The Mind
((I am not fond of this piece. It is awkward but not in the way I intended. Still, I wanted it to happen plot wise and I am basically dragging stories/writing out of my brain at this point, so... I just need to make myself do it so I can get back in the swing of things. It's also backdated several days.))
It starts as a tickle in the corner of the consciousness, a tiny irritation that barely registers. So easy to brush off, especially while the mind is elsewhere. Work work work. Keep busy, keep healthy, keep off the world's radar. So caught up in the distractions it's easy to lose focus. Too far... you've gone too far little psychic.
Wine-colored wallpaper with gold floral patterns -- it peels up at the seams where years have crumbled the glue. Little pockets of space, just right for a charm. Or seven. A thumbnail traces each outline until the unfamiliar arrangement is carved in relief. Chew on your lip, scratch at your arm, ignore that sixth sense... There's a hot cup of coffee on the table by the chair -- she's not gone but there's no aura. The convoluted energies of the building muddle the senses and the best thing would be to use that too-smart phone to bring in a second set of eyes.
Keys out of a pocket and the makeshift tool cuts away the wallpaper. A snag on a shirtsleeve and fingers crawl under the fabric to itch at the skin while characters, intention, and arrangement are all deciphered. ...There's suspicion regarding their authenticity and actual purpose. Look up at the swirling 1960 patterns in the cracked plaster ceiling, the East facing furniture, the sun bleached upholstery. Think think think while nails dig deeper at delicious porcelain skin.
That feeling is back, accompanied by a grim prickle up the spine and around the base of the skull. The house is too still, though midday sun filters through water stained windows. A bird in the cage, seed on the floor, coffee on the table... Another trip through the building confirms that it is still empty. She's here but she's not. Another hollow call goes unanswered and by this time fingertips catch on something sharp as they scratch at that arm. I bet you only now realize that it stings. It hurts where you've cut an ugly line. But not enough to stop you from going further... Curious and distracted, the shirtsleeve is pushed up. It rakes across several more burrs just under the skin, causing a wince and then focused concentration.
Tiny pricks just barely breaking through dot the length of the forearm, weaving through dark red scratches of different depths. A clinical eye regards them and careful fingers-as-forceps get to work. It's curious what the mind can do -- while you know it's not real, you feel that it is and therefor... Blood wells as skin breaks but the thorn works its way free. Drop it on the ground and move to the next one, digging digging digging deeper and keep going and ignore what you know because you define reality, not the other way around. While you may not have control over your friends, your home, your preferences, your sight your emotions your thoughts your mind, you can control your body your appearance your skin... just a little more until the next one comes out. It joins its predecessor, discarded on the floor. Work methodically from elbow to wrist, taking one at a time.
Pause to scratch at the skin just under the scarf and below the ear. Wipe a cheek with the cleanest area on the back of a hand and get back to work.
It starts as a tickle in the corner of the consciousness, a tiny irritation that barely registers. So easy to brush off, especially while the mind is elsewhere. Work work work. Keep busy, keep healthy, keep off the world's radar. So caught up in the distractions it's easy to lose focus. Too far... you've gone too far little psychic.
Wine-colored wallpaper with gold floral patterns -- it peels up at the seams where years have crumbled the glue. Little pockets of space, just right for a charm. Or seven. A thumbnail traces each outline until the unfamiliar arrangement is carved in relief. Chew on your lip, scratch at your arm, ignore that sixth sense... There's a hot cup of coffee on the table by the chair -- she's not gone but there's no aura. The convoluted energies of the building muddle the senses and the best thing would be to use that too-smart phone to bring in a second set of eyes.
Keys out of a pocket and the makeshift tool cuts away the wallpaper. A snag on a shirtsleeve and fingers crawl under the fabric to itch at the skin while characters, intention, and arrangement are all deciphered. ...There's suspicion regarding their authenticity and actual purpose. Look up at the swirling 1960 patterns in the cracked plaster ceiling, the East facing furniture, the sun bleached upholstery. Think think think while nails dig deeper at delicious porcelain skin.
That feeling is back, accompanied by a grim prickle up the spine and around the base of the skull. The house is too still, though midday sun filters through water stained windows. A bird in the cage, seed on the floor, coffee on the table... Another trip through the building confirms that it is still empty. She's here but she's not. Another hollow call goes unanswered and by this time fingertips catch on something sharp as they scratch at that arm. I bet you only now realize that it stings. It hurts where you've cut an ugly line. But not enough to stop you from going further... Curious and distracted, the shirtsleeve is pushed up. It rakes across several more burrs just under the skin, causing a wince and then focused concentration.
Tiny pricks just barely breaking through dot the length of the forearm, weaving through dark red scratches of different depths. A clinical eye regards them and careful fingers-as-forceps get to work. It's curious what the mind can do -- while you know it's not real, you feel that it is and therefor... Blood wells as skin breaks but the thorn works its way free. Drop it on the ground and move to the next one, digging digging digging deeper and keep going and ignore what you know because you define reality, not the other way around. While you may not have control over your friends, your home, your preferences, your sight your emotions your thoughts your mind, you can control your body your appearance your skin... just a little more until the next one comes out. It joins its predecessor, discarded on the floor. Work methodically from elbow to wrist, taking one at a time.
Pause to scratch at the skin just under the scarf and below the ear. Wipe a cheek with the cleanest area on the back of a hand and get back to work.