thirty-seven ➢ psychic spam & voice

[patheticvillain]

[Open season to any psychics around: a bad dream. Or a memory, but fantastical enough to masquerade as a simple dream. It's about justice, and games, and a carnival death. It's about entertainment, and about despair.]

[He kills the girl in the memory-dream. He remembers doing it, and he remembers feeling ashamed and weak. She had his secret. She knew, somehow, the worst thing he'd ever done in his life, the worst sin he'd ever committed - and she was going to tell.]

[He lured her to the roof, and he walked her off the edge. And they found him out. Of course they fucking found him out.]

[There was no escaping judgment, of course. Nobody before him had, and it was vaguely satisfying to realize that nobody after him would, either.]

[A deck of cards, taller than him, boxing him in by suit. Fluorescent green spades and clubs, fuschia hearts and diamonds - they make his eyes hurt. He's staring down four aces, lashed by his ankles to the floor as the cards fan out and begin to circle him. They're on tracks; he can hear the tracks but not see them. What he sees are the sharp edges of the cards whizzing past himm, circles getting tighter and tighter. He can imagine them cutting pieces off his skin, chunks out of his flesh, slicing bone, as they come closer and closer--]

[And then they're here, and they do, and it hurts more than anything's ever hurt before, and he's laughing and screaming and dying--]

[And he wakes up. Sulkily turns on the network and speaks plaintively, too shell-shocked by his own mind and memory to censor himself.]

I dreamed about that goddamn bear again. Let me into the pub.


( ooc; cassel is a super high school level gambler from dangan ronpa! he was also super murdered by monobear. feel free to pick up on that if your character has psychic powers. more info here. )

Comments

[patheticvillain]

[He gnaws his lip.]

I don't think there's anything to understand. It's just . . . memories.

So comfort, I guess.

[fridgetothefire]

I also dream of things that have happened. But they are in the past.

[patheticvillain]

What do you dream of?

[fridgetothefire]

Sometimes killing.

Sometimes -

[Now, she balks. She takes another swallow of her beer, then sets it down before hopping deftly over the bar. She finds a plain shot glass and a bottle of raqi. She looks at him.]

There was a girl.

[She fills the glass, almost to the brim, and it's almost invisible, clear and smooth. She puts the bottle away. There's a water spigot, and she runs her hand under it, then flicks her fingers, droplets of water unerringly hitting the liquor in little blooms of white, tiny clouds of opacity. Flick, flick, flick.]

She felt too much. Struggled. Lost - clarity. She focused on the wrong thing.

[Flick, flick. The whiteness spreads through the whole glass.]

So.

[She dries her hand with a napkin, precise and dainty, then flicks the side of the glass with one strong, careful finger, holding it still with her other hand. The glass fractures, a curving spiderweb of cracks, but doesn't shatter, doesn't spill. Then she picks it up, pouring the liquor out on the counter in a long, thin, slow stream. The smell of licorice is strong. She wipes out the inside of the glass with the napkin too, then turns it upside down, puts it on the counter with a clink, slides it toward him as if for inspection.]

The glass is dry. But it remembers. Being full, and being emptied.

[patheticvillain]

[Being full, and being emptied. He wonders if he was ever full, or if he was always playing hands desperately in attempt to get to fullness. He believes he thought killing that girl would keep him safe.]

[He believes in nothing at all now. Not even fullness. He wonders if she is telling him a fairy tale.]

I dream about killing, and being killed, and . . .

Echoes.

[In his heart, in the pit of his stomach. He doesn't know how to explain.]

[fridgetothefire]

You are not an echo. You're real.

[With the conviction she brings to all things, the certainty of strategic assessment, that she would not say it if it were not verified.]

[patheticvillain]

But I'm dead. Doesn't that make me - a ghost?

Except you wouldn't believe in those, I bet.

[fridgetothefire]

I have met angels and vampires. Ghosts are a similar class of spiritual and/or postmortem folkloric phenomena. The question is not whether they exist, but where.

However, an aggregation of available cultural descriptions suggests ghosts do not drink beer.