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.

           Something bumps me awake, and I see nothing.

            I panic, and I feel around me for anything familiar. Through context clues, I decipher that I’m in the trunk of a car. We’ve stopped. I look for the headlights, knowing that if something like this happens, I’m supposed to kick them out and wave hoping someone sees me. Before I can find them, I hear the car doors slam and voices.

            The trunk opens, and I’m blinded by the overhead light.

            “She’s awake, boss!” One of the oafs announces.

            “Good, drag her out,” a voice somewhere responds.

            Two men grab me by each arm and pull me out of the trunk. As I try to steady myself, I see Milton is standing in front of me, arms folded, a smug expression on his now not so beauitful face.

            “Hello, Margot,” and he winks at me.

            Before I can register my feelings of volition, I’m dragged out of the garage into the house it's attached to.

            “So what if he doesn’t like this one?” one of the thugs asks.

            “We’ll do the same thing with her that we’ve done with the other ones,” Milton responds.

             As they talk, I'm being dragged down a long hallway. 

             “Why did you choose this one?” the other one asks.

             “Because we haven’t had any luck with the really pretty ones, so I figure I’d try my luck with this girl.”

              I don’t say a word, still entirely disoriented from the trip. I hear more voices down the hallway where the only light shines. We turn the corner into that room.

               I see before me a long dining room table where various degenerate types sit, but what catches my attention almost immediately before anything is the man at the head of the table. Even my adamant refusal to watch any of the news while I was in college could shield me from this man’s image:

               The Psychic.

               Kingston City’s most terrifying criminal. The one entirely responsible for the total shit show we all know today.

               There he sits in front of me dressed in his quintessential costume: a theatricalized version of a black tux, white dress shirt, and white bowtie. His signature bowler hat sits on the table.

               He looks at me, locking eyes immediately. It’s clear I’ve interrupted something very important, and he’s angry. I can’t look away even though it’s the only thing I want to do. Then he looks away from me.

               “Doc, what is this?” He asks, referring to me.

               “It’s a gift!” Milton replies, gleefully, in a British accent now, but before I can question why he's British all of the sudden, I need to follow the conversation carefully because my fate is being decided on the spot.

               “Doc, why do you insist on bringing me these gifts?” The Psychic asks.

               “Because I’m curious to see if you like one,” Milton responds.

               As they speak, I see the nuances of The Psychic's face. He’s wearing white face paint. It’s faded very well into his face, but his features are shaded heavily with black powder, and his eyebrows are entirely covered and re-painted on with black. His nose is long and pointy, but with the shading, I have no idea what it actually looks like. Everything fades as he looks into my eyes again.

               “What is your name?” he asks.

               Suddenly I realize he’s been referring to Milton as “Doc.”

               It apparently takes me too long to register that the Psychic asked me a question because Milton hits me upside the head.

               “Answer the man!” he demands, breaking my eye contact with the Psychic.

               “Doc! The violence against women? She’ll answer the question. Sweetheart,” he locks eyes with me again, “what is your name?”

               “Margot.” I respond immediately, as if beside myself, like some outside force has made me respond to him immediately.

               “Oh,” he responds, sounding almost delighted, “you’re French?”

               “Not in the slightest.”

               He smiles slightly, his lips lined with red and filled in with a pinkish powder.

              “How old are you?” He asks.

               “22”.

               He breaks eye contact with me, and I feel a release immediately, as if his eyes had just held me captive.

              “Older than your usual presents,” he addresses Milton.

              “I’m not old,” I chime in almost defensively. Everyone’s eyes are on me, immediately, including the Psychic’s, and my eyes are, once again, on the Psychic’s, as if no other option exists. Everyone waits for something to happen because I, apparently, did something really wrong.

               “No, of course not. You’re just older than what the Doc usually brings in,” and that’s when I notice his accent.

               He’s French.

               There's a pause that seems to last a decade. All I have are his eyes. They are grey-ish blue, highlighted with black eyeliner. I feel I'm being studied, like someone is sorting through my brain and examining all of my memories.

                “If you don’t want her, I’ll get rid of her,” Milton/Doc grabs my arm, which again breaks my eye-contact with The Psychic.

                “Wait!” he holds up his hand. We stop. “Margot, can you cook?” he asks. 

                I pause, a moment, taking time to understand what he’s asked me. I nod.

                “Can you clean?”

                I nod, now more frantically.

                He sits back and smiles, “I’ll keep you. This place is a dump, and I could use a well-cooked meal, but if you try to escape, I’ll throw you to the dogs,” he says indicating the men around us, who I can barely see because the only thing in my universe are his eyes.

                “Do you understand, Margot?” he asks.

                I nod so frantically my head could break apart from its body.

                He breaks eye contact with me, and, once again, it feels as if I’ve been released by something.

               “Make her feel at home, Doc. Hopefully she’s staying a while,” on the last remark, he looks at me again.

                I feel lightheaded when Milton grabs my arm and drags me out of the room. I stumble a bit, and I can just make out the laughter of the surrounding men.

                As we leave, I can still feel his eyes on me, but this time, I dare not look. 

                I’m being dragged down the hallway from whence I came by Milton.

                “What just happened?” I ask him.

                “I have no idea,” he responds, dragging me up a long staircase, his voice is filled with resentment, “but it seems like he’s accepted you.”

               “What does that mean?”

              “No clue. It’s never happened before.”

              When we get to the top, he stops and throws me against the wall, “You live, for now, until he gets bored, and he will. Trust me, he will get bored.”

              I look the Milton’s in the eyes. His pale blue pools hold no expression whatsoever. It all makes sense now. This is the face underneath the surgeon’s mask. The Doc reportedly does worse to his victims than Nazi doctors did to concentration camp inmates. That’s the legend, anyway. No one has lived to tell the tale, but the coroner’s report has always been that his victims are kept alive and tortured for hours until death seems like a welcomed relief.

              My fate mean as little to him as the gum on his shoe. 

              He takes my arm and continues dragging me down the hallway.

              “I have no idea why he picked you out of all them,” the “you” seethes with condescension, especially in conjunction with the British accent.

              “What happened to all of them?” I ask, realizing too late that I did not want to know the answer to that question.

              He looks over his shoulder to me, “you really want to know?”

              I shake my head, relieved that he gave me that option.

              We stop in front of a door. He opens the door and throws me into the room and then enters closing me into the space.

              “Just be a good little girl, and you might not get hurt. Or be a bad girl. It might amuse me more to see that outcome. This is yours,” he adds, presenting the room, “Have a good night.” He bows, slightly, and leaves, slamming the door.

              I’m now alone. I turn around, and the only thing I see is the bed. I go to it, as if guided by some force outside of myself, and I collapse onto it. 



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