The Psychic

BY : SerafintheGreat
Category: Original - Misc > General
Dragon prints: 12916
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to real people, situations, or locations are coincidental.

Two weeks go by since the incident. He’s home mostly. He sleeps next to me in bed, but I’ve started to cook for him again. He makes sure I eat. He wants me to get more calcium because, again, it was my fault that this happened in the first place.

As we lay down for bed tonight, he gets closer to me, and then he starts rubbing himself against me. I understand what he wants.

“No, not tonight,” I push him away.

He stops, and he looks at me, sad.

“When?” He asks.

I have words I want to say to him, but I won’t. The answer is never again, but I wonder how much I really mean that versus the part of me that believes I should say that. He tries again, planting soft kisses on my neck.

“Please, stop,” I push him away.

“Why?” he asks, with more insistence.

“Because I’m confused, and I’m in pain still.”

“Why are you confused?”

“I don’t talk to you about my feelings,” I respond to him, pushing him away.

He gives me resistance, still

“I shouldn’t have to explain this to you. You punched me in the chest. I don’t feel affection toward you.”

“You still sleep next to me.”

“I don’t think I have a choice. I haven’t had that choice for nine months.”

“I am not a rapist,” he pushes toward me.

“I don’t like you right now.” I really push him away, “And you don’t get to define that. I do.”

“So college educated. I’d let go of that if I were you. You are in this house, and you are in this house forever. So you better start reassessing your idea of gender roles.”

My breathing hitches, and there’s the usual sharp pain.

He relents, “just go to sleep. I won’t bother you tonight,” and he turns away from me.


Another week passes, and he hasn’t tried anything.

Then he tries again, and this time I let him in because I have no excuse. He’s very gentle and sweet about it, but I go into my own headspace as it happens. I think about things that might actually turn me on as he pounds into me. However, it isn’t working. Nothing feels good. He looks me in the eyes as he pounds into me, searching for an answer, and I don’t have one. It usually works.

He doesn’t call me a “good girl.” I guess I’m not being one. He finishes soon, and he rolls off of me fast. After a moment, he gets up and uses the bathroom. When he returns, he sleeps on the other side of the bed.

After a moment, “You know it gives me pleasure to give you pleasure. Why do you deny me?”

You only like doing it because it makes you feel like you aren’t raping me,” I think, but then I remember he can read my thoughts. I brace myself for the onslaught, but nothing. He just stays turned away from me, but then I feel deeply sad.


It’s been almost a month now and the rib has healed for sure. Of course he knows. He can tell everything about me. However, he hasn’t used his power on me for a long time.

Tonight, he comes home and he sees me in the study playing solitaire.

“Where’s dinner?” he asks.

I look at him, surprised he’s here, “I had no idea you were coming home tonight.” I usually know these things.

He moves onto the couch with me. He takes my chin and leads my face, so that I’m looking at him.

Then I understand what he’s doing.

“No,” I cower and look away, covering my eyes.

“Margot, how many times do we have to go through with this? Just let me in, and all will be well.”

I shake my head again.

“Margot, you’ve known me for a while now, you know it’s better to not put up any resistance. It gets me angry.”

“Why, what are you going to do?” I ask him.

“I just need to relink us. Time makes everything fade.”

“You promise you won’t do anything else to me?”

“Yes, I promise I won’t do anything else to you.”

I slowly allow myself to look in his eyes, and I feel his power. It feels like I’m bombarded for a second, it’s so strong, and I feel incredibly dizzy.

“Just keep looking, just for a moment longer,” he keeps me stable as I continue looking into his eyes.

Then, I have a vision:

I see all my hopes and my dreams. The ones so far buried I forgot they even existed: moving to the city, living in some artist loft, drinking out of mason jars with lemon and ginger in them, making kale, and working as a bartender at some place while I dance and rehearse every morning until I’m finally accepted into a company. Then, one day, I make my own company. I find my own dancers. I meet some man. I marry him.

Somehow, in his eyes, I regain a sense of myself and remember all the things I looked forward to enjoying and have long repressed since coming here.

I keep on looking at him, like he’s commanded, into his greyish-blue eyes, so small and unimposing normally.  I’m overwhelmed by the vision of a future I can’t look forward to anymore. Finally, he releases me, and everything is black.


My eyes flutter open, and I feel him gently slapping the side of my face.

“Margot, are you alright now?” He asks.

I nod. I sit up, tentatively. “Should I make you dinner now?” I go to get up, but I’m still unsure on my feet, and I fall back onto the couch.

“No, no, no, I’ll order food.”

We don’t talk about it, but I know he knows what I saw. We don’t look at one another at all as we eat Chinese takeout. He gets up all of the sudden, and he leaves the kitchen. I hear him drive away into the night.


I hide in the living room for the rest of the night, engaging in my favorite activity of solitaire and National Geographic magazines. 

I hear the front door open and slam shut.

“I’m gonna get him. I’m gonna get that masked man, I’m gonna-MARGOT! Where is she?” I hear him from the living room. I know I have to make an appearance, but my heart stops beating when I realize it’s one of those nights.

I go into the hallway and I see him, drunk out of his mind, with the Doc, holding him like they were actually friends instead of two dudes who have some sort of arrangement.

“Margot! Where’s my dinner, Margot?”

“We…we ate dinner already.”

 He looks at me, a darkness in his eyes, “I’m here, aren’t I? And I’m hungry.”

 I see how drunk he is. No human is in there, just the costume of one.

 “I’m sorry, maybe since you’re impaired,” I chose my words carefully, “Your power is impaired too.”

 “My power? What are you talking about?” He asks me, pretending innocence.


“Have you been talking to the Doc about some of my more special skill set? Naughty girl, I thought we shared some secrets. Anything else you gave the Doc.”

He steps away from the Doc and closer to me. Doc makes to stop him, but The Psychic takes his gun and points it at the Doc. Though he isn’t looking, his aim is spot on.

“Anything?” He flicks open his switchblade as he approaches me.

I hold my hands up, innocently, “You know I haven’t slept with him.”

“Do I? Do I know that? If my power is impaired?”

“Yes, you do.”

“I remember telling you I’d kill you if you slept with him, and you did it anyway, didn’t you? Didn’t you? And now you will pay for what you’ve done-”

He comes at me with the switchblade, and I run for it.

This time not up the stairs, but I run out the front door and into the driveway.

I run, and I run, and then I hear him coming after me. I look over my shoulder, and in that moment, I trip falling hard onto the pavement.

He’s on me, and he pulls me up with him.

“You dumb slut. I told you what would happen to you if you ever tried to run away, and that’s what you just did.”

 He drags me back toward the home.

 “Now you’ve left me with no choice.”

 I realize what he must mean.

“No!” I struggle hard in his arms, but his grip on me is vice-like.

The Doc is on the front steps, trying to stop the Psychic.

“Get out of my way Doc. She tried to escape, and now she must accept the consequences.”

“Psychic, come on, you scared her, you-“ and the Psychic takes his switchblade and he stabs him in the arm.

“You might want to take care of that, Doc.  Margot, say good-bye to your friend and your fuck buddy. You will never, ever see him again.”

“Please, don’t, please-“ I beg.

“Please don’t,” he repeats, mocking me, “Your survival depended on one thing, and that was that you wouldn’t try to run. Now I have no choice.”

 He drags me through the kitchen to the cellar door.

Remembering the bodies, I shriek, and scream, and plead, but he throws open the door and drags me down the stairs. He slams the door behind him and drags me further down to the cellar. He hits the lights, and he throws me onto the ground.

I look at him, and there’s a gun pointed at me. He fires it.


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