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 wake up in his room. He’s not here. He doesn’t want breakfast. I know that. And now I know why I know.

It’s because he’s told me already.

I had always thought the name “The Psychic” was symbolic. Like, he was really good at reading people and charismatic enough to get people to do what he wanted. Now, I realize it’s because he actually has power over people.

I remember that time he looked into my eyes, and I fainted. It was his power.

It all makes sense now how he can assure me with such confidence that no one will do anything to me. It’s because he’s told them not to do anything to me.

But that has failed him before and people have done things to me, awful things to me.

He has done awful things to me. He just tried to actually control you. The thought of what he’s done repulses me beyond anything else. The thought of him makes me want to throw up.

The problem, I quickly realize, is that he’s going to believe it’s had the real effect, so I’ll have to let him in. He told me I will feel wonderful and welcome his touch.

He’ll know eventually you’re lying.

I just can’t let him have sex with me whenever he wants.

You might have to.

He’s here.

I know it. He’s here. I have to go downstairs. He wants me downstairs.

I find him in the living room. He’s in his full make-up drag already prepared, I guess, for a night on the town.

“Can I bring you anything?” I ask him, trying really very hard to play my part.

“No, I’m fine. Thank you. Did you sleep well?” he asks as he looks up at me.

Instinctually, I avert eye contact, “Yes, I slept very well, thank you.”

There’s a pause, “Sit with me.”

I hesitate. I fear him now, totally. I don’t want to sit with him, but I know I have to.


I look at him.

“Sit down,” he articulates.

I nod and I sit on the chair next to the sofa.

“I told you to sit with me,” he spells out carefully.

I sit next to him quickly remembering his command from the night before: I’m going to feel good the next morning, and I’m going to welcome his touch. I’m not following it, and I might confuse him if I keep on acting so obstinate. If he put anymore power behind his gaze, I would most definitely not survive it.

I decide to act more pleasant. I make sure our sides are touching. He puts an arm around me, and I look up at him. His makeup is completely fresh, and I hope he doesn’t want to ruin it with any strenuous activity with me.

He leans in and sniffs my hair, “What shampoo are you using these days?”

“Whatever you’ve bought me.”

“Good. You smell nice. I like it.”

I smile, “thank you.”

If I comply with, he will likely not hypnotize me, I try to reassure myself. How far does “comply” extend? Last night he didn’t fuck me, but he will soon.

My mind wanders to how many times he must have already used his power against me. Those nights where I’ve slept for so long without even realizing how the time has passed. Or anytime I told him anything about myself without really wanting to? That time I stripped for him for no reason?

“You seem tense, dear, relax.” Suddenly I feel that warmth in my body. Even if I didn’t let him take me all the way, he has taken me somewhere. 

“Everything is ready for you Psychic when you-“ then the voice stops at the door.

It’s Doc, limping. He sees me with Psychic’s arm wrapped around me. I go to pull myself away, embarrassed, but the Psychic’s arm keeps me in place.

“Good, then we are all set for 11 tonight?”

“Yes, we are,” the Doc says, also uncomfortable.

The Psychic returns to his book.

The Doc and I lock eyes, and I look away quickly, embarrassed.  He leaves the room as quickly as he came in.

“I’m hungry. You must be hungry.”

I nod.

“Well, why don’t you make us something for lunch?”

“Okay,” I go to leave, but he holds me there.

“Margot, look at me.”

I turn slowly to look at him, terrified of his eyes. He’s smiling, warmly, and he leans in and kisses me on the lips.

I feel a gentle pulsating down my entire body. I feel I want him, but I think better of it because I’m not quite sure that thought belongs to me or him. I get up, shakily, and I leave him.

I go to the kitchen and Doc is there. Doc looks at me, and I look away from him, filled with shame for having been caught. As I stand by the stove, I hear him approaching.

“Mags,” he leans in quietly to me, “If you need anything, ever, please, let me know.”

I stop what I’m doing and I look at him, “Excuse me?” Before he can say anything, I continue, "I don’t need anything, not from you. Now, leave me the fuck alone before I get into trouble for talking to you.”

“What’s going on in here?” And it’s too late.

The Psychic is already standing at the doorframe. Doc raises his hands and steps away from me, “I’m sorry, I overstepped.”

“Doc, do I have to make you never speak to her again or do you have enough self control to stop yourself from speaking to her? You know what I’m really asking you.”

The Doc nods, “I have the self control, but I warn you, if she has no one to talk to, she’ll go crazy, fast.”

“Margot, would you like the Doc to be your friend?” The Psychic looks at me. His French accent makes it impossible for me to tell the intent of the question, and Doc's words are even more confusing.


“You don’t know?” The Psychic asks raising an eyebrow.

“I’m lonely, and I’m bored for most of the day,” I confess, “but-“

“Really?” he interrupts me, “And you’d like to be friends with the man who separated you from your beloved family and friends? You want to be friends with the man who has made your mother’s only hope the thought that she will get to see you again, which she won’t, thanks to him? Is that the man you want to be friends with?”

He comes in even closer to me.

“I would have expected better of you, Margot. After everything we’ve been through, this is a betrayal. I saved your life. I’ve kept you alive and healthy, when he would have wanted nothing more than to see you raped and thrown into the river. Or maybe he would have cut you up into little bits and mailed you to your parents. Or maybe-“

And then I smell the burning, “Shit,” I turn around and I see the grilled cheese I was making is black and smoking.

I take it off the pan, and it’s unsalvageable. I’m not supposed to mess things like this up, and for some reason, maybe it’s all the tension, I just start crying. I turn off the flame, throw the pan in the sink, and I walk out of the kitchen.

I walk upstairs, and I go directly toward my room, and then I stop because I remember that’s not my room anymore. I go in anyway.

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