Psychic Child
Content
Psychic Child
By: N. C. Geenen
"I see bad things." The tiny, dark haired child mumbles. Her voice sounds frightened, but she has a calm, solemn face, as if she were just making a comment about how nice the weather was. The doctor before her nods, and scribbles something on his notepad with an unsteady, shaking hand. The girl smiles an uneven, hopeful smile. It was finally happening. Someone would believe her, about what she sees. Usually, the doctors her mom took her to would send her to a different one, saying she was just crazy. But more importantly, there was absolutely nothing they could do to help poor, Mary Larken. "What exactly do you see Mary?" He asks her. She looks down for a moment, thoroughly sifting through her mind for the best possible answer, and her smiles fades away slowly. She takes a deep breath, before looking up at the man's face with her large, innocent eyes- ones that have seen more horrific things than most people have seen in a life time. She runs a hand through her long inky black hair nervously. "I see bad people...doing bad things." She pauses, and plasters a pleasant smile back on. "They hurt other people..." She
admits, whispering. Mischievous brown eyes bore into gray, confused ones. A lopsided smile mirrors a frown. Hope pushes against pity. The tension in the room is so thick, you could cut it with a butter knife. The doctor scratches down what she said, and looks back at the child with cautious eyes. Her hands are tracing along the ridge of her scar that slid down the right side of her face. "Where do you see them?" As the doctor asks this, her eyes go blank and cold, and the smile is wiped off her pale face. He waits for her answer as patiently as he can. She doesn't respond, just blankly stares forward. Just as the doctor stands up to get help for the frozen child, the warmth returns to her eyes, and, while she raises her hand, she says, "In here." Her pointer finger directs attention to her deformed, scarred, temple. "I see them in my head."
I bolt up in bed, in response to the dream, and, like every night, feel the right side of my face. The scar is less gruesome now, puckered and three shades lighter than my skin. I can't recall how I got it exactly, but I didn't care to know. My childhood was only remembered by frequent trips to the psychiatrist, and being locked away in a dark, cold room by my own parents, so I'm guessing how I got it wasn't an accident. I don't perfer to think about those times. These times aren't very good either, but It doesn't matter.The me in the past was weak, spineless, and just naive. I like to think about the future; I know about the future, more than the average person anyway.
By: N. C. Geenen
"I see bad things." The tiny, dark haired child mumbles. Her voice sounds frightened, but she has a calm, solemn face, as if she were just making a comment about how nice the weather was. The doctor before her nods, and scribbles something on his notepad with an unsteady, shaking hand. The girl smiles an uneven, hopeful smile. It was finally happening. Someone would believe her, about what she sees. Usually, the doctors her mom took her to would send her to a different one, saying she was just crazy. But more importantly, there was absolutely nothing they could do to help poor, Mary Larken. "What exactly do you see Mary?" He asks her. She looks down for a moment, thoroughly sifting through her mind for the best possible answer, and her smiles fades away slowly. She takes a deep breath, before looking up at the man's face with her large, innocent eyes- ones that have seen more horrific things than most people have seen in a life time. She runs a hand through her long inky black hair nervously. "I see bad people...doing bad things." She pauses, and plasters a pleasant smile back on. "They hurt other people..." She
admits, whispering. Mischievous brown eyes bore into gray, confused ones. A lopsided smile mirrors a frown. Hope pushes against pity. The tension in the room is so thick, you could cut it with a butter knife. The doctor scratches down what she said, and looks back at the child with cautious eyes. Her hands are tracing along the ridge of her scar that slid down the right side of her face. "Where do you see them?" As the doctor asks this, her eyes go blank and cold, and the smile is wiped off her pale face. He waits for her answer as patiently as he can. She doesn't respond, just blankly stares forward. Just as the doctor stands up to get help for the frozen child, the warmth returns to her eyes, and, while she raises her hand, she says, "In here." Her pointer finger directs attention to her deformed, scarred, temple. "I see them in my head."
I bolt up in bed, in response to the dream, and, like every night, feel the right side of my face. The scar is less gruesome now, puckered and three shades lighter than my skin. I can't recall how I got it exactly, but I didn't care to know. My childhood was only remembered by frequent trips to the psychiatrist, and being locked away in a dark, cold room by my own parents, so I'm guessing how I got it wasn't an accident. I don't perfer to think about those times. These times aren't very good either, but It doesn't matter.The me in the past was weak, spineless, and just naive. I like to think about the future; I know about the future, more than the average person anyway.
