Paranormal Affair
Paranormal Affair
Even before the second shot of absinthe has finished burning its way down my throat, I can feel the first one beginning to take hold of me. Its vapours rise up my throat, I'm struggling not to cough and to remain steady. Its hardly the psychedelic dissolution of reality that LSD tends to bring about, which is what I'm used to with this kind of shit after all - but its enough.
That other part of me - the weird side of my brain begins to unfurl. The little whispers of sensation around me blossom and acquire something like tangibility. The crumbling ruin is no more. The dank smells of mildew and damp are replaced by a warm, summery breeze wafting in from a nearby window. The imprint seems like it must thirty years old at least... I try to look around, but I can't see. There's something over my eyes - a blindfold, or the memory of one, anyway. Then, at the same time, my awareness of my clothes drifts away, bit by bit. My biking leathers, boots, even my underwear, until I'm standing stark naked, nervously curling my toes into the floor. I'm not myself by this point of course. I'm someone younger, my breasts a little smaller, perkier. My skin is soft and sensitive... I bet I'm ginger, probably even have freckles. Thin, cute, late teens - probably quite hot.
Of course, that none of that makes what is to come any less twisted and sick. There's a lump in my throat the size of a Buick... No, not my throat, the girl's throat. Fear occupies her body like some eldritch god, she can scarcely move. Well, not all of that is down to fear I realise soon enough. Her hands are bound, handcuffs tightened way too tight around her slim, bony wrists.
I struggle, whimper, unsure now which sounds and actions are hers and which are mine. Her pulse drums in my ears. I hear footsteps and it quickens. There's that undercurrent of arousal of course, too... that's not hers, that's mine. Fuck knows why this shit turns me on so much, but it does. Guess its a coping mechanism? The mind's gotta do some crazy shit to deal with crazy shit, right? Feels to me like that's how things usually go. Or, hell, I don't know. Maybe that's just me. Maybe I'm the same kind of psycho sicko myself, like all those ones I see in my visions. One day I'll snap, go on a little spree of my own... naw, that thought's just too morbid.
By the time I'm paying attention again, someone's pushing me to the ground. Large, firm hands. A man's hands. Familiar hands. Not to me, obviously, but to her. I know this routine. Usually its the umpteenth asshole boyfriend, but no - these aren't some dumbass teenager's hands, not even those of some shithead college jock. This guy's way older, so that means the truth is far more sour still - he's a relative, I bet. Some fucker she's trusted, once. That's painful. The cacophony of emotions begins to make a little more sense to me. There's that quivering strand of confusion running through it all - betrayal. The absolute, fundamental, world-inverting betrayal you only get when you are deceived by that which you relied upon most. Its a gut-wrenching, sickening feeling that makes me nauseous. Not nauseous enough to counteract my own sick feeling of arousal though, dammit.
Shit, I can feel bile in the back of my throat and its not just the absinthe. These always give me flashbacks to my first trip... If that weren't bad enough by itself, having two violent flashbacks at the same time is overwhelming even for me.
I gasp for breath. Once the trip's started, there's no easy way to get out of it. Best I can do is see it through to THE END
Even before the second shot of absinthe has finished burning its way down my throat, I can feel the first one beginning to take hold of me. Its vapours rise up my throat, I'm struggling not to cough and to remain steady. Its hardly the psychedelic dissolution of reality that LSD tends to bring about, which is what I'm used to with this kind of shit after all - but its enough.
That other part of me - the weird side of my brain begins to unfurl. The little whispers of sensation around me blossom and acquire something like tangibility. The crumbling ruin is no more. The dank smells of mildew and damp are replaced by a warm, summery breeze wafting in from a nearby window. The imprint seems like it must thirty years old at least... I try to look around, but I can't see. There's something over my eyes - a blindfold, or the memory of one, anyway. Then, at the same time, my awareness of my clothes drifts away, bit by bit. My biking leathers, boots, even my underwear, until I'm standing stark naked, nervously curling my toes into the floor. I'm not myself by this point of course. I'm someone younger, my breasts a little smaller, perkier. My skin is soft and sensitive... I bet I'm ginger, probably even have freckles. Thin, cute, late teens - probably quite hot.
Of course, that none of that makes what is to come any less twisted and sick. There's a lump in my throat the size of a Buick... No, not my throat, the girl's throat. Fear occupies her body like some eldritch god, she can scarcely move. Well, not all of that is down to fear I realise soon enough. Her hands are bound, handcuffs tightened way too tight around her slim, bony wrists.
I struggle, whimper, unsure now which sounds and actions are hers and which are mine. Her pulse drums in my ears. I hear footsteps and it quickens. There's that undercurrent of arousal of course, too... that's not hers, that's mine. Fuck knows why this shit turns me on so much, but it does. Guess its a coping mechanism? The mind's gotta do some crazy shit to deal with crazy shit, right? Feels to me like that's how things usually go. Or, hell, I don't know. Maybe that's just me. Maybe I'm the same kind of psycho sicko myself, like all those ones I see in my visions. One day I'll snap, go on a little spree of my own... naw, that thought's just too morbid.
By the time I'm paying attention again, someone's pushing me to the ground. Large, firm hands. A man's hands. Familiar hands. Not to me, obviously, but to her. I know this routine. Usually its the umpteenth asshole boyfriend, but no - these aren't some dumbass teenager's hands, not even those of some shithead college jock. This guy's way older, so that means the truth is far more sour still - he's a relative, I bet. Some fucker she's trusted, once. That's painful. The cacophony of emotions begins to make a little more sense to me. There's that quivering strand of confusion running through it all - betrayal. The absolute, fundamental, world-inverting betrayal you only get when you are deceived by that which you relied upon most. Its a gut-wrenching, sickening feeling that makes me nauseous. Not nauseous enough to counteract my own sick feeling of arousal though, dammit.
Shit, I can feel bile in the back of my throat and its not just the absinthe. These always give me flashbacks to my first trip... If that weren't bad enough by itself, having two violent flashbacks at the same time is overwhelming even for me.
I gasp for breath. Once the trip's started, there's no easy way to get out of it. Best I can do is see it through to THE END
