The Psychic

BY : SerafintheGreat
Category: Original - Misc > General
Dragon prints: 12930
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to real people, situations, or locations are coincidental.

            My alarm goes off at 6am. I think this is far too early to get up, but I want to be safe.

            Last night I had a dream. I was here, in this room, and he was seated on my bed, the Psychic. He was looking down on me, with those eyes. It was as if they could glow in the dark. He didn't smile, he didn't frown. His face held no expression, but he studied my eyes while stroking my face gently. Then, he waved his hand over my eyes, and the dream was over. 

            I've wasted too much time already remembering that. I haven't showered since getting here, and I've worn the same thing everyday. The only thing preventing my underwear from stinking is I've hand-washed them and let them dry overnight, but I've woken up too early, so I just have my jeans for now.

            I go down to the kitchen, and he’s already there sitting quietly at the head of the table.

            “I’m so sorry, I thought I got up early enough, I’ll make you something right away. I go frantically to the pantry. I take out the eggs and the butter and the bacon. “How do you like your eggs cooked?” I ask him.

            I turn to look at him, and he’s asleep. He stirs only to slump his body over the table. A bottle of bourbon and an emptied rocks glass sit in front of him.

            I decide to change course realizing that my urgency isn’t quite warranted. I look at my ingredients and decide that I can make a frittata from the pasta I have leftover. When he wakes up, I can finish it off in the oven. He’ll only have to wait about ten minutes. I can fix him some coffee in the meantime if he gets impatient.

            I chop up some bacon, and I fry it in butter in a cast iron skillet. It looks well-seasoned, so it's probably from the person who had this house prior. I scramble the rest of the eggs, and I mix some of the left over pasta with it along with the fresh bacon bits. I put it all into the cast iron skillet, and I let it cook. I jump when I hear coughing from behind me.

            The Psychic has woken from his slumber and seems to be choking on something. I quickly fill a glass with water and I bring it to him. He sees the glass, then he looks at me quickly. He takes the glass from me and drinks. I turn around remembering the frittata and luckily, it’s fine, but I take it off the heat and I put it in the oven.

            “Breakfast should be ready soon, can I make you some coffee?” I ask.

            He looks at me, slightly horrified. Then he looks at the display in front of him. He rubs his face with his hands. When he removes his hands, his makeup is severely schmeared, which doesn’t reveal anything of his face, but kind of makes a new mask of deformed colors. He catches me staring.

            “I’m sorry,” I say as I look away from him.

            I check the oven, and it looks like the frittata is done. I remove it and set it onto the stove. “There’s food here, if you want it,” and I go to leave, but as I leave, I bump right into the Doc. He grabs my arms and looks at me, smiling.

            “Is this one bothering you?” he asks the Psychic.

            The Psychic doesn’t respond.

            The Doc’s smile fades. He’s disappointed, I figure, by the fact that I am evidently not bothering the Psychic. The Psychic rises and goes over to the stove.

            “What are you doing? Don’t make him serve himself!” The Doc pushes me into the kitchen, and by the time I’ve made it to the stove, the Psychic is walking past me with a slice of the frittata. The Doc comes up from behind me as the Psychic seats himself and begins eating.

            “What the hell is this?” Doc asks looking at the frittata.

            “It’s a frittata.”

            “So you basically took the garbage you made last night and scrambled some eggs with it and gave it a fancy bullshit name?”

            “Doc?” The Psychic calls out to him.


            “Please, stop talking,” he continues eating.

           "My apologies, sir, I just want to make sure she is preparing food to your standards."

            The Psychic shovels food into his mouth like it's his last meal on earth. The Doc looks at me, and then he grabs my underarm and pinches. He covers my mouth when I'm about to scream. His stops his assault, and he gives me a lingering look before he joins the Psychic at the table.  

           They sit in silence, the Psychic still eating.

           “Doc," the Psychic speaks, "since you brought her here, you’re going to be responsible for her. She’ll make a list for you in the morning, and you have to make sure you go out and fetch all the ingredients she needs for the evening and morning. While I admire her resourcefullness, I don't want to eat eggs and bacon for every meal."

           I stand by the sink, quietly, trying to appear as if I’m not looking at how the next events unfold.

           “Are you serious?” The Doc asks back, incredulous.

           “Absolutely. If you’re going to bring her here, you better take care of her. She’s your responsibility now. You get her what she needs to serve me. That seems fair considering….” And then the Psychic trails off. 

            The Doc, through gritted teeth, responds, “yes, sir.”

            The Psychic pushes his plate away and leaves the room. The Doc turns to glare at me, and I quickly look away, pretending I wasn’t watching the whole thing unfold.

            “Don’t you dare pretend you weren’t listening.” He comes to me and grabs my face, “Remember what I showed you yesterday morning? I will do that to you. I will, and he won’t know any difference. And he’ll be over you before he ever cared about you.”

            I nod at him, and he releases my face. Then, he grabs a fistful of my hair and bangs the back of my head against the cabinet. I grip my head, shocked by the attack and the pain. He looks at me with hateful eyes and he leaves the room. 

           Later in the day, I make Doc the list, and I hand it to him with averted eyes. He returns with the ingredients and doesn't say a word to me. Since the Psychic's French, I decide to be clever and make beef bourguingon, or whatever my memory of it maybe without an actual cookbook. 

           By 6pm, I've prepared something that looks and smells really good. I'm removing it from the oven when the Doc enters the kitchen. I look at him, and I quickly look away. He stands at the doorway for a moment, and then I can hear him approaching me. He's standing right behind me when I can hear more footsteps coming from down the hallway. The Psychic enters the kitchen and sits at the head of the table. I look quickly at the stew, but first the Doc catches my eye. He's smiling for some reason, and he goes to sit with the Psychic. 

           It's with great pride that I deliver the dish to the Psychic. He doesn't acknowledge me as I place the bowl in front of him. He goes for a spoonful, and his face curls in great displeasure. I shiver, wondering what happened. I tasted it, and it was perfect.

          “What’s wrong? Is the food not to your liking?” Doc eagerly asks, a look of great concern on his face.

         The Psychic doesn’t say anything. He just pushes his dish away, shaking his head.

         The Doc looks at me and smiles, “I’ll take care of her for you,” The Doc comes at me, and before he gets to me, I manage to turn around and see the once full salt shaker sitting next to the pot is now empty, the top of it screwed off. 

         The Doc grabs my hair from behind, and he goes to drag me out of the room when I scream, “No! It’s Doc’s fault. He sabotaged me,” I manage.

        “Oh, sure I did.”

        Before he gets me out of the room, I grab onto the Psychic, and the Psychic looks down on me. Even his painted on face can't hide his great surprise at my sudden act. 

        “Please!” I look him right in the eye. I’m on my knees, and I grab onto his leg. I’d rather beg and stay alive, than retain my “dignity” and die. “Please, the Doc. He put that whole salt shaker into the soup."

        “Why would I do that?” Doc asks, putting on a good show.

         “Because you hate me." I look Doc right in the eyes, "because you want me dead.  You threaten my life everyday," I look at the Psychic, "Yesterday morning he woke me up to show me how he can kill me and make it look like a suicide."

         There's a deathly silence in the room. I can feel the hatred seething from Doc, but I keep my eyes on the Psychic. “Please, don’t get rid of me. You didn’t see me at my best. Please?”

         The Psychic is deathly silent as he looks at me with an unwavering expression.  

         “I’ll get rid of her,” The Doc grabs my arm, and I hold onto the Psychic for as long as I can until he finally pulls me away.

         “I believe her,” the Psychic finally interjects.

         Doc stops.

        “That’s a very rude way to sabotage our guest, who you brought here.  Next time, don't interfere, and if she fails, that’s on her.”

         Doc releases my hair, and I fall back into the kitchen, close to the Psychic.  

        “And you know what? Sweet girl,” He asks, and I look up into his eyes again. “What size are you?”

        “Umm, a six?”

        “Get her something to wear as well,” he says to Doc, “If she’s working for me, she should look better.”

       I refuse to look at Doc, but I hear him walk out of the room leaving me with the Psychic.

       “Thank you.” I whisper to the Psychic.

       He doesn’t say a word to me. Instead, he walks away and leaves me in the kitchen by myself.

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