Unfortunate

2024 Write Now Winner - Adult, Non-University of Iowa Alumni

Do not trust a person with clean hands.

“Score! Mine says that I’m going to inherit a small fortune in the coming days! What does yours say, Riley?” The voice of a friend echoed aimlessly in the space behind my blank eyes. What was I looking at? I had opened countless fortune cookies from the Chinese takeout spot across from the school, but this one was different enough to tear my consciousness away from reality. What was this impending feeling of doom?

“Um, Earth to Riley?” The same friend that had read their fortune aloud had begun to wave a hand in front of my face. I blinked a few times and shoved the narrow strip of paper into one of the pockets of my jeans.

“Sorry, I spaced out.” I gave a boring answer which was followed by a comment in agreement. I made up some false statement about my fortune saying I would meet the love of my life or something along those lines and conversation eventually turned from fortune cookies to upcoming exams. The foreboding statement that was now crumpled up in my pocket stayed attached to my mind like a parasite. Every word I spoke was followed by some uneasy feeling. When my friends looked left and right before crossing the street, I looked behind. If I were to speak these feelings aloud, I would instantly feel foolish, but I could not pass the sense that I was being watched.

Someone failed their math test, someone started dating their crush, someone had a candy bar packed in their lunch. The days came and went, eventful enough for the likes of us. I would exit the school building and stare that restaurant down, always disappointed that it hadn’t disappeared during the seven hours I was trapped within cinder block walls. It was a measly fortune, so why was I letting it rule me by fear? I didn’t even put those jeans in the wash, even though they felt dirtier than usual that forsaken day. Forsaken? What was I even saying? I had tossed the jeans into the back of my closet, not wanting the sight of them to remind me of those nauseating words.

I tried to find reasons not to grab takeout after school when my friends asked. It started simple enough: I had chores to finish before dinner, I had too much homework, or I just had a headache and wanted to get home and lie down. Then those excuses became overused and friends began asking if something was wrong or if I was trying to avoid them. I ended up enrolling in tutoring and after-school volunteering just to avoid the chances of cracking open another fortune cookie.

I can hear it now: Riley, you’re being ridiculous. It was one odd fortune, so what? I know that, trust me… I do. It’s silly and it’s stupid. It was. It was a fortune cookie. I shouldn’t destroy my social life over some crescent-shaped wafer.

So I gave in and went to grab takeout after cleaning up the school’s courtyard. I don’t even remember what I ordered because that was unimportant. All that mattered was that complimentary dessert. I snapped the cookie but it didn’t open cleanly. It fractured terribly, causing crumbs to fall clumsily on the white linoleum floor. I hadn’t even left the building yet because I was so anxious to see what this cookie held.

Never do anything halfway.

That was normal, right? That was a very normal statement to find in a fortune cookie. It was vague and motivational. Never do anything halfway! Complete your aspirations! Don’t stop now! Normal.

“Is something the matter?” A crooked voice came from behind me. I realized I was still standing in front of the door to leave, my hand hovering above the push bar. I turned to meet eyes with an employee that had been cleaning the floors. I think I might have been the only customer, that or everyone else was really quiet and pushed up against the walls. I could feel the employee’s gaze piercing through me and into the paper pinched between my fingers. 

I didn’t even muster a reply, I just shouldered the door open and headed straight home.

My parents were either working late or out to dinner and my siblings had some sort of extracurriculars, so I was entering an empty house. I didn’t even bother to eat the food I had bought, just tossed it on the dining room table. With fortune still enclosed in my sweaty palm, I skidded down the stairs to our unfinished basement. I fumbled against the cement wall with my free hand until I found the light switch, gracing the room with a liminal glow. Across from the switch was an old laundry tub sink. The washer and dryer used to be in the basement but was relocated to the main floor a couple years after my family moved in. Now all that was left in the long-forgotten renovation project basement was the sink, some boxes both filled and empty, and a cooler that we’d store venison in from hunting season.

I went straight to the sink and eyed the half-empty bottle of dish soap that sat by the drain. My eyes flicked across the concave surface of the sink, searching for anything I had missed. Halfway? I hadn’t done it halfway. I was thorough. I was clean.

I then shuffled over to the cooler. It was empty as hunting season was almost upon us. It was empty because everything had been disposed of. It should have been empty, but there was a small strip of paper that caught my eye. I threw the sliding door atop the cooler as far over as it would go and snatched the paper. As I took in the words left for me–left in my very own home–I vomited across the water-stained concrete floor.

I know what you did.