Scar

Whilst walking down the street was when I first gained notice of the scar on the back of my hand. It was shaped somewhat like a mattress, if there had been a mattress with the words, “I am a thief and a no good dirty liar” written on it. Naturally, I was very confused, as anyone typically is when they notice strange mattress scars on the back of their hands. I resolved to find out where it came from and why it was there.
I went to the fortune teller. Sat down. Crossed her palms with gold, so to speak. She stared at her little crystal ball for about five minutes, then pulled a sheaf of papers from under her table and started to write, rather voraciously, if you can even call writing voracious. But it was rather frantic, and maybe even frenzied, nevertheless. It was some odd crossing point between a normal, composed state such as she had been in when I walked in, and the stereotypical fortune teller frenzy that often proves itself to be a sham owing to its over-zealousness. After she finished scribbling, she handed me the piece of paper and told me to get the hell out of her place. So I left.
I went to the closest deli with sitting space, ordered a sandwich, and sat down to read the prognosis.
After I had read it, my mind was racing. I ate my sandwich quickly, paid for it, and walked at the speed of light back to my hotel room. The ten minutes it took to get there seemed like years, to use a cliché that hopefully will not betray a lack of creativity on my part.
When I got to my room, I laid down on my bed and stared at the ceiling. Thinking. Just thinking about what I had read. Was it true? If so, if I made it true by accepting it as true, then I would just be damning myself to a long life of self-torture and pain. Could M.D. really have killed E.? It didn’t seem possible. But then again, there was that time in Jakarta when M.D. and J.F. beat each other unconscious. And K.E. couldn't have stolen that shipment of diamonds, they were so securely locked away that K.E., an amateur locksmith who created and broke locks as a hobby starting two months ago, couldn’t possible have gotten at them, and therefore this who affair with H.O. couldn’t have even come to such a bad end at all. I tried to think it away, to create an alibi for M.D. He was at the coffee shop, yes that was where he was it never happened at all that fortune teller is just a stupid liar and I am not a bad person and this is all a dream and when I wake up tomorrow morning my scar will be gone and everything will be sunny and happy again. I giggled.