The Psychic

BY : SerafintheGreat
Category: Original - Misc > General
Dragon prints: 12923
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to real people, situations, or locations are coincidental.

I am so trapped. So utterly and completely trapped. I don’t know the month. I don’t know the day. I kind of know what season it is, but that’s only because I have windows, and I’m allowed to go outside if someone is watching me. I don’t know where I am, exactly, and I’m not quite sure how I got here, exactly. All I know is I am still alive.

That’s all I have right now: my life, my physical body, my being. Where was I before? I remember vaguely. How did I lose my memory? I didn’t lose my memory, actually. I just chose not to remember it anymore because it’s too depressing. It’s too depressing to think about the way things once were because they aren’t like that anymore.

All I can do in this situation is hope, but I’m losing it quickly. Perhaps it’s lost. No, I still have a little. It’s in there, but I hide it deep, deep inside of me, where even he can’t find it.

I’m in a house, perhaps a mansion, more like a goddamn estate if you include all the land it has. I’ve explored most of it, but there are many places I’m not allowed to see. The view would be magnificent if I was in a context in which I could enjoy it. I didn’t think such a place could exist, so remote and out of the way, but shows what I knew of upstate. The closest neighbor that I can see is across the river.

I don’t have a cellphone. He has a television, and I get to watch it sometimes. Sex crime shows used to be my favorite, until this happened. I occasionally have a newspaper, but that’s only used to mock me. When I’m feeling especially awful, he’s there to remind me right away of how awful it truly is.

“Oh, look, sweetie, your parents are in the news. They still miss you,” and he would hold up the newspaper, flashing a toothy grin.

He never had braces, and his two front teeth kind of turn inward.

“Great,” I would reply, but that was never satisfying enough, really, so he’d get especially mad that I wasn’t crying and figure out some other way to weaken me that day.

Why do that to me? I’m not quite sure. Perhaps he was bored. Perhaps he had a plan for me. Perhaps my tears made him hard. Perhaps…

Why me? Why me?

You’re probably wondering what the fuck is wrong with me in the first place. I’ll tell you once I get the stew out of the oven.

My stew is perfectly cooked and seasoned. The meat should be falling apart by now, but it hasn’t been turned into mush. I had put the little bouquet of herbs in the pot like I remembered from the television.

The one small luxury I have: cookbooks. At least I can explore my artistic self somehow, so I can actually feel good about something I’m producing. It’s all I really have, aside from this notebook and the pen. I’m going to hide this, though. I don’t want him to know that I’ve been documenting each and every time he’s raped me.

Did I just give away the big surprise? Yes, I’ve been raped, more than once. Some were questionable, some irrefutable. How so? There’s the time where I was raped by five of his men, so that was obvious. But there were several times I was put to sleep and not quite sure if it happened or not. I just woke up feeling sore with the sticky white stuff all over my stomach.

It’s weird, you know, being raped and raped continually because he would never call it that, like it was his term to define. No, he comforted me, made me feel good, took care of me. Rape? That’s a classless crime far beneath him.

I was kidnapped, yes, but my kidnapping is a little bit more special than yours because I was kidnapped by The Psychic.

The Psychic.

Now you’re interested.

Don’t let the face fool you. That’s not what he actually looks like.

I’ve seen everything beneath the make up. You wouldn’t recognize him for a second in real life without it. He probably goes out all the time, picking up a pizza for himself and the one who lives locked up in his house, and you’ve had no idea that he was the Psychic.

He’s better looking without the makeup, and before you judge me for saying that, I want you to go fuck yourself. Stop judging me.

Yes, I’m angry. I’m very angry, and I’m very angry at him, but I’m more angry at Doc. Yes, the Doc, the other mass murdering psychopath, for having brought me here in the first place. Doc is even better looking than the Psychic when he isn’t wearing his surgeon’s mask.

What time is it? Unfortunately, there are clocks in the house, which are constant reminders of time passing. Time passing so slowly.

Perhaps I should make some rice with the meal, just to add a carbohydrate. Yeah, that’s a good idea.

I’ve been so obsessive about not gaining weight while I’m here. In fact, much to the chagrin of The Psychic, I’ve lost weight. I wouldn’t call him a chub-chaser, but he likes curvy, and he likes tits and ass, which is probably the real reason he kept me in the first place. Unfortunately or fortunately, I have both.

Rather, I had both. Now I have shells of both. I have reduced my curviness in my obsession to not gain weight, to be in control of something. To occupy my mind I now put it all on what I’m eating. I measure very deliberate portions for myself because I don’t really do much moving anymore. I still stretch when he isn’t looking or when I’m alone. I try my best to maintain some type of physicality and sanity in this desperate situation.

I feel pathetic admitting this, but I was a dancer before I got here, a modern dancer. I probably wouldn’t have had much of a career anyway if I weren’t kidnapped.

Back to my eating situation…I do love talking about food, if you haven’t noticed, and I do love cooking food as well. Doing that for the man isn’t entirely unpleasant. Doing it for several men wasn’t too unpleasant either because they appreciated it so much, but I’m not allowed to do that anymore because it makes him angry.

I came into this place with a very pleasant soft, but firm, filled out body. Full hips, big boobs, tiny waist. I was definitely not fat. Haven’t been since I was a little kid and didn’t know how to feed myself. But I did have a very soft and feminine body, like when you go into museums and see paintings. That was my body.

That’s me, by the way. Reddish hair, long and curly, brown eyes. All that’s the same, now I’m just a little bit smaller. Some argue a lot smaller. It’s been angering the Psychic and he’s been trying to “compel” me to eat a little bit more. It hasn’t been working. I’ve been telling him to go fuck himself and lately he’s been allowing my sass. I’m allowed to talk back to him, but occasionally he’s in a mood, so he will get me back somehow.

I tell him he has to give me the agency to control something about myself, so I’ve chosen my body. He’s relented because I’ve thrown enough fits, but he isn’t happy about letting me be in control of anything. He says he’ll take care of me.

Anyway, I used to eat super healthy. You know, brown rice, whole grains, mostly vegetarian. Now I Just make things, and I make them the way I think he would want them.

Carbanara, that’s what I want to make tomorrow. I’ll make a note of that to whatever bitch is buying the groceries this week. He likes that. He always does. It’s easy to make and delicious. Fatty, he likes that, even though he’s so fucking thin. I guess it’s all the exercise he gets destroying the city and it’s neighboring suburbs. He needs the fuel, and I’m giving it to him.

In fact, that’s truly what has been keeping me alive, I think, my cooking ability and my cunning brain. If he didn’t have someone to fight with, he would have been long bored of me by now. It’s been 9 long months, and I’m still here. I’m still alive, and that’s an accomplishment. That’s a longer lifespan than one could expect in a concentration camp.

Is it that bad? Well, I guess one could always argue “it could be worse,” but as far as bad things go, this is pretty bad. I’m not an upper middle class hipster type complaining that no one understands me, the world sucks, it’s like the holocaust. I mean, I used to be that type, sort of, but what I’m saying is that this is pretty bad, and I don’t feel particularly selfish for complaining that I’m stuck with the most wanted, despised, and feared criminal in America.

How the hell did I get here in the first place, you might be wondering. Did I even tell you my name? My name is Margot. No, I’m not French, and neither are my parents. They’re just bougie. To their chagrin, most people call me Mags. He calls me Margot because he’s French.

Didn’t know that? There’s probably a lot about him you didn’t know, and I look forward to tell you because, well, I don’t have anything else to do right now. 

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