-
-
Rank：Diamond Member
- Score：643
- Posts：643
-
From：Canada
- Register：12/07/2008 01:08 AM
|
Date Posted：08/13/2016 13:17 PMCopy HTML
Psyche Devyne sits in a doctors office, legs dangling off of the examination table. As she swung each leg separately below her as if she were a young child, the faint sound of crumpling wax paper could be heard. The doctor had just finished with a standard checkup on her.
Dr. Skupsky: "You can hop off the table, Miss Devyne."
Psyche slid off the table, a slight ripping sound heard from the wax paper. No big deal. He would remove it after the appointment anyways. She sat in the chair to the left of her, facing the doctor. He was typing away, recording his observations. Finally he turned towards her.
Dr. Skupsky: "At this point, my dear, I'm not seeing anything wrong."
Psyche: "What? How could you not see something wrong! I've been blacking out! I'm not myself. I saw myself on television and don't even remember doing half of it."
Dr. Skupsky: "Well I can't see all of those things at this point. I can't explain much from just a physical exam."
Psyche: "So... then? What do I do?"
Dr. Skupsky: "Well... if it's something you are truly concerned about, we can send you for extra testing. An fMRI may show us some abnormalities in your brain. I could refer you for that. There's... also EEG's that could be taken. Though this would be more of a lengthy process. You'd need to be held for a few days for observation. We could also try a therapist. Maybe that could uncover something. But if I'm perfectly honest with you, I don't feel very concerned about your well being at this time. Everything from my point of view looks incredibly normal."
He pauses for a moment, pulling the glasses covering a third of his face down the slope of his nose. He was an older man, probably mid-sixties. He had dark hair with minimal grey. Impressive for a man in his profession. He probably had good genes. He wasn't anything special in the looks category. Very average older gentleman, creasing in his face only seeming to be there from years of concentration. He focused his dark eyes on her.
Dr. Skupsky: "Tell me, Miss Devyne. Do you drink at all?"
Psyche: "Of course I drink. I'm bloody English. Why? You think this is because of drinking?"
Dr. Skupsky: "Well it's very well known that excessive drinking can cause blacking out."
Psyche: "I don't think so... I've been drinking for years. And I haven't even drank close to what I have in the past while."
Dr. Skypsky: "You can develop problems years later from excessive drinking. It doesn't happen over night, you know. You may have strained your body and brain so much that the ties are starting to tear. Though, I can't say much without knowing your full history of drinking."
Psyche: "There's no full history. I drink like any normal person would. But I've been blacking out without drinking as well."
Dr. Skupsky: "Like I've said, it could be something that has laid dormant and is now coming to light. It can take years for the effects of alcohol abuse to show."
Psyche: "Abuse! No. No, no, no. I don't abuse alcohol. This isn't a problem."
Dr. Skupsky: "My apologies. I didn't mean it like that. I just want you to know all of the facts, okay?"
Psyche: "Yeah, yeah. I understand."
Dr. Skupsky: "How about we refer you to a therapist, hmm? This could help get things moving along. It would be easier to have that second person to refer you for other tests."
Psyche: "Alright. Yeah. Let's do that, then."
Dr. Skupsky: "That's all then. Was there anything else you were concerned about before I let you go? I'll be making a call right after you leave for the referral."
Psyche: "No. Go on, then."
Psyche stood up along with the doctor. He held his hand out to her, shaking it.
Dr. Skupsky: "I hope we can sort this all out for you, my dear."
Psyche nodded and walked through the door. Dr. Skupsky closed it behind her, walking back to his desk. He picked up the phone that was attached to the wall beside him. He pressed four numbers, ringing out to the receptionist. Outside, Psyche hadn't moved. She remained quiet, nobody able to see her. She pressed her ear to the door, listening.
Dr. Skupsky: "Yes, Mary. Hello. Could you pull up the information for Dr. Fairhaven? I'd like you to do a referral for me, but I'd like to speak with her personally. Yes, yes. I'll bring the patients information up for the written referral as well. Of course. You've got it? Perfect. Could you patch me through? Thank you."
He paused for quite some time, waiting to speak with the doctor.
Dr. Skupsky: "Ah yes, Dr. Fairhaven. My name is Dr. Gerald Skupsky. I was hoping to speak with you regarding a referral I will be sending out in the next hour or so to your offices. Yes... I first wanted to make sure you had enough time to take on a new patient? Oh brilliant. That's great news. I'd like to mention also my request for standard testing procedures for substance abuse in the mental sense. I see nothing wrong at this time, but you may find some underlying issues or may catch the patient on a different kind of day. I will send all of my observations along with the referral. I'd also like to rule out Malingering. I have my suspicions, but your expertise should rule that out completely. If this is nothing more than a fabrication, I'd like to not waste anyone's time, yo-"
Psyche pulled her head from the door, cutting off the quiet sounds she could hear. She clenched her teeth for a moment. What was that word? Malingering? Like... faking?
Psyche: "Motherfucker..."
Her demeanour changed almost instantly. She began to walk towards the front of the office, but stopped at a hallway to try to calm herself down. It didn't work. Just as a door conveniently closed, Psyche found her fist against a wall, the thin drywall crumbled under her knuckles. She dropped her arm, ignoring the indent in to her right as she walked out of the office completely. Before anyone would find it, she'd be long gone.
- - - - - - - - -
The drive back to her current hotel in Los Angeles was quiet. She used every bit of power she had not to lash out on the little things the cab driver did. The lack of signalling, the sharp turns. She wanted to wait. to build up her anger. She had been staying in L.A. looking for a new place to live. She was tired of Canada. And since she would no longer be on Uprising due to it's being pulled from 4CW, she thought it best to move back to America. And what better place to live permanently than L.A. Who knows... maybe she'd be happier surrounded by stuck up wannabe actors and porn stars.
The cab driver pulled up to the hotel with a screech of the tires. Psyche made an audible sound of displeasure as she tossed him some cash.
Cabbie: "Miss. This isn't enough, miss."
Psyche was already half way out the door.
Psyche: "Learn how to fucking drive and maybe next time you'll get the amount you tried to rob me of, yeah? Fucking prat."
She clenched her teeth as she glared at the man. Her voice seemed to have changed a bit. Her accent more harsh than the normal accent people were used to. He said nothing in response, not even asking her for the rest again. She straightened up and slammed the door to the cab and walked towards the hotel.
As she walked into her room, she tossed the purse she held on the bed nearby. She pressed a button on a camera that had already been set up earlier that day and walked to the window on the other side. Boomer was still in Canada, left with a friend for the time being until she found a place to move into. Sadly, most hotels didn't much like animals. She opened the curtains, looking down at the street below. She was quite high in floors, so everything looked miniature from her position. She ran a finger along the pane of glass, a sharp sound coming from her pointed nails dragging.
Psyche: "Look at all these people, yeah? So unaware of the things around them. In the snap of a finger, they could all be gone. Some nuclear disaster... natural disaster... terrorism. They would have no clue. Gone in an instant. They are unaware of the people watching them. There could be a person on that building right there..."
She pointed at the building in front on the right. The top could be seen from the window.
Psyche: "A jumper, looking for an end. Their decision changing the lives of others. They would have... no idea."
Her finger dragged along the glass again. Her head moved down as well, as if she was watching someone jump from the roof of the building.
Psyche: "And then? Splat. All gone."
She turned now to face the camera, leaning her back against the glass.
Psyche: "Funny, innit? The idea that a person could affect so much with just one action. Imagine walking down the street one day and a person falls from the sky at your feet, yeah? From that many floors, the scene would be rather gruesome. Covered in blood and brain matter. Skull fragments and the like. How would you feel? What would be your reaction? Would you be calm? Would you scream? Would you faint? The simple answer is this, yeah? You don't know. In the moment, you will react however your body wishes. You may say you'd remain calm, but in the moment, you fall to the ground and sob uncontrollably until someone pulls you away from the gore in front of your eyes. How about if there's a shooter in the area? Would you confront him? Would you try to stop him? Would you run? You don't know until the moment comes."
She looks down for a moment, pushing off of the glass. She walks to the small couch beside the window, sitting down with a leg curled under her.
Psyche: "So why do we all claim to know what will happen in a match? As if we know the future. As if we know exactly how we'll act in the moment. I've had opponents who PROMISE my end. Who promise that I will lose. They are so sure that they are telling the future. So sure they know exactly what they will do. And they lose. Left to wonder what went wrong. Left to their confusion. How could I have lost? How could I have not done what I promised? I was sure to win. How did this happen? None of us know the future. None of us know exactly how things will work out. How we will react. How we will act in a moment of pure confusion or terror. Or how we will react in the ring. You may lay eyes on your opponent and for one brief second, think 'fuck... I may have really fucked up here'. It could be a feeling for only a second, or for the rest of the time. You wouldn't expect that. That changes every sure feeling you had towards this match. It changes every promise you made."
She shrugged her shoulders.
Psyche: "So then you wonder... what should be the point of one of these promos? To continue with lies? To make promises you may not be able to keep? What's the point in that? It's a waste of breath. You don't know the future, yeah? The point of all this is simple. Get in your opponents head. Not with lies, however. Oh no... You get in their head with truths. Things even they would be surprised to hear. Not this 'I'm going to win and you'll lose' bullshit. What does that prove? That you have potential to be a liar? Does that make you feel better about yourself? Does it help you to get your mind in the game? Like talking yourself up with lies. I guess that works for some. Until your opponent sees through your bullshit and tears you apart. Like I said... you won't know for sure until the end."
She stands up again, walking back to the window, looking outside once again. The sun was beginning to set, the purples and reds of the sky hitting her face, creating odd shadows.
Psyche: "I see Sativa as the type to make claims. Spit lies about her fate. Or maybe truths. Nobody knows. But I see a sort of insanity there that gives her a confidence in herself that may make her feel as if what she says will come to pass. While I applaud your confidence and ability to predict your own future, I see it as a flaw. I wouldn't doubt you've already planned your words. Ready to talk about my relationships. Pretend like you know exactly who I am. Talk yourself up like you deserve the biggest chance in this match. Claim your worth. Claim that you are better than me. Maybe even relate me to a pokemon or digimon... or even some other nostalgic childhood game that would be slightly relevant and quirky. Yu-gi-oh? Either way, it's all just words, yeah? Thoughts. Predictions. Maybe even lies. Anything you say is, to be quite honest, debatable on all accounts. I have my reasons for what has come to pass. I have my excuses and my own predictions. Nothing you could ever say would stop me from plans I have set in motion. They wouldn't infect my mind. They wouldn't make me take a step back. I have dug my feet into the sand, as they'd say. I'm staying right here. But... I implore you... try. Try to take me out of my comfort zone. This is the one truth I can say. You will NOT intimidate me. You will NOT give me reason to hide."
Psyche moved her hands along the glass once again, finding a latch on the smaller window to the left. She began to fidget with it as she spoke.
Psyche: “I’m not better than you, Sativa. I won’t pretend that you don’t belong in a ring. That would just be silly of me. Let’s just say we’re at par, yeah? I don’t know your record in wrestling. For me, in the past, it has been a bit of a rollercoaster. My most recent match went quite well for me. But who’s to say that streak will continue? Not me. I can’t make a promise I possibly can’t keep. But… you can’t either.”
She got the window unlocked. She slowly pulled it open into the room, a small smile creeping onto her face. She sized up the possible exit, sticking an arm out of the corner. If she broke the window so it wouldn’t extend only to a certain point, she would easily fit through.
Psyche: “I can say that I’m looking forward to this match. I’m interested in seeing what you’re really like in the ring. It will be interesting to meet someone who is actually as crazy as they portray on video.”
She coughs through a name. Jake Orton.
Psyche: “Please… don’t disappoint.”
Psyche pulled her arm back in. She gripped onto the metal arm of the window, trying to find a weak spot. It was easy. The hotel she stayed in was much older than a lot of the places she’s been. She had always been interested in the intrigue of a less modern place to stay. The arm had rusted right at the base of the window. She popped the heel of her hand against the arm a few times. It finally cracked loose, allowing her to push the piece towards the ledge.
Psyche: “Oh dear. I’ve broken the window.”
Her words were calm mixed with sarcasm. The window was now able to be opened all the way.
Psyche: “I have such sights to show you, Sativa. Question is… am I willing to reveal them just yet? That’s a bit of a dilemma in my brain.”
She moves over to the left, running her fingers along the fabric of the curtains. Her hands ball around the fabric and she tugs it with enough force to cause it to tear from the metal rod above. She did the same with the other side, letting the heavy fabric crumple on the floor. She then grabs both panels of the more flimsy fabric that was hidden underneath. She curls the fabric around her hands and tugs once again, this time pulling down the second rod holding them up. This one made of wood.
Psyche: “Oh no. The curtains.”
She let go of the fabric and jumped up on the large windowsill on the inside of the room. She looked around at the buildings and down to the pavement.
Psyche: “Again… look at the people down there. No idea what is lurking above. No way to predict what will happen next.”
She runs a finger down the glass again, lingering for a few moments. She finally jumps back down. She bends down and picks up the wooden curtain rod. She holds it up and brings it down onto her raised knee, snapping it in half. She smiles at the rod. Not in a sadistic or crazy way, more as if she admired it. She pulled the window open again and placed the longer piece under the glass to hold it open. It was tall enough to open the window to the very maximum while propping it up from the floor. She pulled something from her pocket as she turned towards the camera. She moved it closer to the window to get a better view. She moved back to the window, still facing the camera. She held up the item she had taken from her pocket. A British pound. Something she had kept with her for a long time to keep her thoughts on home.
Psyche: “They’ve no idea who… is lurking above. I wonder what kind of damage this would do from this height…”
She smirked at the camera and turned to the window. She put her hands on the windowsill, pushing her torso through the open space. With her top half outside, the camera caught her hair moving with the winds from being so high. She extended her arm, holding the coin as if she would drop it. She then turned her hand, tossing it up into the air. Her eyes watched the coin while she pulled her arm in. As if time was going slower, she watched something she felt was precious to her drop back down, aiming for some poor souls skull.
As if she snapped out of it, her hand shot back out, catching the coin before potential destruction could be made. She looked quite confused, pulling back into the room. She knocked over the rod, causing the window to slam back shut. The rod fell towards the camera, knocking it against the couch. She stood up straight, looking around the room.
Psyche: “What was I doing? What happened in here? Bloody hell.”
She looked at her things, still packed in her bags.
Psyche: “Someone couldn’t have broken in… my things are untouched. I’m… going to be in loads of trouble. Damn.”
She sighed and began to pick things off of the floor, placing them in a corner. She turned to look at the camera, sighing once more in more of a dramatic tone. There was an annoyance in how she moved now. As if she had just remembered something she had forgotten to do.
Psyche: “Fuuuuck. I still have to record my first promo against Sativa…”
She picked up the camera, realizing now it was recording. She became confused and ended the recording, assuming it had been turned on when she knocked it over. |
|
|
