The psychic sits by the landline. She taps her charred cigarette on the ashtrays. Snowdrop bubbles chastise the rusted gold bathtub.
Her orchid hair cascading down her protruding shoulder blades. Smoke evaporating through her soul. She picks up the telephone with a delicate dexterity.
She is only sixteen but her skin is aged like leather. She is an idea that has been sat on and pondered for generations.
“Well Mr Blackbeard, I know that you have four children and one of them you are planning to kill”
…
“You see, I have a gift which you are well aware of as you are calling this landline and therefore interrupting my bath”
Her fingers go from number to number on the disc.
Nine. Nine, Nine.
“Ah, Detective Inspector. I have a Mr Blackbeard who may be a person of interest to you”
She cackles in the most exquisite but beautiful way.
“Oh my darling, would I ever provide you with such falseness? Would I ever mistreat your trust like that? Tell Mrs Blackbeard I said hello. Ciao Bella”
The phone makes a click when returned to its place of rest. The psychic takes in a substantial amount of cigarette smoke, blinding all of her senses.
She takes a handful of fragrant rose petals from her ocean of foresight and consumes them. They are laced with cyanide.
Beethoven’s dulcet tones drone on in the background as the psychic stares at the newspaper clipping melting in the water.
“Mr Blackbeard and the new Mrs Blackbeard are waved off as they make their way to their honeymoon” Heaving her last breath, the psychic emits a few painful words.
“I loved him”
