrateful asses I’ve prophesied in this city were decent people to begin with then I wouldn’t need to rely on the divine for my next meal but here we are. Oracle’s day disgusts me. ‘Hey I know, let’s lock up some poor girl and get her so high she can talk to the gods, but it’s ok because we’ll name a day for her.’ Sick twisted bastards. The only thing that has never lied to me was the visions. 

 

For instance, my bowl. It was empty when I woke up and it will be empty until I do something about it. ‘Money’ is for mortals, which complicates things, but when I look in the bowl I see chickpeas and radishes. That’s nice. That meant that Alexius would be feeding me today, most likely. I leave my tent. 

 

The crowds part for me. Respect, fear, disgust; whatever the reason it’s convenient all the same. 

 

Some hunting man stopped by a few weeks before, eager to know where his next bounty lie waiting for him. He was probably smiling, from the tone of his voice. Who knows, he probably thinks he found his golden ticket; if he can just ask the oracle where to point a spear then he can just kick up his heels and relax. All I saw when I looked at him was the mangled mess he was destined to become; scraps ripped apart by something deep in the woods, most likely.

 

 I told him to retire; like those fools always do, he ignored me. Now his people blame me for getting the idiot killed. I’m made a pariah on my own worthless holiday. I probably won’t even get a card. What worthless drivel. I can’t even stand to look at the pale, bloated, disgusting faces of the people. I can’t look them in their milky, lifeless eyes. Most of their deaths look the same. 

 

When I turn to the sea I see it again: The Wave. I haven’t seen the setting sun off the west coast since I was a little girl. All I’ve ever seen is The Wave, looming high over the city like a butcher slaughtering a boar. It wasn’t moving, again, just lingering. It haunts my days and forces me to carry on as if everything was going to be fine. 

 

There are three things an oracle trades for the privilege to see the wave: She cannot see normally, she cannot live normally, and she cannot change what she sees. I, for one, lasted three weeks before I first tried meddling with someone’s fate. How did that go? She fell and died in the exact spot I told her to avoid, holding the very ring I told her to throw away, at the hands of the man I told her to escape. 

 

You get used to these things. 

 

I’m jealous of Alexius, who acts all cocky with his three limbs and toothless smile. All he has to do is yell and sell the fruits of his family’s labor. He works, don’t get me wrong, but whenever I stop by he always seems to be in the same chair yelling the same things at the poor faces walking by. 

 

I know what drowning looks like, and it is the future for everyone in the market. I used to foresee a gallery of different endings. Some people died of disease, some in battle, on the hunt, at the hands of a lover. The variety in causes of death thinned out over the years and now all that remained were future victims of The Wave. Everyone. 

 

Everyone, that is, save for Alexius. There’s a mirror in his shop and he knows to cover it before I will walk in. His face is old, peaceful. I don’t know when he will die, but I hope it will be in his sleep. He sounds about as old as he looks. 

 

I’ve talked to him before about leaving, about getting out before the wave comes. He isn’t interested. I suppose that as long as he’s still kicking, the wave won’t come. Either that or he survives like some kind of badass. I’m alright with either version. I’ve made my peace with fate: I don’t like it and it doesn’t like me. 

 

He hands me my food, some produce that wasn’t selling, and grabs his own plate. Before we eat together, he’s the first to say: “Happy Oracle’s Day!”