Page 3 of Oracles Always Win

Mystupid brain was an asshole, pointing out all the holes in my logic like that.

“Comeon,Jake.Youcan do it.Justthink about it, nice and calm, and you’ll remember everything.Hehad to have legs.”Igrunted and pulled on my hair when my brain refused to cooperate.

Iswallowed hard, desperately wanting to believeI’dseen someone riding a horse, but my memory kept telling me something else.

Becauseit really, really hadn't looked like a rider on a horse.

Itwas more like a mythical creature instead.Acentaur?Orwas it a satyr?Icouldn’t remember the difference right now.Thelast timeI’dseen something like that was on an old cartoon.Ihadn’t seen many episodes, only sneaking them in when my mom was running errands.Whenshe’d discovered whatI’dbeen doing, she sold the television and that was the end of that.Whichexplained whyIcouldn’t remember them very well.

WhoknewI’dregret choosingContemporaryArtHistoryoverAncientGreekandRomanArtHistory?Itdidn’t really matter, though, did it?Becauseeither way, mythical creatures weren’t real.

“I’mlosing my mind.”Imoaned, rubbing my hands over my face.

Betweenthe nocturnal painting and the hallucinations, what other conclusion was there?

Ilaughed bitterly, whether from the absurdity of my life or the real fear for my sanity,Iwasn't sure.Iground the heels of my hands into my burning eyes.Panicwasn't helping anything.Ineeded to get a grip.

“I’mokay,”Isaid asIbounced on my toes and shook out my arms. “It’sjust stress and lack of sleep.It’llbe okay.I’llbe okay.”

Ihad to be.

Rightnow, it felt like the only things holding me together were this weird little town and this inn.Theygave me something to think about besides my own problems, anchoring me whenIfelt afloat.

Thetownsfolk were always checking up on me, sometimes more thanIwould have liked.Butthey knewIwas new to town, and they'd really liked my grandfather, so they took me under their wing, so to speak.Apparently, the old guy had been quite the pillar of the community, so they extended the same warmth to me.Theywere nice.Friendly.Thequintessential small town welcome party.Really.

Butthat horse.

WhatwasIsupposed to think about that lousy horse?

IfI’dbeen drinking, this would be so much easier to dismiss.ButI’dbeen drug and alcohol free whenI’dclimbed into bed—Iglanced at the time on my phone—three hours ago.Ireally needed to get some sleep.TomorrowwasSaturday, the busiest day of the week at the bar, and coincidentally the only time my bank account didn’t hate me.

Ayawn erupted from me.Iwashed my hands over my face.Right.Nothingwould be solved tonight anyway.Thebest plan was to return to bed and try to get a few hours of sleep.

“I’lldeal with you in the morning,”Isaid asIflipped the bird at the painting, before retrieving my paintbrush from the floor whereI’dthrown it.Iwiped the acrylic paint from the wall and the rug with a wet rag—it came up, mostly—then returned to my painting corner to wash out the brush.I'djust dipped the brush into aMasonjar of water when a faint noise from outside made me pause.

Leeryof seeing another part horse/part man hallucination,Iswallowed and gripped the jar tightly.Ineeded to look.Ireally did.

“It’llbe fine,”Isaid. “I’llsee the animal for what it really is.Yes.Absolutely.Goodidea.Agood dose of reality will wash away all the weirdness.”

Thefear snaking through my belly was unfounded.Completelyridiculous, really.

Withmy heart pounding,Ikilled the lightI'dturned on afterI’dbeen jarred awake by an unfamiliar noise in time to see the…horse.Darknesssurrounded me asIpeered out at the moonlit night.Thegrooves on the lip of the jar dug into my fingers asItightened my grip even more and stepped closer to the window.Freshair, tinged with the peaty damp smells that always erupted after a rain—petrichor,Ithought it was called—wafted in through the screen and cooled my sweat-slicked skin.

There.

Iclasped the curtain tightly asIcaught movement to the left.

“Itisn’t a horse.”Ihooted and did a fist pump.Reliefexploded through me.

Lightflickered through the leaves of the trees lining the driveway.Iheld my breath.Thenthe lights grew brighter.Seeinga vehicle on the road outside the inn shouldn’t be so mesmerizing.Atthis time of year, a lot of kids drove out to the lookout at the end of the lake.Theyraced along the winding road that followed the contours of the lake edge before stopping at the lookout to make out.OrsoI’dheard.I’dbeen too old whenImoved here to have any personal experience with the local teenage hangouts.

Soa bit of traffic, even at this hour, wasn’t a new or unusual thing, but something kept me at the window tonight.Thefaint moonlight was still trying to break through the clouds, but there was enough light to see a massive older-model motorhome with a utility trailer behind it.Thebeast of a machine coasted over the road sluggishly, moving much too slowly to be teenagers hoping to get lucky.Thelow hum of the engine and the crunch of tires over the gravel road filtered through my open window.

“Oh, no…”

Igulped and stared unblinkingly at the scene emerging outside my window.Theheadlights formed wedge-like cones and caught on the small puddles that’d pooled on the road following the shower earlier in the evening.

Icouldn't see my painting in the darkness, butIdidn't have to.Iremembered well enough whatI'dseen there moments earlier, and the view from my window matched it.Istood, transfixed, until the vehicle disappeared and the noise from the engine faded away.