Tarot Sour Read Online Free

their roost and later pop back into existence. It is as though the videotape, wanting to make sense of the unusual event of the reappearance of the shattered particles, reinvents its past to reflect its future.
    It wasn’t until that evening while I am undressing for bed that I find it. Poking its peacock head out of my skin. For a moment I feel as though I understand his rage in lifting the chair from its place and tossing it at me. Just a moment, I feel as though everything has been justified. A breeze tossed through fluttering leaves. I claw at my back, just behind my shoulder, and I tear the feather out by its root. I throw it to the ground and step over it to climb into bed. By morning, it is gone, and it isn’t until this morning, on the ninth day, that I even associate its sudden growth with my death. Or rather, with my un-death. Or rather, with my re-birth.
    The hospital is an unimpressive building at the eastern edge of town, close to the road that leads to the highway. The most remarkable thing about the city, in fact, is the uniformity of its architecture. It is only by signs and past knowledge that anyone can tell the hospital from town hall from the shops from the homes. Well, some of the shops have wide storefront windows that differentiate them. And the town hall has its bellower. But other than that…even the hospital has a wide front porch under its canopy.
    I unwind the red gauze that has become sticky from my hand and show it to the receptionist. She examines it by prodding the puncture wounds with the eraser end of her pencil and tells me to take a seat. Perhaps if I roll up my sleeves to show her the itching scabs of my razor lines, she will take me as a higher priority. I sit there in the waiting room among the invalids and the ill. I try not to think about the time Kyra has to be rushed here with a near-death case of pneumonia, or the time my husband snaps his ankle slipping on the winter ice during an evening jog. I sit there and watch the faceless doctors amble in and out of rooms, the nurses flutter like moths with visceral white wings as they clutch the wriggling larvae of patients up out of their seats and carry them back to nests to be sewn up. There certainly aren’t enough homes in town to accommodate all of these doctors and nurses; the faceless ones, I guess, never having thought too much about it before, must be the ghosts of all the doctors and nurses who had come before, still unsatisfied with the way people continue dying by the gross no matter how hard they work at overriding God’s will.
    Finally I am summoned by one of the moths. Margaret Fasch, I know her from the monthly meetings of the parent-teacher association hosted in the cramped carpeted gymnasium of the schoolhouse. Her littlest, a tempestuous little girl with the unfortunate name of Ingot Fasch, is friends with Kyra, and I always had the sense that she has something of an attraction for Nickolas, though he is too self-interested and unindulgent to ever pay the girl any attention. Beautiful girl, ugly name. Which I attribute to her mother’s not wanting to be the one people scrunched their faces at upon introductions, herself for some reason choosing to use the nickname Margot over her full name.
    She emerges like a snow nymph from a flurry as she becomes distinguishable from the sterile white background. She clutches her clipboard and reads my name to the disappointment of the half dozen other patients discomfortably waiting their turns. She smiles warmly as I stand and she realizes that she knows me, and she ushers me out of the little grove of plaid-upholstered chairs and down the hall to a small room. She sits me on the vinyl counter and asks me what is wrong.
    I unroll the gauze from my twisted claw, having rewrapped it after showing the receptionist. This time I take the gauze off completely and lay my hand down on my thigh, my fingers are crooked and bent and I can’t move them without the