Hello, Goodbye, Dad

I found the medium online,

through a Facebook group.

We made arrangements to meet.

Her name was Delores Debato. She was big, fat, lumpy woman, with a freckled cheeks and bright red hair. She had a lot of tattoos, including eyeballs on the back of each hand.

I didn't see them because of her hair, but she claimed to also have two eyes on the back of her head.

She carried a crystal ball with her, virtually everywhere she went, even Taco Bell. It was a clear, blue-silver globe roughly the size of a softball. Most of her Facebook photos showed her with it.

Delores was a loner, a self-proclaimed asexual wild woman with an "intellectual crush" on Leonardo DiVinci. She claimed to have communed with the Renaissance man when she had the greatest experience of her life, visiting the Museum of the Last Supper in Milan, Italy.

Don't ask me. That's what her Facebook profile said.

Everyone-- including her-- claimed she had a particular psychic talent that intrigued me. The more I looked into it, my intrigue became damn near an obsession.

Stalking her for a couple weeks, I confirmed she not only lived alone (with a multitude of cats), her home was out in the country, a few miles from town.

That made the appeal irresistible.

I'd only done this once before but that turned out exactly as planned.

Just thinking what it might mean for my psyche made me quake with jittery excitement. That novel eagerness was underscored with old unbridled rage.

The anticipation was an irritant, like I was being held back by itchy restraints that were only slowly dissolving.

I even started dreaming about it, albeit in some really surreal ways.

Of course.

In one hyperpalatable dream, Delores rode up for a single minute in a dripping multicolored double-decker bus. She told me

♩♪♩♬ ♬♩♪♩Living is easy with eyes closed,

misunderstanding all you see☜ ☜ (↼_↼)

When the medium finally picked the right night~~ with the exact planetary alignment~~ we went to my father's grave-site.

She wore a flimsy black dress, sleeveless to show off more tattoos. Her fingernails were painted pink. She wore various rings & bracelets, and her belt & anklets were made from freshly picked ivy vines.

His grave had not been well kept. I supressed a smile. I paid the sexton to purposely have it neglected.

I put on a show for Delores, more out of curiosity than anything else. I cried crocodile tears, even clinging to my father's black headstone like he once mattered.

Clearly she couldn't tell I was faking it.

That meant she was no mind-reader.

The question was: could she really channel the dead?

She read the inscription. "His name was Bartholomew Worthington?"

"Obviously." I said. She was looking right at his name, date of birth, and death date.

"Did he have a nickname? Bart?"

"No. He hated that name. Everyone called him Worth...." ...even though he was worthless pile of horse shit and pig guts.

The psychic smiled.

Her teeth were tragic.

She placed the crystal ball on the prick's final resting place.

She chanted.

She flapped her arms like she thought she had wings.

She smoked cannabis from a purple pipe, even offering a toke to me.

I declined.

It was no time to be high.

She twirled, while playing a wooden flute. The tune sounded like the Beatles song: Hello Goodbye.

At times it appeared as if she was eating the pipe, instead of making music with it.

She twirled in circles. Blowing smoke rings, she sprinkled catnip onto the rotting bastard.

Catnip? Seriously? I thought she was scattering more marijuana until she made a point of telling me what it was.

That's when I knew I was a fool to believe in Facebook recommendations.

But then she summoned my father's spirit.

She froze, standing stock-still, dropping the pipe, her hands stretched straight down, her rings falling off her fingers! Her body had a slight quiver to it and a sound, like a tuning fork.

Her hair seemed to catch a strong wind, giving her head a fiery tangled halo.

The ivy wines she wore withered and fell to the ground.

Her eyes rolled over white as her jaw unlatched.

Her green eyeshadow turned black.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. 🌩

I heard that familiar vile voice, calling me,

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ“Is that you, Warren? You damnable idiot! As if this already wasn't Hell enough! What the fuck do you want?”~○◦˚.˚◦○˚~~~

It sounded exactly like my dad-- the harsh timbre, the angry tone, the demeaning words.

But I'd read up on demons and their trickery, so I needed to be sure.

“Tell me, Bart: how did you die?”

The medium stood like a rock statue and the ghost spoke through her,

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ“You did it! You murdered me, chopped me up, and threw my pieces in the lake!”~○◦˚.˚◦○˚~~~

Pulling out my prized knife, I raged, “And that’s why I called you back, you perverted son of a bitch...!

🩸 🩸　🩸 🩸　🩸

....To do it again!❗!”

Her blood splattered his tombstone.

　 　 🪦　

🩸 🩸　 🩸🩸 🩸　🩸 🩸　

A man’s screams became a woman’s.

↯

__________________Bolt⚡