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.


I wake up. I stare straight at the ceiling, and then I bolt upright. I’m back in that horrible room with the brick red walls in my creaky little bed with the blue comforter. I try once again to remember what had happened.

I was in the kitchen, and then everything went blurry.

I search for a reason. It has to be stress. It has to be the result of everything that has just happened. All that being said, how did I get here? Did one of those oafs actually touch me and carry me all the way up the stairs? 

I haven’t cried yet. I haven’t had any emotional reaction to what has happened to me thus far. No tears whatsoever for my plight, or for my family who must have realized long ago that something went wrong.

Regardless of everything that has happened, I can’t cry. It feels as if something is blocking me from feeling the way I’m supposed to feel after something like this has happened. No matter how hard I try to invite the sadness, it won't happen.

I look at the clock. It’s 4pm. I’ve been out for a while now, and as a result, I’ve failed my only task today, which was to cook him something. That means my death is pending. 

There’s a knock on the door.

It's Doc. He's come to take me away. It feels as if my heart has stopped beating, it's beating so fast. 

I jump when he knocks again. 

“Can I come in?” I hear on the other side of the door.

And it isn’t the Doc. Though I can’t say I know him well, I know the Doc would never be so polite as to knock. It’s the Psychic, and he’s asking permission. I can't tell if this is more or less terrifying. Probably about equal. 

“Yes,” I finally respond, my voice cracks, not use to speaking anymore.

He opens the door. His jacket and bowler have been removed, and he’s just in his dress shirt, white suspenders, and black trousers that strangely cut right below his knees. His hair brown hair is slicked back neatly. He closes the door behind him and walks toward me.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

As he stands over me, I can’t answer. I’m taken aback by everything; the question, his presence in the room, him.

“How do you feel?” he asks again, as if I didn’t hear him the first time.

“Um, fine?” I respond to him.

“Are you asking me?" He responds.

I want to look away from him, I'm so embarrassed and scared, but I can't. Something isn't letting me.

“You fainted in the kitchen,” he continues, “Have you always done that?”

“Fainted in kitchens? No, that’s a new thing.”

I almost cover my own mouth, so embarrassed by my response. While he has been 'nice” to me so far, I have to remind myself that regardless of how “safe” I feel around him, I can’t believe for a second that I’m safe around him. No one, historically, is safe around him.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like a bitch. I’m really happy to be alive,” I try to recover, but it all sounds desperate.

He smiles, “You’re miserable, scared out of your mind, and you want to go home."

I can’t tell if he’s angry. The way his eyebrows are painted make him look angry all the time.  

He ducks down to my level and looks me right in the eyes, “It would serve you best to learn quickly that lying to me is a futile effort.”

I look back into his eyes and nod. He leans away from me.

“You like wearing the same thing everyday.”

I look at my uniform.


“If you stay, I can change that.”

“Where am I going to go?”

He smiles, “you should probably make my dinner. I like an early dinner because my work day starts at night, as you probably already know.

“You don’t have any food.”

“You’ll figure something out I’m sure.”

And then he leaves the room. 

I find my way into the kitchen, and I once again assess my ingredient situation. Spaghetti, cereal, bacon, eggs, milk. Nothing is expired, thank god. I could just make bacon and eggs, but that’s boring and stupid. I go back to the deepest recesses of my mind, the ones were I would sit at home and watch cooking shows all day because I had nothing else to do during winter vacations.

Fine, I’ll make carbonara. It should, in theory, be pretty simple. I start a pot of boiling water. As the water boils, I scramble the eggs, and I find a shitty can of parmesan cheese and sprinkle huge amounts of that into the eggs with the milk. As that happens, I render out the bacon fat. The pasta is done, so I mix that with the bacon fat, and then I mix the eggs with that. My heart races as I watch what happens.

Instead of being the delicate and creamy thing I’m used to when I go out to fancy restaurants, the eggs must be coagulating because everything looks sticky and stuff. I panic as I watch everything happen. I taste the mess, and it actually tastes good, but I’m positive I’m going to die. Especially since he's French, and the French historically have the most pretentious taste in food and an even more pretentious taste in the appearances of food. Not that I even know that many French people.

I hear his voice coming down the hallway. I set the table with a fork and a knife, and a glass. I wonder if he drinks wine. I didn’t see any wine glasses, I-

And they both enter, the Doc and the Psychic.

The Psychic sits at the table settings and the Doc sits next to him. I immediately fix a plate for The Psychic, and I deliver it to him in shaky hands. I watch as the cuagulated mess shakes in my hands. I place it as gingerly as possible onto the table and back away quickly, like I just managed to place a plate in front of a cobra.

My hands grip the kitchen counter as I watch the Psychic take a forkful and food and shove it into his mouth without even looking at it. He doesn’t pause his conversation as he chews and takes another bite of food.

It’s as if the mound of crap I made him isn’t totally offensive. I quietly breathe a sigh of relief. I try not to stare, but I also can't think of what I'm supposed to be doing right now. Do I prepare a plate of food for Doc? 

I decide to make a plate for Doc as well, and I approach the table carefully with a fork and napkin in one hand and the plate of food in the other. I place it in front of the Doc and, again, step away very quickly.

I stand awkwardly near the stove, not quite sure what to do with myself. I look down at my hands, keeping the two men in my periphery. Turning my back to them seems dangerous, but leaving also seems dangerous. The only thing I can do is stand here.

I decide it’s been too long, and I turn to start cleaning my mess. The house is so old, there’s no dishwasher. I see the sponge I’m left to work with, and I wonder if I’ll make everything dirtier by using it.

I’m not really making out what they’re saying, but I hear one man sit back on his chair and leave. I turn to see who I’m left with, and it’s the Doc. He looks at me, having not touched a thing on his plate.

“Why did you give this to me?” He asks.

“Because I thought you might be hungry,” I answer.

He snorts, “You always were a good waitress, weren't you?"

I look back at him, confused.

"Your natural disposition is to serve, isn't it? But you had dreams, didn't you? I thought I overheard once that you studied dance? Well," he pauses for dramatic effect, "I guess you should have studied harder. Probably wouldn't be here if you did."

He smiles at me, waiting, I figure, for my reaction to the low blow he just dealt. He's waiting for tears, and I refuse to give him any. Dissatisfied, he stands. 

“You can put this away. I’m not hungry. You only feed him. I’ll be sure to let you know when you have to suck my dick.”

He takes the plate, and he walks it to me. He makes to hand it to me, and right when I’m about to take it, he lets go and the plate shatters on the floor. I look at my creation on the floor, then at him. He gives me the most condescending smile a human being can muster, and he leaves the room.

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