Vacation
I’m tired. Really tired. Worn out. Bone weary. Exhausted. In need of a break. Did I mention that I’m just a little bit burnt out?
Well I am.
The pressure’s gotten to be a little too much. The need to perform every week, produce something pertinent, witty, clever, something that will speak to the masses gets on top of you for a while. But that’s never bothered you, has it? No, you’re all ‘you think this is working hard? Back in the day they were expected to do twice as much as this and no one ever complained.’
I’ve had enough. It ends now. I never thought I’d say this, but I quit.
You thought you were so clever, didn’t you? After that performing squid or octopus or whatever it was picking out football results, you saw a gap in the market for a cute four year old who could see into the future. You were great at marketing, I’ll give you that. It was never anything too impressive, no picking out lottery numbers on a weekly basis or anything like that. After all, what would be the point if everyone had a winning ticket? No, it was just enough to attract the media’s interest without exposing yourself to accusations of child exploitation. Can’t milk the cash cow too often, now, can we? You even told me when to get the answers wrong so that the scientists wrote me off as a lucky con artist. Accurate enough to take in the gullible, not so much that I’d be locked away and experimented on for the rest of my life. You managed me well growing up, there’s no doubt about it.
You got what you wanted, the TV shows, the book deals, the life of luxury for doing nothing more than give birth to a freak. It should have been enough, but no. You got greedy. You had to push and push and push until I couldn’t take any more. All I wanted was a month or two by myself, a bit of time away from the world to pretend I was normal. I wouldn’t have thought that was too much to ask. I mean, Uri Geller’s been retired for years, but you just know that he could announce a world tour tomorrow and it would sell out. Once you have the kind of notoriety I’ve achieved, it never really goes away. I gave the papers enough predictions to cover my absence and I’d have thought that a couple of months away from the show would make people want me back all the more. None of the other psychics have my gift - they all rely on cold reading and clichés.
A holiday shouldn’t have been too much to ask, not when you’ve just got back from swanning around the Med. But no, here you are, waving contracts in my face, demanding to know why I haven’t signed them yet, why I’m not planning out my next big project.
Enough.
You taught me well, mother dear. Hide the full extent of my powers so that no one realises they need to be afraid of me, very afraid. Especially you - but then, you’re scared now, aren’t you? I can see it in your eyes without needing to read your mind. Shame it’s too late.
I saw this coming, of course. I wouldn’t be much of a psychic if I hadn’t. I’d always hoped I was wrong, just this once. That you’d have more sense, that you’d know when to let it go for a while or that I’d have more patience, that the fact that you’re my mother would mean something, enough to hold me back when the time came. But managing always came before mothering with you, so now I’m going to treat you the way that you’ve been treating me all these years - coldly, clinically and very, very professionally.
You see, I can’t just read minds, I can control them. You know what’s keeping you alive right now? Me. You can’t even take a breath without my permission. Go on, try.
Told you. Your heart, your lungs, your everything, all under my control, all only working because I will it.
And now you understand exactly how much trouble you’re in. Just imagine if I fell asleep and ‘forgot’ to keep those essential organs functioning? Imagine how horrible your final few moments would be as your body came crashing down around you. Lucky for you, I’m not a murderer. You can have your body back - minus one little thing. I’m not stupid enough to think that a bit of a scare would be enough to get you to leave me alone, even if I didn’t already know everything you’re thinking.
So all your thoughts, your dreams, your ambitions, your plans? I’m keeping those. The lights might be on but nobody’s home and you can sit in the hospital and rot for all I care.
I want a holiday and if this is the only way I can guarantee myself some peace, then so be it. In the meantime, you’ve got an appointment with a car and a tree trunk. Got to have some excuse for your vegetative state. Here are the keys - you’ll find a nice little sports car in the drive. It’s my gift to you. I figure that if you’re going to go out, better go out in style and everyone will understand why I need to take some time away from the spotlight. All that guilt from buying you the car will be quite overwhelming. I think I’m going to need at least six months in the sun to recover.