he inside of the tent had a colloquial feel to it. While one would expect the place to resemble a hubris amount of neatness and a somewhat nice business, the indolent place was actually empty. Bottles of wine laid upon cabinets like an exotic dancer waiting to be paid their due from a long night's work. Clothes of different fabrics looked as if they alone worked twelve-hour shifts. The only redeeming thing about the place was the lights. More to the peak wore a long string of fairy lights that shined a bright yellow. Zoey breathed in. The room smelled of something... baked. Something she couldn't quite put her finger on. The girl's mind began to wonder about the different types of things they could encounter.
"Are you sure this is the right place?" Amire's eyes made her way over to touch the glass sphere that made the whole place caveat. "Maybe we went to the wrong place."
"No. This is the right place." Zoey's face scrunched up as she tries to peek through the supposed hallway. Down the path showed only darkness, the only thing visible was a shoddy shelf barely hanging onto the linen. "No, this has to be right. I put the right address into the GPS." "I told you. Maybe we should... turn around" Zoey winced. The voice sounded gentle but just as condescending. It felt as if a mother was asking to hold your birthday money, fake. Zoey turned around and placed her hands over her ears. Please stop, I don't need this right now, but the voice persisted.
"Hey Zoe, are you okay?" Amire's voice attempted to pierce through the madness but failed all the same. "You need me, I was here before everyone. I know what's best for you, LISTEN TO ME! Do you hear me?" Zoey could hear the other repeatedly saying her name. But she couldn't answer. Not now. "Answer my question, ZOEY!" The voice in her head began to shift. From someone she saw as a mother to the thing she feared long ago. It let out another shriek, the same one from earlier. Leaving Zoey's ears ruptured, the only thing she could do to protect herself was kneeling.
"At first I wasn't gonna accept any customer, but it seems like you needed more help than I thought." The appearance of a new voice caused everyone in the room to look around the room.
"Who was that?" Amire began to pick up the glass ball, ready to use it as a weapon. It's not like it would've helped much but it was something. Zoey reached her hand to her ears to feel for blood. Nothing. She could've sworn she was bleeding. Now to mention it, she was alone with her thoughts. No extra voices, no screeching, nothing. She almost wanted to cry of happiness but absolved from doing so. Out of the corner of her eye, an older woman appears. The woman looked to be in her late eighties or early nineties. She was white and frail but wore baggier dresses that didn't show anything. The most noticeable thing about her was the scar that ran from her right clavicle to her eyebrow. She wore her hair in a bun with a light blue ribbon to hold it together. Amire, seeming to also spot the woman, began to defend the two by hastily throwing the glass ball that resided in her hand. Zoey at first opened her mouth to object, but it was too late.
"Jesus Christ what is wrong with you?" The older woman rightfully seethed at her attacker. "Do I have to charge you both for breaking and entering?" Zoey slowly made her way to the owner of the place without causing even more of a stir.
"Uhh, no ma'am! I'm so sorry she did that! I could pay you extra if y-"
"No, don't worry about that." She waved Zoey's kind gesture aside as she walked over to one of her shabby looking cabinets. "You don't start a mystic business without people throwing some stuff around when they're anxious." She seemed to exchange quite the odd laugh to herself as she set another glass ball, identical to the first, down on the table.
"Uh," The Iconoclast that wasn't Zoey began to speak. "I'm sorry, who are you?" The woman smiled as if she had heard the most life-changing joke. Amire, still not understanding, looked at Zoey for some type of answer. Feeling nervous, Zoey opens her mouth to speak.
"Mother Hemmingway."