She

She took a deep inhale, clutched her hairbrush in her fist, and beginning at the top of her scalp She began slowly brushing through her long flowing black hair.

She diligently brushed from root to tip, breathing more life into her long locks. And then, taking even more care, she moved the brush down to the long beard that flowed from the bottom of her chin.

Her beard had gotten longer, thicker, and shinier in the past few months. It meant the injections were working, but it still didn’t have the look she wanted. Ever since she was a child, she’s been particular about every detail of her appearance, and the beard was no exception.

In the meantime, She attached a fresh row of extensions under the chin, gave the ends a slight trim, and headed to the stage.

A few years ago, when she was younger and her body was tighter, She had the center spot in the “Hallway of Freaks.” However, over the years, the Snake Girl, a 22-year-old topless runaway, who tattooed her entire body and forked her tongue, became the main attraction.

So here She was, The Bearded Lady. Confined to her platform near the end of the stage. It was small and had a pole through the middle of it, an obvious play by her boss to bring the “sex factor,” but it was her place to shine and to hold people’s attention, even if it was only for a few moments.

There was something She rather liked about the shock and awe on people’s faces when they saw a perfectly attractive woman from the back to be revealed as a bearded freak from the front. The more drama She brought to the performance, the more tips She would collect.

Four hours later, when the lights went down, She had a nice pile of coins at the bottom of her stage, and She was free to go.

She quickly darted to her dressing room, threw on loose pants, and a sensible jacket over her sequin stage bikini, swapped her heels for broken in boots and headed into town to Moon Sun’s Pharmacy.

Along the cobblestone path, She passed the town’s lottery station. A wood stage, with a sign that had tomorrow’s potential earnings on it. $20,000.

She had never seen the number so high before. Must mean no one has won in months.

Sam Moon was a kind, quiet old man who smelled like pipe tobacco and peppermint. The way she imagined a grandfather would smell. He only kept late hours to tend to the Freak Show residents. Steroids for The World’s Strongest Man, Adderall for the Fire Jugglers, skin bleaching cream for the Albino Beauty and of course a special injection for her to encourage beard growth.

I’ll take a stamp, envelope, and a house special right here She said, pointing to the side of her thigh.

“You should really be careful staying open this late.” She said, her tone, shifting silently.

“Don’t worry, Sweetie,” Sam replied patting the gun directly under his counter.

She paid him from her tip money, then immediately put the rest of the coins in the envelope. As Sam filled the syringe, Jolene started scribbling a note for her Grandmother to accompany this week’s share.

“You know, this will eat up your insides and destroy you one day.” Sam said.

“One day,” Jolene replied.

“But living this inauthentic life—all the lying you’re doing, that will destroy your soul.”

“I’m not lying, I’m just leaving out some details.”

But the truth was, She was lying. She was lying about everything. She lied to her family about her job, telling them she was a famous singer in town. She even lied about the only thing that earned her family money, being The Bearded Lady.

She closed her eyes, quickly wiped away a small tear and positioned herself for the shot.

“Thank you, sir.” She said with a wink and a smile.

“Wait. I have something for you.”

Sam reached under the desk and slid out a beautiful black leather notebook onto the counter.

“Maybe you can write songs in it.” He said, “Maybe it will bring you some luck or help you with your problem.”

“My beard?”

“No, your lying.”

She rolled her eyes slightly, but smiled, as she ran her hands along the smooth leather and flipped through the pages. Everything was blank, but it had the comforting musty smell of an aged library look.

“Thank you.” She said and slipped the book into her bag.

That evening curled up on the cot in her dim studio apartment, She began to write. She sipped her vodka from the bottle—her only clean glass was currently catching the drips of leaking water coming from her ceiling.

Drip, Drip, Plop, Drip, Drip, Plop

There was almost a rhythm to it. If she wasn’t so tired, She could have almost used it to craft a melody, but instead she began writing about the only thing really on her mind: the lottery.

She began to scribble down dreams of what winning $20,000 could do for her, painting a life that was free from ogling drunks, leaking apartments, and injection bruises covered with makeup.

She wrote so much she dozed off with the book wide open in her lap.

The next morning, She looked down at the journal before her and noticed four small numbers written in a curling script font right under her entry.

3313

That was odd. She looked around her small studio, but the door was still locked from the inside.

As she made her way back to the freak show grounds, She gently pushed her way through the crowd surrounding the lottery stage.

“Five minutes, Five minutes! You’re just four numbers and five minutes away from life changing forever!”

And before She could stop herself, She was sliding a single coin into the man’s hands and writing 3313 and her name on a loose piece of paper. She instantly regretted her decision to let such precious money go to waste.

But the feeling faded, within minutes, every feeling of guilt, every noise from the crowd and even the cold from the late fall air, suddenly disappeared. Because that man on the stage was handing her a bag filled with money.

That evening, She used the book to pen a letter to her grandmother, trying to explain the larger than normal deposit. But soon, She realized an extra line of text below her letter, in the same scripted font.

The Freakshow Lot can be purchased for $1000.

It took only a week for her to secure the property and come up with a new idea for the grounds. You see, her book let her in on a secret. Snake Girl had been stealing from the Freak Show for months. A real silver mirror from the dressing room, tips from The Human Skeleton, a portion of the pot from ticket sales. It was then, in the moments between shooing her off the property and taking back an old shawl she had swiped from the dressing room, that She had the idea.

That moment is when Celeste the Clairvoyant was born.

Without her beard, and with enough money for real makeup, Celeste was actually quite beautiful. Weathered by age and time, of course, but still statuesque in her beauty. The Albinos would take appointments, and every night Celeste would write each name down in the book and wait for a bold cursive reply.

It took about two weeks for the word to start spreading, and for the lines to get longer. She could make the same amount in one session as Celeste as The Bearded Lady could make in a whole week.

Celeste was even interviewed for the paper, where she aptly predicted that the man in charge of a competing publication was stepping out on his wife. The story, along with photographic proof, broke just a few days later.

She predicted horse races, baby genders, told people to go to the doctor when a heart attack was imminent. And it made her feel good. Celeste felt like was helping people cheat fate and protecting them from the cruel world that She had once hated so.

Then one night, while spelling out her 33rd name for the evening, she received a shorter message back than normal.

This woman’s future is not well. She wants to travel in a car, but she must NOT under any circumstances.

Celeste was taken aback, shocked by the sentence before her, but shook it off, snapped the book shut and went to bed.

The next day, as appointment number 33 came through the curtain and sat across from her. Celeste’s stomach dropped as she saw two familiar faces. Sam Moon’s wife and young son sat across from her.

Mrs. Moon hurriedly told a story about needing to travel to New York to see a doctor that could help her child, but she would need to use all her money for the appointment. She wanted Celeste to tell her if the doctor could save him.

Celeste felt the room spin. Her palms became sweaty and cold, her face flushed. She stammered and tried desperately to find the right words. “Ummm...”

“I used a fake name. I’m sorry.” She said, “I didn’t want my husband to know I came here and spent our money.”

“Ahh...” Celeste stammered.

“It’s not going to help?” the woman asked quietly.

Celeste saw tears begin to build up in the boy’s eyes as he looked to his mother in panic.

“No! It will help! But you should take the train,” she said with a hard swallow.

“I cannot take the train Miss Celeste. I can’t afford it. And the train station is a 30-minute drive.”

“Here,” said Celeste, ransacking the gold purse under her table. “Take this and umm… take the train. So, you can get your help even faster.”

She threw several coins on the table, and quickly got up and excused herself to her dressing room.

Her old dressing room had a familiar smell. She picked up her brush out of habit and quickly began fluffy her long black locks. Her makeup was smeared from sweat and as she leaned in, she saw a single curled hair popping out of her chin.

She could tell her about the book, about how she didn’t really know what would happen if they got in the car. But that could mean sacrificing the book, her reputation, and everything she had. Everything she had worked for.

She quickly plucked the hair, powdered her cheeks and stepped out to the crowd forming around her tent.

By the next morning, the sick feeling in Celeste’s stomach had disappeared. She thought about venturing over to Sam’s shop, but she had work to do. She had the biggest event of her life coming up—a live show. Over 5,000 people in a packed hall, all for her. Just like she always dreamed.

The night of the show was a success, she mixed big predictions about babies and job promotions with crowd pleasers like guessing someone’s underwear color.

The Albinos came up with a brilliant strategy, and hid a mirror under her crystal ball, so she could read the book’s predictions without missing a beat.

The crowd was cheering, entranced with every answer.

Then, a man in the front row stood up. His eyes red with tears and sunken in from sorrow.

She could smell the peppermint and pipe tobacco before she could hear him.

Celeste froze, tears pooling in her eyes. She knew.

“Can you tell me what happens when lies catch up to you, Miss Celeste the Clairvoyant?”

His was voice shaking between each syllable.

“It destroys your soul.” She whispered.

And the moment the words left her lips, that small man cloaked in grief, who She once loved so, pulled a gun out of his bag and pointed it at the inauthentic creature in front of him.

Click.