The Psychic

BY : SerafintheGreat
Category: Original - Misc > General
Dragon prints: 12924
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to real people, situations, or locations are coincidental.

I wake up to a loud knocking. As the door pounds, so does my head. I register my surroundings.

This is not my room.

As the reality really sets in, the door magically unlocks itself and opens to reveal Milton, who is actually the Doc. His presence confirms that, without a doubt, I’m not home anymore.

“Where were you this morning?” He asks, almost too calm.

I think hard on the question.

“What?” That’s the best I can manage.

“Where were you this morning,” he articulates a bit more carefully, as if I am dumber than a brick. He leans nonchalantly on the doorframe. I notice he’s twirling some type of metallic object between his fingers. Fed up with my stupidity, he continues.

 “Let me remind you. Your job assignment is to cook and clean for the Psychic, and, well, you didn’t cook for him this morning. This place is still a god damn mess, and it’s noon.”

Every word he says registers all the more carefully when I realize he’s twirling a scalpel in his hand. Everything comes together like the worse nightmare imaginable where everything goes wrong, except I can't just 'wake up' and all of this is over.

“Where were you?” He stops twirling the scalpel. He looks up at me, very serious.

Then, he closes the door behind him and makes his way toward me. I back up against the wall, no other option. He takes my arm. With the scalpel in his other hand, I dare not struggle. He places the scalpel right up against my wrist. If I move, I will cut myself against it. That danger does not stop the rest of my body from shaking.

 “I….I didn’t know I was supposed to wake up,” I manage.

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“I….” I can't think of anything to say.

“There’s a clock and an alarm right there. Don’t you think you maybe should have woken up before noon?”

The scalpel caresses my skin.

“What were you thinking last night?” He asks.

I think hard on his question.

What was I thinking last night?

Everything is suddenly a big blur. I barely even remember getting to this room.

“I…I don’t remember,” I tell him, honestly.


“I don’t remember any of last night,” I can hear the terror in my own voice. Why don’t I remember a thing after entering this room?

The Doc looks at me, clearly not buying it, “do you need me to remind you? I kidnapped you and-“

“I remember that-“

“Did you interrupt me?”

“No, I-“ Then I gasp as the scalpel runs along my skin, drawing the most faint line of blood in its wake. He runs it up my arm, and the rest of my body trembles as I attempt to keep my arm still.

“You know what I like about this line? It isn’t going to leave a mark, but if I wanted to penetrate deep, it would look like a suicide. So careless of me to leave my instruments hanging around.” He stops, but keeps the scalpel close.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask, carefully.

He removes the scalpel, “Just do something useful. I assume you wouldn’t want the Psychic to regret his decision.”

Then, he leaves.

I sit against the wall on my bed, and I take a big breath, realizing I’ve been holding it this whole time. I take a look at my room for the first time.

It’s red, brick red. It looks like it once belonged to a little boy. There’s a blue dresser, a small wall mirror, a nightstand, and my bed, which is just a tiny twin sized bed with a blue comforter.

I realize I have to make my way downstairs. I’m still wearing my jeans and Beer Garden t-shirt because there aren’t any other options as far as I can see. It was like the room was made for a stillborn. The hopes of life were there, but it never came to fruition.

As I walk downstairs, I feel the air is thick. Kind of like walking into a room that has a legend of being haunted around it. Just, something doesn't sit right.

I stop at the bottom of the staircase. I hear voices down the hallway, and my instinct is to go in the other direction. Then, I hear his voice. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I follow his voice.

I walk down the long hallway. The wooden floor creaks as I walk making each step I take closer to him all the more embarrassing.

I stop at the entrance of the room and see The Psychic seated in an armchair with four men, their backs toward me, seated Indian style around him. The Psychic stops what he's saying and looks at me, and the men all turn to look at me as well.

“I’m...I’m sorry. I-,”

And then he locks eyes with me. His greyish blue eyes hold my gaze, making the words I never had even more impossible to form. Then, I am strangely overwhelmed with a sense of calm.

“I came to see if you needed anything, sir,” I ask, almost too obediently for my taste.

Then, I’m grabbed from behind, breaking my eye contact with The Psychic.

“Is she bothering you?”

It’s Doc, and he’s holding a fistful of my hair, “I’ll remove the provocation.” He drags me away from the living room and down the hallway by my hair.

“What the hell were you thinking?” He asks.

“You didn’t tell me what to do,” I answer back, perhaps too bravely.

“You don’t just walk up to the Psychic and speak to him like that. Even I don’t do that.”

He walks me into the kitchen and throws me onto the counter.

“Cook something.”

“What? What do I cook?”

“Anything, just do something. It’s lunch time, he’ll be hungry,” and he leaves.

I look through the pantry: a few boxes of cereal, a box of spaghetti, some cans of beans. Then, I open the fridge. It’s almost as desolate. Some eggs, milk, bacon.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, and then I feel it.

I grab onto the counter, steadying myself. It feels as if my head is holding the weight of the universe. I grip onto the counter, tightly, in order to steady myself, and then everything gets blurry.

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